Master teacher Jerry Lewis is once more Nutty Professor at Reynolds Hall

By John Katsilometes

Wednesday, Oct. 1, 2014 | 10:15 p.m.

You wonder why he does it anymore.

It’s not to sustain a lifestyle. It can’t be. Jerry Lewis’ quality of existence wouldn’t seem to be moved an iota by appearing at the Smith Center for the Performing Arts. He lives nearby, still, and would seem to be perfectly content with watching TV and turning in early.

It wouldn’t be to remind people that he is still around. He appeared on national TV just two weeks ago, with Jimmy Fallon on “The Tonight Show,” and there wasn’t even a mention of his show at Reynolds Hall.

It wouldn’t be to sell merchandise — there was no merch booth set up, as one of the fans who stood to address Lewis mentioned from the theater Tuesday night. There were no box sets of the 50th anniversary Blu-ray edition of “The Nutty Professor” stacked on tables in the Reynolds Hall lobby.

It’s not to keep up his chops, either. At age 88 — the double-snowman, folks — what’s the point? By now you’ve been as good as you’re going to get, on the stage and in life.

Is it because he is a people person? Not exactly. There are times Lewis would say he is, but not all the time. Depends on the mood, the news of the day. He doesn’t seem to clamor for human companionship all the time. He could spend every waking moment with his doggies, though.

I think Lewis performs these shows as a public service announcement to people who might have forgotten, or have never been exposed to, real entertainment. He’s the last of a generation of showmen who really knew how to deliver, who were “born in a trunk,” as he likes to say. Every time he bemoans the loss of stars in Las Vegas — and when he takes this tack, he ridicules the marquees along the Strip that have promoted slot tourneys or prime rib specials — I feel he’s subconsciously prepping for another show.

There is a clip Lewis uses in each of his one-man shows of Sammy Davis Jr. and he at Bally’s. Probably just after the hotel was renamed from its days as MGM Grand. The two are singing and telling jokes, putting on the shtick, and then they tap dance. Davis’ skills as a tap dancer are well-known, even legendary. But Lewis is damn good, too. He came from a place where an entertainer needed to now how to tap dance. It was part of the expected skill set.

The scene is from “The Errand Boy,” where Lewis sits at the desk in the office, the segment known as “Chairman of the Board” backed by the classic Count Basie take “Blues in Hoss Flat.” Lewis fires up a cigar in that scene, smoking it and keeping it lit while lighting up unseen executives in an empty boardroom.

He summons the staircase scene from “Cinderfella,” as he prances down a flight of 60-something stairs, again goosed along by Basie. In a story he tells every time, he scrambled back up those stairs, in an Olympian time of less than five seconds, then collapsed with a “heart episode” as filming was delayed a month.

He performs, live, the fantastic typewriter-miming scene from “Who’s Minding the Store.” Just to conjure the concept of this scene requires some measure of cinematic genius. To perform it live, at any age, is spellbinding. Lewis did that Tuesday night.

It’s not to say this was a perfect, or uniformly polished, effort. Lewis was to sing his first number with the great pianist Vinnie Falcone. Lewis did sing, then brought out Falcone, who managed a grin and pulled the sheet music off the stand and set it atop the piano. Lewis loves the audience Q&A sessions, but, lordy, at some point we needed to summon the Weird Patrol and restore order.

Lewis answered every request for a photo, or an autograph, with, “Tell security we talked, and I’ll meet you backstage.” It was laughable, for real. But those who stood to talk to their hero at the microphones also stood, twice, to applaud him as he entered and exited the venue. Not every seat was sold. But it was a robust, and grateful, audience.

Lewis ended by singing “Somebody,” from “Cinderfella.” Falcone played lightly, beautifully, as Lewis closed the night with, “Without somebody, I’m nobody, at all.”

Jerry Lewis might be up there, in years. His body is wracked, of course, from years of pratfalls taken without thought of consequence. But, mentally, he is still wickedly sharp, and watching him reminds us of what greatness feels like — and never, ever gets old.

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