Carol Haney wasn’t just a dancer — she was the engine behind the scenes.
Before Bob Fosse found his style, before Gene Kelly dazzled in Singin’ in the Rain, before Jack Cole set the standard for theatrical jazz… Carol Haney was there. Assisting, dancing, innovating.
She spent years in the chorus, often uncredited, helping shape the golden age of movie musicals.
The Pajama Game changed everything — launching her into the spotlight and, finally, into a new era as a choreographer in her own right.
In this episode, I dig into her full legacy, including the oft-repeated story about Shirley MacLaine’s lucky break — and why it should never overshadow the work Haney actually did.
And yes, an exclusive: for the first time ever, you’ll see images from Haney’s high school days — never before made public. This podcast is the original source of their release, and Hey, Dancer! is proud and honored to bring them to light.
This is Carol Haney’s story. And it’s about time.
Check out my Return to Dance docuseries!
Support my Instagram — where I post daily dance inspo, insights and fun! @backtogreat
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
[music]
(00:02):
Gene Kelly, Jack Hole, and Bob Fossy.
Arguably, the three most influential jazz dance figures in American film history
each turned to her at pivotal moments in their careers.
Welcome to "Hey Dancer" and another episode of my weekly series, The Rest of the Story.
(00:23):
I'm your host, Miller Dauray, and today we're spotlighting one of the most influential
and overlooked and underappreciated figures in dance history.
Now, make sure you're subscribed or following so you never miss an episode,
and because all the platforms love when you engage, like, comment, share, all the things,
(00:46):
please do that, because it really helps my dance podcast reach new people.
And also, make sure you stick around through the end, because while the show usually skips the
gossip, today's story is so unique. It's tangled in myths, contradictions, and internet rumors.
So, in the outro, I'll do my best to unpack what is real and what is not.
(01:10):
All right, curtain up, let's begin.
She was born in New Bedford, Massachusetts in 1924. The younger of two daughters,
her father was a bank teller. Her mother, Danish born, had a softer heart and a belief in signs.
One day, when her daughter was still a toddler, this mother visited a Portuguese fortune teller
(01:33):
who read the cards and said, "Your younger girl will someday be top of the avenue."
Well, that was enough. Her mother enrolled her in dance lessons that week.
By five, she was twirling through her childhood. By 15, she'd opened her own dance studio,
teaching 125 students while still juggling high school. She performed at school functions.
(01:59):
Her Mexican hat dance, a crowd favorite. But this wasn't just a teenage passion.
She pulled sodas at the drugstore, danced at ladies clubs, even worked in a golf ball factory,
all to help pay for the dance school she built herself. Even then, she was pushing hard.
Too hard some would later say, but to her, dance wasn't something she did. It was who she was.
(02:25):
She designed her own costumes and it said her mother sowed them for her shows.
She played piano. She had a distinct, husky voice. Now this was due to a severe throat infection
when she was little. Every part of her life, school, work, art revolved around movement.
(02:45):
By the time she'd graduated high school in 1943, she'd been voted best dancer and most likely to
succeed. She was in chorus on the prom committee and already known for doing too much too well.
The next step was inevitable. She moved to Hollywood and returned to familiar jobs,
(03:07):
pulling sodas behind a counter, waiting tables and picking up dance gigs, wherever she could,
including uncredited dance roles in films like Wonder Man and Ziggfeld Follies.
By 1946, her persistence paid off. While dancing in nightclubs, she caught the attention of Jack
Cole, the man often called the father of theatrical jazz. He made her his lead dancer and assistant.
(03:35):
For the next two years, she toured with the Jack Cole dancers, performing high voltage routines,
full of isolation's angular shapes, and what one dancer called "controlled wildness"
under Cole's famously grueling demands, she pushed herself harder than ever. The hours were long.
(03:57):
The choreography relentless, the pace, unforgiving, but she thrived in it. His style didn't just
shape her technique. It toughened her, refined her, and forged the distinct movement language
that would define her next chapter. She worked with Cole on stage and behind the scenes,
(04:17):
helping teach his choreography to major stars, including Rita Hayworth.
