Theatre in Review: Jeff Ross: Take a Banana for the Ride (Nederlander Theatre)Insult comics aren't born; they're made. That's the takeaway from the latest entry in this summer's parade of solo comedy shows. You might not know who Jeff Ross is -- before last week, I certainly didn't -- but his bona fides as "The Roastmaster General" are established in the opening moments of his new show, featuring video clips of him at work, telling Alec Baldwin that his film Pearl Harbor "was worse than the actual Pearl Harbor." This is followed by jokes about Bea Arthur and Dr. Ruth Westheimer that I won't repeat, although the ladies are good sports about them. Ross also presided over last year's infamous Tom Brady roast, which roused the NFL star to muttered threats onstage; a year later, he's still complaining, claiming his kids were damaged by it. You'd think he'd police their viewing habits, wouldn't you? But I digress; Take a Banana for the Ride only occasionally aims for the jugular, and Ross -- plump, bulbous-nosed, hairless, and possessed of a voice that spreads like gravel -- reserves his most poisoned darts for himself. Well, sort of: Commenting on his alopecia, he says, "Who's gonna date somebody that looks like a Jeff Bezos blow-up doll?" (Indeed, dressed in a banana-yellow suit by Toni-Leslie James, he looks suitable for hoisting in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.) In any case, he notes, "I can laugh at myself because I have thick skin. I come from a family of ball busters in Newark, New Jersey." What follows is a surprisingly warmhearted account of growing up in a large and fractious clan centered around Clinton Manor, his great-grandmother's catering business and special events spot, enshrined in one of Judy Blume's books as the must-have venue for every ambitious Jersey bride. Surrounded by wisecrackers, Ross (born Jeffrey Lifschultz) learned the arts of karate and one-liners, both of which were crucial to his sense of self. Karate, hell: He's a specialist in verbal jujitsu, one moment waxing nostalgic, the next moment zeroing in for the kill: He describes his sister Robyn as "the funniest one in the family," adding, "She's a special ed teacher. So, she always has new material." Life has handed Ross plenty of material, too: "I was born with two minor birth defects," he notes, "which was pretty good for New Jersey back then." At fourteen, he loses his mother to leukemia and, at nineteen, his father to cocaine addiction. Living with his widowed grandfather -- a real operator with the ladies at the senior citizens' center, whose belief in the benefits of a certain fruit inspired the show's title -- he ventures into New York's comedy clubs, navigating hostile audiences and sexual harassment. Perseverance pays off, and when he slays on David Letterman, his career takes off. Still, success is no guard against tragedy, especially in recent times: In an especially poignant sequence, he mourns the loss of three great friends and colleagues: Norm MacDonald, Gilbert Gottfried, and Bob Saget. Even more touching is the passing of a beloved German shepherd, one of two acquired during lockdown. But whenever Ross edges into maudlin territory, he snaps back with a zinger as sharp as a machete. For example, he imagines his pooches eyeing him coolly and announcing, in stock German accents, "Where are the treats, Jew?" Ross' recent bout with colon cancer is, arguably, the show's jumping-off point, leading him to reimagine a colonoscopy as a Diddy-inspired orgy, packed with baby oil. The fact of mortality hovers over the evening, however, along with a profound belief in family and friends (not to mention beloved animals). It's a startling message for these sensitive times: A hard-won laugh, no matter how seemingly callous, is the best defense against life's disasters. At the end of the show, Ross roams the audience, tossing out bananas and getting fans to bare their sorrows. It's like a revival, but with zingers: At the performance I attended, those testifying included a woman with brain cancer and another, the victim of a bad breakup. They've really earned their bananas. Stephen Kessler's production is strikingly well-designed: Beowulf Boritt's scenic concept provides two dozen framed video screens in various sizes and shapes, all of which projection designer Stefania Bulbarella fills with evocative Lifschultz family photos and home movies, plus scenes from Ross' career; hang on for the bouncing matzoh ball in the musical number "Don't Fuck with the Jews," a sequence that details the many Jewish contributions to modern life, including Barbie dolls, Prozac, and the Theory of Relativity. (Steel yourself for Ross' singing voice; with vocal cords like Brillo pads, he turns the simplest melody into a twelve-tone exercise.) Adam Honore's lighting and Daniel Lundberg's sound also provide solid support. All in all, it's an oddly affable evening, with the star exuding warmth even when throwing shade on the Nederlander Theatre's neighborhood, noting that it's "always been my dream to perform ninety feet from Port Authority." Still, he adds, "I've become really good at cheering people up." About that, there can be no doubt. --David Barbour 
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