Gene Nelson starred (and danced!) in iconic films like Lullaby of Broadway, Tea for Two, and Oklahoma!. He was once hailed as the next Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, yet his name is often left out of the conversation about the dance greats.
In this episode of The Rest of the Story on the Hey, Dancer! podcast, we trace Gene’s journey from a Seattle-born acrobat to a Hollywood triple threat — a dancer, actor, and singer.
We’ll dive into his teenage performances in major Hollywood revues, his U.S. Army tour as a dancer during World War II, and his rise to fame in cinema. Along the way, we'll explore the devastating injury that nearly ended his career and how it redirected his path.
Nelson’s athleticism, balletic precision, and raw showmanship helped redefine screen dance. So why isn’t he celebrated alongside Astaire and Kelly?
Listen to discover the story of Gene Nelson’s rise, resilience, and a dance legacy that deserves far more recognition! 🎙️
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):
Fred Astaire and Jean Kelly were already legends, and for a while, he was the one people thought would follow in their footsteps, and honestly, he did.
Yet somehow, his name still gets left out of the conversation.
But not today. Welcome to "Hey, Dancer, and to the rest of the story."
(00:23):
My name is Miller Dauray, I'm your host, your researcher, your writer, your editor, all the things. This is my weekly deep dive into the dancers who changed the game.
If you're into this kind of dance history, or film history, and attainment history, make sure you're following or subscribed, wherever you're watching or listening.
Tap that notification bell so you don't miss new episodes and feel free to like, share, or drop a comment.
(00:48):
It helps it really does to get the stories out into the world and stick around through the end, because I'll get into how the legacy of our subject today kept evolving.
Okay, let's get into it.
He was born in 1920 in Seattle, Washington. After a year, the family moved to Astoria, Oregon, where his mother's relatives lived.
(01:12):
Not long after, they relocated to Hollywood, California, settling on Orange Grove Avenue. His father, Leander, worked as a machinist for Douglas Aircraft.
But he was also a ballroom dancer, a roller skater, and in his youth had done considerable acrobatic work.
When the family relocated to San Monica, Leander, who loved the beach, started teaching his son, elementary acrobatics.
(01:40):
And Springs and Flipps, which this little boy picked up quickly. In school, he got into swimming and track.
And then, when he was 12, he went to a matinee at the Wilshire Theatre on 14th Street in San Monica and saw flying down to Rio with Fred Astaire.
That did it. That changed everything.
(02:03):
He spent days imitating Fred Astaire on the hardwood floors at his home. His father laid down Linoleum in the garage and enrolled him in dance classes at the Miramar Hotel, where he studied with Roy Randolph.
But he didn't stick with it. He liked class, just didn't want to practice. That's when his dad stepped in. No practice, no lessons.
(02:26):
And then, the gay divorcee came out with Fred Astaire. He saw it and told his parents he wanted to start again.
And this time, he would take it seriously. He enrolled at the Allbright School of Dance, where he studied with a professional New York hoover named Steve Granger.
Granger taught him original Bill Robinson routines using the old records.
(02:50):
He teamed up with another student, Ted Hanson. They performed Toastans, Double Wings and Challenge Steps at Markets and Veterans Homes. Unpaid, but gaining experience.
By his sophomore year at San Monica High School, he was ready to level up.
He enrolled in the Fanshin and Marco School of Dance in Hollywood, a pipeline for serious performers.
(03:14):
The names passed through those doors, Judy Garland and Miller and Rita Hayworth, who was assisting her father Eduardo Cancino in teaching Spanish dance at the time.
The school didn't just train dancers, it put them on stage. Because he was one of their top students, he was selected to perform in the Fanshin and Marco Juvenile reviews.
(03:37):
These weren't recitals, they were full on professional productions, staged at the Paramount Theater in downtown Los Angeles.
The Paramount was LA's answer to Radio City Music Hall, a grand movie palace where audiences came for a double bill, a film plus a live stage show.
Fanshinets, LA's answer to the Rockets, took seasonal breaks at Christmas, Easter and Summer. During those gaps, the Juvenile review stepped in.
(04:07):
He danced in the live prologues for two weeks at a time, earning $15 a week. His first real paycheck in show business.
And while he was performing downtown, his name was already showing up in the local papers. Not for dance, but for his tightrope and tumbling work. And later for track.
He earned his varsity letter at the school's honor awards. And by June, his photo appeared again. This time announcing his election as yell leader for senior year.
(04:39):
He went on to organize the largest cheerleading team in the school's history, then came senior ditch day. His class walked out at noon and headed for the polar palace.
A popular skating rink in Los Angeles run by former hockey player, Bert Clark. He borrowed a pair of skates and he was hooked.
(05:01):
He picked up shifts at a local cafe then skated nightly, self taught, obsessive, watchful eyes at the rink started to notice, including Clarks. And within three months, he landed an audition for the Sonya Henny Hollywood ice review. He got the job.