She was also part of his early work on film appearing as a dancer uncredited in musicals,
like Down to Earth and the thrill of Brazil. Not too long after Gwen Verden would famously follow
in her footsteps, but this dancer laid the groundwork, step by isolating step. She wasn't just executing
(04:45):
Cole's choreography, she was embodying it, and soon MGM would take notice. In 1949, everything
shifted, just as Cole had discovered her in a nightclub, so did Gene Kelly. He went backstage and
told her he wanted to work with her, not as a chorus dancer, but as his assistant choreographer.
(05:08):
For the next seven years, she was by his side. The hours were punishing, the expectations sky high,
but she delivered, working closely with him on choreography for On the Town,
Summer Stock and American in Paris, singing in the rain, invitation to the dance, and Brigaduin.
(05:29):
But she didn't just stay behind the scenes, she also took on small dance roles of her own.
Sometimes in Kelly's films, sometimes in others. She appeared uncredited in On the Town as the
striking dancer in Green, and danced in T for Two with Doris Day, where her crisp execution
grounded the Charleston number. You'll also catch her in Summer Stock blended into the chorus
(05:54):
alongside Judy Garland. Still, studio heads concluded she didn't photograph well enough to be a star.
It wasn't about her talent, it was about image, and so instead of shrinking back,
she doubled down behind the scenes. She became a lifeline to the work itself,
running rehearsals, shaping performances, even queuing the lights. She rehearsed Lesley Corone
(06:18):
for an American in Paris, and in singing in the rain, she trained Sid Cherisse for the now-famous
Broadway ballet number. A role that had originally been hers. She had already learned and rehearsed
the entire routine. She shaped the movement. Then, just before filming, Kelly chose to cast Cherisse
(06:40):
instead. Our girl stayed on to coach her replacement, refining the very steps she had prepared to perform.
It was a crushing turn, but instead of stepping back, she doubled down on the work, for which she was
always grateful for. In an American in Paris, she even ran the light cues in the number
(07:01):
stairway to Paradise. She would synchronize the lighting with the beat of the music, and in
invitation to the dance, Kelly's experimental dialogue-free ballet film,
she belly-danced, crouched, and spun for the animators, modeling three animated characters,
the Jeannie, the Dragon, and Sheherazade. Her body became the movement reference that brought
(07:27):
those fantastical figures to life. Kelly once called her precision fabulous, and his trust in her
ran deep. Whether coaching stars, controlling the lights, or animating dance itself,
she made his vision possible. Frame by exacting frame. By 1953, her work was stepping into the spotlight.
(07:49):
In Kiss Me Kate, she danced opposite Bob Fossy in the sizzling duet from this moment on.
It was just a few minutes of film, but it changed everything. Her crisp isolation,
finger snaps, and grounded power, hallmarks of Jack Cole's influence, blended with Fossy's
own sharp lines and syncopation to create something electric. Critics raved, audiences took notice,
(08:17):
and so did choreographers. That number is now seen as the birthplace of Fossy's signature style,
and she helped to shape it. As one writer put it, "At that instant, the Bob Fossy style came into
existence." Fossy may have been choreographing for the first time, but her presence
(08:39):
was the catalyst. She didn't just match him. She made him better. The following year, Kiss Me Kate
opened a new door. Her explosive duet with Fossy had turned heads, not just in the audience,
but among Broadway producers. It helped land Fossy the choreographer job on the pajama game,
(09:01):
and he made one request. Bring her with him. Director George Abbott later recalled,
"According to Bob, that girl was Marilyn Monroe. He said she was going to be a star."
End quote. She was still assisting Jean Kelly on Brigaduin at the time, torn between her loyalty to
(09:21):
MGM and this new opportunity, but she flew to New York to audition for the pajama game,
and the offer came quickly. At MGM, she was working under Arthur Fried, head of the powerhouse
Fried unit behind the studio's Golden Era musicals. Fried granted her an early release from her
contract so she could take the part, originally a small role named "Pupsy." But once rehearsals began,
(09:49):
her comic timing and bold movement changed everything. Abbott fired another actress and expanded
her role into Gladys Hachkis, an opening night she delivered. Steam Heat stopped the show.
