By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Carolina Del Busto
By Amy Nicholson
By Simon Abrams
By Kevin Dilmore
By New Times
By Amy Nicholson
Bingeing on the discs' 12 episodes as opposed to viewing them spread out as they were over their original air dates reveals some lazy bits. A favorite Rickles routine runs, "I know [fill in name of celebrity on the dais] is a great [singer, comedian, athlete, etc]. How do I know this? Because ([he/she] told me so backstage just before the show." But for the most part, despite repetition, Mr. Warmth's delivery, expressions, and gestures all kill, whereas Rich Little's imitations of Jimmy Stewart's fractured speech quickly grow stale. And, love or disdain them, 1970s roastees like Bob Hope, Johnny Carson, and Lucille Ball are shining stars for the ages; by 1984, Joan Collins seems pretty low-wattage.
And so we are left with a final question: Was Dino really as smashed as he always appeared to be onstage? Among the scores of drunk jokes directed at the master of ceremonies, one from Brooks pretty much sums it up: "The last time you and I were side by side, somebody [hiccup] stepped on my tongue." But after Martin's death, on Christmas Day 1995, his old friend and colleague Joey Bishop swore that there had never been any drinking during working hours. "He had, in his J&B bottle, apple cider." If so, Martin's drunkard persona was worthy of the Oscar he was never nominated for.
Martin's enduring charm resided in his insouciant indifference. If the ultimate joke asks, "What is the meaning of life?" Dino's style embodied the punchline "Who cares?"
So give him the last word, from the close of his very own roast. "I'll remember this night," [squint at cue card, smile] "until I get to my car."
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