Sonya Henny was one of the most famous athletes in the world, a three time Olympic gold medalist and international movie star. Her review was a spectacle and he performed in six of its live numbers, touring for three months at a time and earning $75 a week.
(05:40):
During one of those breaks, he was cast in her films, second fiddle, and everything happens at night at 20th Century Fox. It was still Sonya's world just now on a sound stage. He joined the screen actor's guild at 19 and just like that, he was in the movies.
I must say that my dance training put me way ahead of the game and I progressed very rapidly, he once said he was a tap dancer and acrobat, but now he wanted to integrate ballet to bring classical dance into his training as it very much paralleled the figure skating ideal.
(06:20):
He started taking private lessons with Bert Pravall at Nico Cheris' studio in Hollywood, two hours a day every day. I really worked hard with him so that I was able to employ more completely dance in the skating. He said of the experience and it showed.
He and partner Joanne Dean created a jitterbug routine on ice, something no one had ever seen before. He became the first person to do 13 Arabian cartwheels without using his hands on ice while wearing skates.
(06:54):
They performed at the coconut grove at the Orphium Theatre in Los Angeles and in the review, it happens on ice which played to over 1.5 million people.
In December 1941, he was backstage waiting for a matinee when the announcement came over the loudspeaker. Pearl Harbor had been bombed. He enlisted the following march on his birthday.
(07:18):
While stationed at Camp Monmouth, he found a way to stay in shape and let off steam. Most evenings he brought a portable radio to the Rec Hall and danced.
That is where he was spotted by a fellow soldier. Private first class Irving Lazar. He invited him to perform in a post-tallon show on base. He didn't know it at the time but Irving Berlin was in the audience that night. Scouting for his new, All Soldier Review.
(07:47):
A few days later, his name showed up on a transfer report. He was headed to Camp Upton on Long Island, joining 365 other servicemen to begin rehearsals for this is the Army.
A full-scale soldier review backed by the war department and written by Berlin himself. They opened on Broadway in July 1942. Now the soldiers remained enlisted and received army pay while performing. It was military service, just through dance.
(08:21):
The show opened on Broadway on July 4, 1942 and it was an instant smash. The official run lasted just under three months but the momentum didn't stop there. The cast hit the road, traveling the country by train and parading from the station to the theater with a full marching band in every city.
(08:45):
In Washington, D.C., they performed a special matinee for President Roosevelt and Eleanor. Then in 1943, the cast headed west to film the movie version at Warner Brothers when filming wrapped the original company was disbanded. But not entirely, the cast was cut from 350 to 150.
(09:08):
The movie made the cut and a new phase began, a two-year global tour for the troops. They opened at the palladium theater in London in November 1943, performing for the Queen of England, General Eisenhower and other top military and civilian dignitaries.
Then came Scotland, the Midlands, Ireland and finally Liverpool, where they boarded a troop ship bound for Algiers and Italy. But this wasn't just show business. He was still enlisted and still a soldier.
(09:43):
During those two years abroad, he served as a steamship operator, a 20-millimeter gunner, and second in command to an electrician. And when he wasn't doing that, he was dancing.
He said, "We performed in the rain in thunder and lightning under the wildest conditions you could ever imagine. I don't think I could have ever gotten the theatrical background or theatrical training.
(10:07):
Twelve years summed up in those two years, a wild experience."
He came home in 1945, war was over, so was this is the army. And for the first time in years, he had no direction.
Then came a call. John Dauro, a Hollywood agent who represented stars like Gene Kelly and June Allison, had seen him perform. He arranged a screen test at 20th Century Fox. The studio liked him. But not the name. He submitted a list of options. They chose his mother's maiden name.
(10:43):
Those early years at Fox were rocky. He was trying, auditioning, showing up, making the rounds. But the studio didn't seem to know what to do with him. He was trained, versatile, and eager, but not yet visible.
Then came a break. Not from the studio, but from a rising star. June Haver. She'd seen him perform at the Fox Studio Club's annual mash. But it was later catching him alone in a rehearsal studio.
(11:12):
He was experimenting with rhythms and tricks that convinced her. She pushed hard for him to be cast in her next film, insisting that the producers watch his screen test.
That film was, I wonder who's kissing her now in 1947. He appeared in three musical numbers, including the grand finale sequence.
(11:33):
He appeared in three musical numbers of fantasy scenes in period costume. It was the first time he got to dance on screen for Fox. Haver, later told columnist Ina Zitlin, he'll be the Gene Kelly of the 20th lot. You watch.
And after filming, she admitted she was prouder of helping to discover him than of almost anything else in her career. But even that wasn't enough to shift things.
(11:57):
The studio still didn't know where he fit. He was dubbed. His lovely singing voice replaced by someone else's. He was cut from scenes. And he kept hearing the same line. He looked too young.