Her Nando's hideaway lit it up again. In 1955, she won the Tony Award for Best Featured
(10:12):
Actress in a Musical. When she reprised her stage role in the 1957 film adaptation of the
pajama game, she radiated on screen. Her comic timing was razor sharp, her movement crisp,
and her presence held its own next to Doris Day. Critics praised how effortlessly she translated
(10:34):
her stage success to film. It felt like a star turn, the kind that launched careers. It would end up
being her only major starring role on screen. The chance she'd waited for had arrived,
but not without a cost. Behind the confident performance was a dancer battling rising stage fright
(10:56):
and newly diagnosed diabetes. The spotlight she had worked so hard to earn had started to feel
like a weight. Offers began to slow, but her artistry, that never did. This dancer's brilliance
didn't end in front of the camera as the film offers slowed, she shifted to choreography,
(11:17):
bringing the same precision, wit, and fire to her behind the scenes work. In 1958, she reunited
with Jean Kelly to choreograph Flower Drum Song on Broadway. Her numbers were energetic,
unpredictable, and full of personality. Earning her a tony nomination, she continued choreographing
(11:39):
for Broadway throughout the early 60s, bringing that same signature style to shows like Bravo
Giovanni 1962. She loves me 1963 and Funny Girl 1964. Each production bore her stamp,
jazzy, dynamic, and infused with emotional detail. In total, she earned three tony nominations
(12:04):
for choreography. She brought the same rigor she learned from Cole and Kelly to everything she staged.
She also made standout television appearances, singing, dancing, and choreographing on specials like
the Perry Como show and the Bob Hope Buick hour and the Ed Sullivan show. Every performance had
(12:24):
her signature crisp rhythms, clever details, and that unmistakable spark. Even as her health declined,
her influence grew. Teachers borrowed her movement phrasing. Dancers studied her musicality,
numbers she performed like steam heat and her Nando's hideaway are still broken down in class.
(12:47):
And the shows she later choreographed, she loves me, Flower Drum Song, Funny Girl, left a lasting
mark on Broadway's movement vocabulary. She shaped how jazz dance was stylized, staged,
and passed down. Her name doesn't come up nearly enough, but when you see stylized stillness,
(13:08):
a cheeky head roll, a snap that hits on the upbeat, you're seeing her legacy. Her name,
Carol Haney. And now you know the rest of the story.
All right, Dan's fam. Before I get into the rumors behind arguably one of the most
story tales of a Hollywood superstar, if you enjoyed this episode, make sure you share it with
(13:34):
a fellow dancer or musical theater fan, anyone who loves who should be educated on Carol Haney.
Because yeah, I want to get her story out there, so share, comment, like, all the engagement,
and make sure you're following my podcast. Hey, Dancer. All right, let's get back to Haney.
(13:54):
Now, I almost never get into the personal lives of the dancers I cover that's not what this show is
about, but with Carol Haney, it feels important because the truth is she gave everything to her work
and over time it took a visible toll. As I had mentioned, she was diagnosed with diabetes. Some say
(14:17):
she struggled with alcohol, though that part of her story is harder to confirm. There's a lot
of rumors out there, and I'm telling you it's very hard to vet every little thing, and I do my best.
What we do know is that by the time Funny Girl opened on Broadway, she was exhausted just six weeks
into the run. She died of pneumonia. She was only 39. Her final Tony nomination came posthumously.
(14:43):
I'm not sharing this to dramatize her story in any way. I'm just sharing it because it reminds us
how much she gave in such a short time and how fully she poured herself into her work.
Haney's brilliance came at a cost, and actually Gwen Verden is quoted as saying after Ms. Haney
(15:04):
passed away, quote, "She was like a great big husky puppy dog that never knows when it's tired.
