Rat Pack Tribute Resuscitates Memories of Long-ago Stars
It really is true, sometimes, that you don’t know what you miss until it’s gone.
The Rat Pack, for example.
If you enjoyed their type of entertainment in the 1960s, you probably won’t realize how much unless you see “The Tribute to Frank, Sammy, Joey and Dean” at Chicago’s Royal George Theatre.
They were, of course, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Joey Bishop and Dean Martin — four fun-loving, mega-talented guys who got together while filming “Oceans 11” in Las Vegas in 1960.
By day, they would shoot movie scenes; by night they would gather at the Sands Hotel and treat audiences to a free-wheeling, often-improvised show of music and comedy.
The movie was fun and popular in its day. But when Hollywood came out with two sequels a couple of years ago, it was apparent the whole Rat Pack thing was — in a word — dated. They’d lost their hipness.
But this new show at the Royal George — with four impressionists backed by a 12-piece band — works.
Just as the title says, it’s a tribute. The show re-creates a long-lost format of classic music and improv-type comedy.
“The Tribute to Frank, Sammy, Joey and Dean” is a brisk 1½ hours (no intermission) of sheer entertainment.
Produced and directed by Dick Feeney, the show opens with the voice of God, from beyond the Pearly Gates, welcoming the Rat Pack back to do it “just one more time.”
The terrific band, which is non-union and drew pickets outside the theater on opening night, breaks into a medley of songs from the era.
Then four tuxedoed images emerge from the shadows off-stage, cigarettes ablaze.
After splitting off again, each man returns to do his thing. Mickey Joseph (Joey), opens with the kind of deadpan, self-deprecating humor that was Bishop’s trademark.
Kenny Jones then comes on as Sammy Davis Jr. incarnate, singing “That Old Black Magic.”
His jokes are vintage Sammy.
“You know,” he’s says, “I’m black, part Puerto Rican and a convert to Judaism.
“When I move into a neighborhood, everybody moves out.”
Yes, it was funny in its time — the segregated ’60s — and in the context of the now politically correct 2000s, it still is.
But his version of “Mr. Bojangles” is so well done that it tugs at your heart strings.
Dino — Dean Martin in the person of Bobby Mayo Jr. — follows, sloshing his martini glass to “That’s Amore!” And more.
And, finally, the Chairman of the Board, Brian Duprey as Frank Sinatra, brings on a sustained applause with “Chicago.”
There are more corny jokes and great songs — all close enough to the originals to make you long for the days when these master musicians and entertainers could be seen frequently in movies, on television and, if you were fortunate enough, live on stage at the Sands in Vegas.
Overall, the most talented of the faux foursome is Jones. He looks close enough to the real Sammy, being slightly built and wearing black plastic-rimmed glasses and lots of bling.
But more importantly, in Sammy’s vernacular, the cat can sing.
The show is reminiscent of the Rat Pack humor, too, although there’s too much reliance on Viagra-related jokes, which are obvious anachronisms.
And Dino, coming on sloshed, even if he’s a likable drunk, doesn’t quite resonate today, with so many drug and alcohol addictions and related societal problems.
But this “Tribute” is all about good-natured nostalgia and would rate PG-13.
We miss the Rat Pack more than we realize.
Don Snider
Chicago Star Review
