disappeared.
And then, suddenly, walking across the lot, he reappeared.
He felt a rhythm he knew.
Fosse looked up.
There. Out of a distant sound stage saileda human stripe that looked and moved alarmingly like Fred Astaire. The bounding figure appeared to recognize Donen, and he came toward them. Yes, Fosse saw it: that heedless stride. That merry pinch he gave his tie. Fosse watched a few more paces, and he was certain. It was him.
Donen made the introduction, and Astaire flung out a hand. “Hiya, Foss!”
Fosse was too thwacked to speak. Bashful under normal circumstances, he was practically unalive now. Fosse shot his hands into his pockets and looked down, zeroing in on a nail a few inches from the world’s greatest dancer’s shoe. Astaire toe-tapped the nail as thoughtlessly as he would flick a cigarette, but to Fosse, that nail was no cigarette—it was Ginger Rogers. And then, without warning, Astaire flicked his foot, and—
ping!
—the nail was in the air and then careening off the sound-stage wall with the force of a rifle shot. Nonplussed by Fosse’s silence, God said goodbye to Donen, tipped his hat to Fosse, and headed off to eat.
Fosse was horrified. He was nothing; Astaire danced even as he stood still. The precision of the swipe and offhanded elegance of the technique made Fosse feel like that sound-stage wall a thousand nails later. He told Donen to go to lunch without him.
When the coast was clear, Fosse approached the spot where the nail had been and practiced the swipe as best he could remember it. As much as he wanted to replicate the step, he wanted to duplicate the sound. He wanted to hear the exact right scuff of shoe on pavement, the precise ping of nail on wall. He wanted to kick at the exact same angle in the identical time signature and recover, as Astaire did, with the cool look of having not performed a miracle. “You see it on the screen,”Fosse would later say of Astaire, “and it looks like he just made it up. I mean, he just
happened
to have some firecrackers in his hand, he just happened to be around a piano or a set of drums. ‘Well, I’ll fool around a bit.’”
As the rest of the MGM employees ate their sandwiches, Fosse kicked the nail around the lot, but he never got it flying as Astaire had. Dozens of kicks later, he was still Bob Fosse.
Give a Girl a Break
wrapped in early December of 1952 and Fosse, energized by his first appearance on film, flew back to New York to be with Joan. His marriage to Niles officially ended, Fosse married McCracken on December 30 in a civil ceremony, a city clerk officiating. The diabetes McCracken had tried so hard to conceal—if people found out, she feared, they’d neverlet her dance—had whittled her doll-like limbs to sticks. She was a marionette, brittle, wan, seemingly too delicate to move. Still, she had been cast in
Me and Juliet,
a new Rodgers and Hammerstein musical directed by George Abbott, the Zeus of Broadway comedy. By the time rehearsals began, in March, Fosse was back in Hollywood.
Returning to MGM, Fosse discovered
Give a Girl a Break,
his star-making breakthrough, now belonged to the Champions. “After they previewed itfor MGM,” Marge Champion said, “Stanley was told to reshoot it closer to the original script and make it as much our movie as Bob’s.” Donen did as he was told, but MGM was still unhappy with the picture. It was released to bland reviews.
Though it was Gower Champion who shared dance credit with Donen, Fosse had managed to slip in enough of his own material to get Mr. Weaver and Charlie Grass, watching back home, to sit straight up in their seats. “Charlie,”Bob explained to his friend later, “I showed them a couple of Riff Brothers tricks”—wings and toe stands, hammed up for the camera. Dancing “In Our United State,” Fosse pulled out the old vaudeville stops, Ray Bolgering around on his heels, Chaplining at the knees, shooting up his hands as Miss Comerford had told him
And then, suddenly, walking across the lot, he reappeared.
He felt a rhythm he knew.
Fosse looked up.
There. Out of a distant sound stage saileda human stripe that looked and moved alarmingly like Fred Astaire. The bounding figure appeared to recognize Donen, and he came toward them. Yes, Fosse saw it: that heedless stride. That merry pinch he gave his tie. Fosse watched a few more paces, and he was certain. It was him.
Donen made the introduction, and Astaire flung out a hand. “Hiya, Foss!”
Fosse was too thwacked to speak. Bashful under normal circumstances, he was practically unalive now. Fosse shot his hands into his pockets and looked down, zeroing in on a nail a few inches from the world’s greatest dancer’s shoe. Astaire toe-tapped the nail as thoughtlessly as he would flick a cigarette, but to Fosse, that nail was no cigarette—it was Ginger Rogers. And then, without warning, Astaire flicked his foot, and—
ping!
—the nail was in the air and then careening off the sound-stage wall with the force of a rifle shot. Nonplussed by Fosse’s silence, God said goodbye to Donen, tipped his hat to Fosse, and headed off to eat.
Fosse was horrified. He was nothing; Astaire danced even as he stood still. The precision of the swipe and offhanded elegance of the technique made Fosse feel like that sound-stage wall a thousand nails later. He told Donen to go to lunch without him.
When the coast was clear, Fosse approached the spot where the nail had been and practiced the swipe as best he could remember it. As much as he wanted to replicate the step, he wanted to duplicate the sound. He wanted to hear the exact right scuff of shoe on pavement, the precise ping of nail on wall. He wanted to kick at the exact same angle in the identical time signature and recover, as Astaire did, with the cool look of having not performed a miracle. “You see it on the screen,”Fosse would later say of Astaire, “and it looks like he just made it up. I mean, he just
happened
to have some firecrackers in his hand, he just happened to be around a piano or a set of drums. ‘Well, I’ll fool around a bit.’”
As the rest of the MGM employees ate their sandwiches, Fosse kicked the nail around the lot, but he never got it flying as Astaire had. Dozens of kicks later, he was still Bob Fosse.
Give a Girl a Break
wrapped in early December of 1952 and Fosse, energized by his first appearance on film, flew back to New York to be with Joan. His marriage to Niles officially ended, Fosse married McCracken on December 30 in a civil ceremony, a city clerk officiating. The diabetes McCracken had tried so hard to conceal—if people found out, she feared, they’d neverlet her dance—had whittled her doll-like limbs to sticks. She was a marionette, brittle, wan, seemingly too delicate to move. Still, she had been cast in
Me and Juliet,
a new Rodgers and Hammerstein musical directed by George Abbott, the Zeus of Broadway comedy. By the time rehearsals began, in March, Fosse was back in Hollywood.
Returning to MGM, Fosse discovered
Give a Girl a Break,
his star-making breakthrough, now belonged to the Champions. “After they previewed itfor MGM,” Marge Champion said, “Stanley was told to reshoot it closer to the original script and make it as much our movie as Bob’s.” Donen did as he was told, but MGM was still unhappy with the picture. It was released to bland reviews.
Though it was Gower Champion who shared dance credit with Donen, Fosse had managed to slip in enough of his own material to get Mr. Weaver and Charlie Grass, watching back home, to sit straight up in their seats. “Charlie,”Bob explained to his friend later, “I showed them a couple of Riff Brothers tricks”—wings and toe stands, hammed up for the camera. Dancing “In Our United State,” Fosse pulled out the old vaudeville stops, Ray Bolgering around on his heels, Chaplining at the knees, shooting up his hands as Miss Comerford had told him
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