She was so enthusiastic about everything that she never noticed the strain. When people asked her
to slow down, she'd just bubble on about some new project." End quote.
Okay, now let's get to the biggest part of all when it comes to Carol Haney's story, the part
(15:29):
that involves a superstar. So when people tell the story of how Shirley McLean became a star,
they rarely mention the woman whose role she stepped into. I hesitated even telling this next part,
because in some ways, it continues the pattern of keeping Haney in the shadows of someone else's rise,
(15:50):
but the way this story has lived on, the way it's so often misunderstood, actually says a lot about
how legacy works, and by the end, I think it becomes clear. The story that still floats around,
the one people Google when they've heard the lore about Shirley McLean's big break, because if you
dig into that story, it leads straight back to Carol Haney. In 1954, during the pajama game,
(16:17):
Haney injured her ankle. Some say sprain, others say tear, some say break, whatever it was, she was forced
to sit out. Her understudy, a then unknown Shirley McLean, was rushed on stage. During the number
steam heat, she famously dropped her hat and blurted, "Oh shit, the audience ate it up, standing
(16:40):
ovation." The lore goes like this, Hollywood producer Hal Wallace just happened to be in the audience
to see Haney that night, but instead saw McLean and signed her to a film deal on the spot. Haney
was known for powering through pain, so even when she was injured, many assumed she'd be back fast.
(17:02):
Some say she was out for a month. McLean, in her memoir, makes it sound like just one night,
either way it was rare. McLean later said she never thought she'd get another chance, but then came
another twist. Haney got laryngitis, and McLean was called up again. That night, or maybe the next day,
(17:24):
depending on who's telling it, someone from Alfred Hitchcock's team was in the audience. They weren't
expecting McLean, but they saw her, and the trouble with Harry, a quirky mystery comedy about a dead body,
no one knows what to do with, became her first big film role. But here's where the whole
fate-stepped-in story starts to unravel, because I did a lot of digging. In Warren Bady, a private man,
(17:51):
a biography written by Suzanne Finstad, and yes, Warren is McLean's younger brother. It suggested that
none of this was luck. McLean's fiance, Steve Parker, had been orchestrating it all.
Giving away tickets, setting up meetings, rehearsing with her into the early morning.
(18:12):
One Broadway friend said, "Steve got all kinds of people to come see her, who knows, but they were
there." McLean herself has told a story many ways. In my lucky stars, her memoir, she remembers
Hitchcock being in the house that night. In earlier interviews, though, probably much more aligned
(18:34):
with the truth, she says it was his producer, not Hitchcock, Herbert Coleman, who came first.
Some say he phoned Hitchcock at dinner. Others say he sent a telegram. One account claims he brought
Hitchcock in person to a later show. Classic showbiz, part truth, part myth, part PR.
(18:54):
And what about Hal Wallace, the first producer who apparently came to see Haney but saw McLean instead?
Well, despite the myth, Hal Wallace was never in the audience to see Carol Haney.
He came later invited by Steve Parker, again, McLean's fiance, who knew McLean was going to be on
(19:18):
to watch McLean perform. He liked what he saw, offered her a screen test, and she signed a deal
with him before filming the trouble with Harry. So two movie breaks, both tied to Haney being out,
both clouded in a mix of luck, ambition, and maybe a little orchestration. Now, most versions of the
(19:41):
story make it sound like the stars aligned for McLean and such bad luck for Haney,
that all those Hollywood eyes were there for Haney and missed her by chance. But that's not what
really happened. Hal Wallace and Hitchcock's team weren't in the audience for Haney. They never were.
(20:02):
They were brought in deliberately to see McLean. And let's be clear, Haney did not fade.
She went on to star in the pajama game film. She kept creating and maybe just maybe the spotlight
in front of the camera wasn't where she was meant to stay. I mean, her later battles with stage
(20:23):
fright suggest she found her true voice in choreography. So was Haney's injury the moment
that made Shirley McLean? Maybe, but the deeper truth is this, Haney made the moment possible.
