DON RICKLES

Appreciative biography of the original insult comic.

Born in 1926, Rickles grew from a shy boy to a man who, fearless on stage, would “lock on someone in the audience before verbally assaulting his prey, firing his insults in tommy-gun fashion, rat-tat-tat, crossing ethnic, gender, and religious lines.” By the end of his long career, which ended with his death at the age of 91 in 2017, that style of comedy was broadly considered racist, sexist, and every other kind of -ist—and for good reason, writes longtime New York Post reporter and editor Starr. After all, one of his latter-day jokes went, “President Obama is a personal friend of mine. He was over to the house yesterday, but the mop broke.” For all that, even those whom he assailed very late in his life, in a different time, were apt to forgive him as an equal-opportunity offender. As one reporter wrote, by way of posthumous summation, Rickles’ career began in the distant past, “when racist and sexist broadsides delivered by white male comedians were OK, and he got grandfathered in for the remainder.” Whether that will make this biography palatable to younger readers is questionable, but even if Rickles was out of step with the times, he stuck to his act and continued to crack up the old-timers on late-night TV and in countless celebrity roasts. Starr charts Rickles’ long rise to fame, which accelerated from Borscht Belt to stardom once he insulted Frank Sinatra, who laughed instead of busting him in the chops. A junior member of the Rat Pack thereafter, Rickles was a familiar in mob-era Las Vegas, an experience that served him well when he was booked for a part in Martin Scorsese’s film Casino. Characteristically, he returned the favor by telling the diminutive director, “When you direct me, Marty, could you stand on a chair so I can see you?”

A fan’s notes, and probably for fans only given the clash of eras.