Theatre in Review: Just Jim Dale (Roundabout/Laura Pels Theatre)

	Jim Dale. Photo: Joan Marcus

Just Jim Dale? Really? I can't think of a less apposite title. The man contains multitudes; he is a musical all by himself. Well, all right; he has an accompanist, Mark York. Otherwise, he is the complete entertainment package, ready to dispense delight at the drop of a hat. Even before he steps onto the stage at the Laura Pels, he amuses, piping through the sound system a little ditty filled with intimations of doom for those who dare annoy other audience members with their smartphones and hard candies: "You'll be tortured in the toilets if you Twitter or you Tweet/If you're texting to your mother let it be/Every usher has a stunner/You'll be knocked out in your seat/Then we'll ship you home to Mother C.O.D." Were Nöel Coward still with us, he couldn't do better himself.

Then Dale enters, an impossibly spry 78, breaking into nifty little tap combinations just for the fun of them. As he makes perfectly clear -- and as is seconded by Anna Louizos' set, which is dominated by a photorealistic image of a decaying turn-of-the-last-century theatre -- he is a product of the English music hall. And in this carefree outing, he converts every life episode into a routine that would have wowed them in the stalls in Brighton or Eastbourne or Leeds. Just Jim Dale is the story of one man's life in comedy, and the laughs are pretty delectable.

Born in a town called Rothwell, "the dead center of England, in every way," to parents who both worked in factories, little Jim Smith was a natural ham, appropriating his father's oversized tuxedo as a costume at family sing-alongs. In a so-strange-it-must-be-true moment, he recalls being taken to the local music hall by his father. Jim, entranced, points at the stage and tells his parent that that is what he wants to do with his life. Many boys in a similar time and place would have gotten a hiding for making such a comment; Dale's father says, "Learn to move." Almost instantly, he is enrolled in dance class.

The rest of Just Jim Dale recounts his roller-coaster ride through show business. When his female cousin, his partner in a pas de deux, fails to appear at their ballet recital, the furious Jim demands to be allowed to perform his portion of the routine solo; since it mostly consists of him standing and gesturing, followed by random leaps, he succeeds only in reducing his audience to tears of laughter. Given the opportunity to audition for a music hall producer, he somehow comes up with a workable act in four hours by stealing bits and pieces of well-remembered routines. Launched as a pop singer and writer, he turns out one forgettable ditty after another, including something called "Dick-a-Dum-Dum," with lyrics so inane that they constitute a permanent badge of shame for his sons. (He overhears the boys in fierce argument with a male cousin, whose devastating response is, "Well, at least my dad didn't write 'Dick-a-Dum-Dum.'") He tops this with a riotous account of demoing the title tune for the film Georgy Girl, for which he wrote the lyrics, to the director's entourage, a pair of made-men types whose principal worry is if the show will work for Frank, no last name necessary. (PS: They song was used; Dale earned an Oscar nomination.)

It's not all lowbrow escapades, however. Somewhere along the line, Dale conceived the desire to be a serious actor and he learned with the best, taking on most of Shakespeare's clowns for the National Theatre. (Scholar that he is, he offers a witty, rapid-fire demonstration of just how many of the Bard's phrases have found their way into modern usage.) Showing off his acting chops, he gives a marvelously subtle reading of the climactic speech of Nöel Coward's "Fumed Oak" (part of the Tonight at 8:30 nonet of one-acts), playing a mousy husband who, at long last, turns on his chilly wife and grasping daughter.

And, of course, he pays tribute to his most famous role, the title character of Barnum. He gives us the buoyant opening number, "There is a Sucker Born Ev'ry Minute" ("Each time the second sweeps to the top/Like dandelions up they pop"), as well as two versions of the tongue-twisting "Museum Song," delivered first at half speed so we can appreciate the intricacy of Michael Stewart's lyrics and then in double time, just to prove that he's still got it. And, in a lovely gesture, he presents the show's big ballad, "The Colors of My Life," as a tribute to his stage-shy wife of 34 years.

Seeing Just Jim Dale reminds one of why he was so perfect as Barnum; he is a natural-born con man. Time after time, he appears to be making a heartfelt confession, only to finish with a punch line from the Stone Age, bringing down the house without fail. Each time, he eyes the audience with the glee of a wicked boy, as if to say, Fooled you again, didn't I?

It should be clear by now that Just Jim Dale is a grab bag of gags, tunes, stories, and whatever else has popped into the star's mind. I see that I have left out his infectious rendering of "The Lambeth Walk," from Me and My Girl; his bogus Neapolitan "aria" from Scapino, which consists entirely of unrelated, strung-together Italian phrases; his career as the voice of the Harry Potter books; and, to bring it all home, Irving Berlin's "Let Me Sing and I'm Happy."

Clearly in the market for an early summer crowd-pleaser, the Roundabout has surrounded its star with the best collaborators on offer. Richard Maltby, Jr. has directed with the lightest of touches, making this marvelously disorganized evening seem like pure improvisation. Rui Rita's warm lighting adds pleasing touches of color, and Carl Casella's sound design is as transparent as glass.

In addition to her evocative set design, Louizos has also provided some lovely, amusing projections that show Dale at various stages of his career: as an early ballet hopeful, teen rocker, shaggy-haired Scapino, P.T. Barnum, and my favorite, on a music hall bill where he is "Jim Smith, The Laff Smith." Six decades later, only the last name is different. He is still the Laff Smith, and I can't think of a better companion for a summer's night.--David Barbour