Don't forget that part was expanded for her when Abbott saw what she could do. So it was basically
(20:47):
in many ways created around Haney. She was for long stretches of time, a driving force behind
dance giants, an essential part of the careers and trajectories of Jack Cole, Gene Kelly and Bob Fossi,
the dancer with the smoky voice that guts the stamina, the haircut McLean copied just to get in
(21:13):
the room to be her understudy because no one steps into the spotlight without someone else
building the stage first. And Carol Haney, she didn't just build stages. She built legacies.
Until next time.
(21:38):
[Music]
[music]
(00:02):
Gene Kelly, Jack Hole, and Bob Fossy.
Arguably, the three most influential jazz dance figures in American film history
each turned to her at pivotal moments in their careers.
Welcome to "Hey Dancer" and another episode of my weekly series, The Rest of the Story.
(00:23):
I'm your host, Miller Dauray, and today we're spotlighting one of the most influential
and overlooked and underappreciated figures in dance history.
Now, make sure you're subscribed or following so you never miss an episode,
and because all the platforms love when you engage, like, comment, share, all the things,
(00:46):
please do that, because it really helps my dance podcast reach new people.
And also, make sure you stick around through the end, because while the show usually skips the
gossip, today's story is so unique. It's tangled in myths, contradictions, and internet rumors.
So, in the outro, I'll do my best to unpack what is real and what is not.
(01:10):
All right, curtain up, let's begin.
She was born in New Bedford, Massachusetts in 1924. The younger of two daughters,
her father was a bank teller. Her mother, Danish born, had a softer heart and a belief in signs.
One day, when her daughter was still a toddler, this mother visited a Portuguese fortune teller
(01:33):
who read the cards and said, "Your younger girl will someday be top of the avenue."
Well, that was enough. Her mother enrolled her in dance lessons that week.
By five, she was twirling through her childhood. By 15, she'd opened her own dance studio,
teaching 125 students while still juggling high school. She performed at school functions.
(01:59):
Her Mexican hat dance, a crowd favorite. But this wasn't just a teenage passion.
She pulled sodas at the drugstore, danced at ladies clubs, even worked in a golf ball factory,
all to help pay for the dance school she built herself. Even then, she was pushing hard.
Too hard some would later say, but to her, dance wasn't something she did. It was who she was.
(02:25):
She designed her own costumes and it said her mother sowed them for her shows.
She played piano. She had a distinct, husky voice. Now this was due to a severe throat infection
when she was little. Every part of her life, school, work, art revolved around movement.
(02:45):
By the time she'd graduated high school in 1943, she'd been voted best dancer and most likely to
succeed. She was in chorus on the prom committee and already known for doing too much too well.
The next step was inevitable. She moved to Hollywood and returned to familiar jobs,
(03:07):
pulling sodas behind a counter, waiting tables and picking up dance gigs, wherever she could,
including uncredited dance roles in films like Wonder Man and Ziggfeld Follies.
By 1946, her persistence paid off. While dancing in nightclubs, she caught the attention of Jack
Cole, the man often called the father of theatrical jazz. He made her his lead dancer and assistant.
(03:35):
For the next two years, she toured with the Jack Cole dancers, performing high voltage routines,
full of isolation's angular shapes, and what one dancer called "controlled wildness"
under Cole's famously grueling demands, she pushed herself harder than ever. The hours were long.
(03:57):
The choreography relentless, the pace, unforgiving, but she thrived in it. His style didn't just
shape her technique. It toughened her, refined her, and forged the distinct movement language
that would define her next chapter. She worked with Cole on stage and behind the scenes,
(04:17):
helping teach his choreography to major stars, including Rita Hayworth.
She was also part of his early work on film appearing as a dancer uncredited in musicals,
like Down to Earth and the thrill of Brazil. Not too long after Gwen Verden would famously follow
in her footsteps, but this dancer laid the groundwork, step by isolating step. She wasn't just executing
(04:45):
Cole's choreography, she was embodying it, and soon MGM would take notice. In 1949, everything
shifted, just as Cole had discovered her in a nightclub, so did Gene Kelly. He went backstage and
told her he wanted to work with her, not as a chorus dancer, but as his assistant choreographer.
(05:08):
For the next seven years, she was by his side. The hours were punishing, the expectations sky high,
but she delivered, working closely with him on choreography for On the Town,
Summer Stock and American in Paris, singing in the rain, invitation to the dance, and Brigaduin.
(05:29):
But she didn't just stay behind the scenes, she also took on small dance roles of her own.
Sometimes in Kelly's films, sometimes in others. She appeared uncredited in On the Town as the
striking dancer in Green, and danced in T for Two with Doris Day, where her crisp execution
grounded the Charleston number. You'll also catch her in Summer Stock blended into the chorus
(05:54):
alongside Judy Garland. Still, studio heads concluded she didn't photograph well enough to be a star.
It wasn't about her talent, it was about image, and so instead of shrinking back,
she doubled down behind the scenes. She became a lifeline to the work itself,
running rehearsals, shaping performances, even queuing the lights. She rehearsed Lesley Corone
(06:18):
for an American in Paris, and in singing in the rain, she trained Sid Cherisse for the now-famous
Broadway ballet number. A role that had originally been hers. She had already learned and rehearsed
the entire routine. She shaped the movement. Then, just before filming, Kelly chose to cast Cherisse
(06:40):
instead. Our girl stayed on to coach her replacement, refining the very steps she had prepared to perform.
It was a crushing turn, but instead of stepping back, she doubled down on the work, for which she was
always grateful for. In an American in Paris, she even ran the light cues in the number
(07:01):
stairway to Paradise. She would synchronize the lighting with the beat of the music, and in
invitation to the dance, Kelly's experimental dialogue-free ballet film,
she belly-danced, crouched, and spun for the animators, modeling three animated characters,
the Jeannie, the Dragon, and Sheherazade. Her body became the movement reference that brought
(07:27):
those fantastical figures to life. Kelly once called her precision fabulous, and his trust in her
ran deep. Whether coaching stars, controlling the lights, or animating dance itself,
she made his vision possible. Frame by exacting frame. By 1953, her work was stepping into the spotlight.
(07:49):
In Kiss Me Kate, she danced opposite Bob Fossy in the sizzling duet from this moment on.
It was just a few minutes of film, but it changed everything. Her crisp isolation,
finger snaps, and grounded power, hallmarks of Jack Cole's influence, blended with Fossy's
own sharp lines and syncopation to create something electric. Critics raved, audiences took notice,
(08:17):
and so did choreographers. That number is now seen as the birthplace of Fossy's signature style,
and she helped to shape it. As one writer put it, "At that instant, the Bob Fossy style came into
existence." Fossy may have been choreographing for the first time, but her presence
(08:39):
was the catalyst. She didn't just match him. She made him better. The following year, Kiss Me Kate
opened a new door. Her explosive duet with Fossy had turned heads, not just in the audience,
but among Broadway producers. It helped land Fossy the choreographer job on the pajama game,
(09:01):
and he made one request. Bring her with him. Director George Abbott later recalled,
"According to Bob, that girl was Marilyn Monroe. He said she was going to be a star."
End quote. She was still assisting Jean Kelly on Brigaduin at the time, torn between her loyalty to
(09:21):
MGM and this new opportunity, but she flew to New York to audition for the pajama game,
and the offer came quickly. At MGM, she was working under Arthur Fried, head of the powerhouse
Fried unit behind the studio's Golden Era musicals. Fried granted her an early release from her
contract so she could take the part, originally a small role named "Pupsy." But once rehearsals began,
(09:49):
her comic timing and bold movement changed everything. Abbott fired another actress and expanded
her role into Gladys Hachkis, an opening night she delivered. Steam Heat stopped the show.
Her Nando's hideaway lit it up again. In 1955, she won the Tony Award for Best Featured
(10:12):
Actress in a Musical. When she reprised her stage role in the 1957 film adaptation of the
pajama game, she radiated on screen. Her comic timing was razor sharp, her movement crisp,
and her presence held its own next to Doris Day. Critics praised how effortlessly she translated
(10:34):
her stage success to film. It felt like a star turn, the kind that launched careers. It would end up
being her only major starring role on screen. The chance she'd waited for had arrived,
but not without a cost. Behind the confident performance was a dancer battling rising stage fright
(10:56):
and newly diagnosed diabetes. The spotlight she had worked so hard to earn had started to feel
like a weight. Offers began to slow, but her artistry, that never did. This dancer's brilliance
didn't end in front of the camera as the film offers slowed, she shifted to choreography,
(11:17):
bringing the same precision, wit, and fire to her behind the scenes work. In 1958, she reunited
with Jean Kelly to choreograph Flower Drum Song on Broadway. Her numbers were energetic,
unpredictable, and full of personality. Earning her a tony nomination, she continued choreographing
(11:39):
for Broadway throughout the early 60s, bringing that same signature style to shows like Bravo
Giovanni 1962. She loves me 1963 and Funny Girl 1964. Each production bore her stamp,
jazzy, dynamic, and infused with emotional detail. In total, she earned three tony nominations
(12:04):
for choreography. She brought the same rigor she learned from Cole and Kelly to everything she staged.
She also made standout television appearances, singing, dancing, and choreographing on specials like
the Perry Como show and the Bob Hope Buick hour and the Ed Sullivan show. Every performance had
(12:24):
her signature crisp rhythms, clever details, and that unmistakable spark. Even as her health declined,
her influence grew. Teachers borrowed her movement phrasing. Dancers studied her musicality,
numbers she performed like steam heat and her Nando's hideaway are still broken down in class.
(12:47):
And the shows she later choreographed, she loves me, Flower Drum Song, Funny Girl, left a lasting
mark on Broadway's movement vocabulary. She shaped how jazz dance was stylized, staged,
and passed down. Her name doesn't come up nearly enough, but when you see stylized stillness,
(13:08):
a cheeky head roll, a snap that hits on the upbeat, you're seeing her legacy. Her name,
Carol Haney. And now you know the rest of the story.
All right, Dan's fam. Before I get into the rumors behind arguably one of the most
story tales of a Hollywood superstar, if you enjoyed this episode, make sure you share it with
(13:34):
a fellow dancer or musical theater fan, anyone who loves who should be educated on Carol Haney.
Because yeah, I want to get her story out there, so share, comment, like, all the engagement,
and make sure you're following my podcast. Hey, Dancer. All right, let's get back to Haney.
(13:54):
Now, I almost never get into the personal lives of the dancers I cover that's not what this show is
about, but with Carol Haney, it feels important because the truth is she gave everything to her work
and over time it took a visible toll. As I had mentioned, she was diagnosed with diabetes. Some say
(14:17):
she struggled with alcohol, though that part of her story is harder to confirm. There's a lot
of rumors out there, and I'm telling you it's very hard to vet every little thing, and I do my best.
What we do know is that by the time Funny Girl opened on Broadway, she was exhausted just six weeks
into the run. She died of pneumonia. She was only 39. Her final Tony nomination came posthumously.
(14:43):
I'm not sharing this to dramatize her story in any way. I'm just sharing it because it reminds us
how much she gave in such a short time and how fully she poured herself into her work.
Haney's brilliance came at a cost, and actually Gwen Verden is quoted as saying after Ms. Haney
(15:04):
passed away, quote, "She was like a great big husky puppy dog that never knows when it's tired.
She was so enthusiastic about everything that she never noticed the strain. When people asked her
to slow down, she'd just bubble on about some new project." End quote.
Okay, now let's get to the biggest part of all when it comes to Carol Haney's story, the part
(15:29):
that involves a superstar. So when people tell the story of how Shirley McLean became a star,
they rarely mention the woman whose role she stepped into. I hesitated even telling this next part,
because in some ways, it continues the pattern of keeping Haney in the shadows of someone else's rise,
(15:50):
but the way this story has lived on, the way it's so often misunderstood, actually says a lot about
how legacy works, and by the end, I think it becomes clear. The story that still floats around,
the one people Google when they've heard the lore about Shirley McLean's big break, because if you
dig into that story, it leads straight back to Carol Haney. In 1954, during the pajama game,
(16:17):
Haney injured her ankle. Some say sprain, others say tear, some say break, whatever it was, she was forced
to sit out. Her understudy, a then unknown Shirley McLean, was rushed on stage. During the number
steam heat, she famously dropped her hat and blurted, "Oh shit, the audience ate it up, standing
(16:40):
ovation." The lore goes like this, Hollywood producer Hal Wallace just happened to be in the audience
to see Haney that night, but instead saw McLean and signed her to a film deal on the spot. Haney
was known for powering through pain, so even when she was injured, many assumed she'd be back fast.
(17:02):
Some say she was out for a month. McLean, in her memoir, makes it sound like just one night,
either way it was rare. McLean later said she never thought she'd get another chance, but then came
another twist. Haney got laryngitis, and McLean was called up again. That night, or maybe the next day,
(17:24):
depending on who's telling it, someone from Alfred Hitchcock's team was in the audience. They weren't
expecting McLean, but they saw her, and the trouble with Harry, a quirky mystery comedy about a dead body,
no one knows what to do with, became her first big film role. But here's where the whole
fate-stepped-in story starts to unravel, because I did a lot of digging. In Warren Bady, a private man,
(17:51):
a biography written by Suzanne Finstad, and yes, Warren is McLean's younger brother. It suggested that
none of this was luck. McLean's fiance, Steve Parker, had been orchestrating it all.
Giving away tickets, setting up meetings, rehearsing with her into the early morning.
(18:12):
One Broadway friend said, "Steve got all kinds of people to come see her, who knows, but they were
there." McLean herself has told a story many ways. In my lucky stars, her memoir, she remembers
Hitchcock being in the house that night. In earlier interviews, though, probably much more aligned
(18:34):
with the truth, she says it was his producer, not Hitchcock, Herbert Coleman, who came first.
Some say he phoned Hitchcock at dinner. Others say he sent a telegram. One account claims he brought
Hitchcock in person to a later show. Classic showbiz, part truth, part myth, part PR.
(18:54):
And what about Hal Wallace, the first producer who apparently came to see Haney but saw McLean instead?
Well, despite the myth, Hal Wallace was never in the audience to see Carol Haney.
He came later invited by Steve Parker, again, McLean's fiance, who knew McLean was going to be on
(19:18):
to watch McLean perform. He liked what he saw, offered her a screen test, and she signed a deal
with him before filming the trouble with Harry. So two movie breaks, both tied to Haney being out,
both clouded in a mix of luck, ambition, and maybe a little orchestration. Now, most versions of the
(19:41):
story make it sound like the stars aligned for McLean and such bad luck for Haney,
that all those Hollywood eyes were there for Haney and missed her by chance. But that's not what
really happened. Hal Wallace and Hitchcock's team weren't in the audience for Haney. They never were.
(20:02):
They were brought in deliberately to see McLean. And let's be clear, Haney did not fade.
She went on to star in the pajama game film. She kept creating and maybe just maybe the spotlight
in front of the camera wasn't where she was meant to stay. I mean, her later battles with stage
(20:23):
fright suggest she found her true voice in choreography. So was Haney's injury the moment
that made Shirley McLean? Maybe, but the deeper truth is this, Haney made the moment possible.
Don't forget that part was expanded for her when Abbott saw what she could do. So it was basically
(20:47):
in many ways created around Haney. She was for long stretches of time, a driving force behind
dance giants, an essential part of the careers and trajectories of Jack Cole, Gene Kelly and Bob Fossi,
the dancer with the smoky voice that guts the stamina, the haircut McLean copied just to get in
(21:13):
the room to be her understudy because no one steps into the spotlight without someone else
building the stage first. And Carol Haney, she didn't just build stages. She built legacies.
Until next time.
(21:38):
[Music]
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