26 years old and being told he couldn't play a grown man. He almost landed the male lead in Easter parade until Fred Astaire came out of retirement and took the part.
(12:21):
In the meantime, he was stuck, relegated to bit parts with no dancing. In Gentleman's Agreement, he acted in a brief hotel scene delivering just a few lines.
In the walls of Jericho, he was silent and uncredited in the courtroom climax. In a apartment for Peggy, he was on screen for less than 30 seconds before being cut entirely.
(12:42):
For someone who had trained in ballet, tap and acrobatics, who had just proven himself in a full scale musical who could flip, fly and hold his own in front of the camera, it wasn't enough.
He started to feel the writing on the wall. Then came a shift and a risk.
He accepted a role in a new stage review, Lend and Ear. It was produced by and starred William Eith and choreographed by Gower Champion and featured a cast full of performers the studio had let go, including Carol Channing.
(13:17):
The show opened at the Los Palmas Theatre in Hollywood in June 1948. He had four standout numbers.
One of them, his dance solo in "Who Hit Me" sung by Ivan Adair, drew particular attention, placing him alongside Channing and Eith as one of the top attractions.
Soon after, Lend and Ear moved to Broadway. The critics raved.
(13:42):
Drama critic Robert Garland called his work "Show Stopping." The Associated Press predicted he wouldn't be unknown for long. He won a Theatre World Award.
Then came his television debut. Ed Sullivan's "Thost of the Town" where he and the cast performed routines from Lend and Ear.
And that's when Warner Bros. called. The film was "The Daughter of Rosie O'Grady."
(14:07):
In the opening number, he kissed his real-life wife Miriam on the cheek, then flipped forward onto a haystack all in one smooth take.
Finally, a camera had captured what he could do. Critics took notice. One called him, quote, "one of the screen's favorite dancing stars before long."
End quote. Then came three films with Doris Day, "T for Two," "Lullaby of Broadway," the West Point story.
(14:34):
In "T for Two," he tapped his way up and down staircase, even along the banister. In "Lullaby," he danced on top of a piano, then vaulted clean over the page cabinotrio.
All two zane went the strings of my heart. It was the number he refused to be dubbed for. He wanted it real.
And for the West Point story, James Cagney kept showing up just to watch him rehearse.
(14:59):
By 1951, the momentum was real. He won the Golden Globe for "New Star of the Year" and was photographed that night shaking hands with Fred Astaire.
The same dancer who once scratched up his mother's floors trying to imitate Astaire now stood beside him, a rising star in his own right.
(15:20):
For a stretch in the early 1950s, his name was above the title. He was a lead, front and center on movie posters, a dancer who could act, sing, and carry a film.
In "She's Working Her Way Through College" in 1952, he tore through a gymnasium solo that defied belief. Swinging from rings, giant swings on the bars, flipping across mats all while singing.
(15:46):
The number took four days to shoot and three months to rehearse. One review said, "Places him in a class with Jean Kelly and Fred Astaire."
Virginia Mayo later called it her favorite film, and called him a dancer who insisted on rehearsing until everything was perfect.
In "Three Sailors and a Girl" he powered through an intricate number set in an autogorage, risky, inventive, and full of grit.
(16:15):
But even then, the cracks were starting to show. In painting the clouds with sunshine, his dance scenes were a highlight, but the film itself was forgettable.
In "She's Back on Broadway," the studio didn't even have a role for him. "They just invented one," he later said, "so I could do the dances."
The kind of parts that once felt like a showcase were already starting to feel like afterthoughts, and then came something worse.
(16:41):
Pain.
During "So This is Paris" in 1954, he made a bad landing and twisted his back. He was diagnosed with a hermated disc, and finished the shoot on pain pills.
When he auditioned for "Ocula Homa," he was still injured. He taped up his back, pushed through rehearsals, and never said a word.
The moment he wasn't dancing, he was lying down, resting.
(17:05):
Agnus Demille, who had choreographed the original Broadway production, and now the film, chose him herself. She didn't know he was injured.
She just saw what he could do, and she built the number around him.
He played "Wild Parker" and brought character, rhythm, and sheer athleticism to every frame of the Kansas City number.
(17:26):
Twirled a rope like a rodeo pro, danced on top of a moving train car. For a dancer, it was a peak moment, a legacy moment, but somehow it wasn't a turning point.
The truth is, the momentum had already started to stall. Studios had stopped building films around dancers. The golden age of movie musicals was fading.
(17:47):
And even "Ocula Homa," one of the biggest musicals of all time, couldn't reverse the trend. Hollywood still didn't know what to do with him.
But then came a devastating accident.
While filming a western in the late 1950s, he was thrown from a horse. His pelvis was crushed. His legs went numb. He couldn't dance. For a while, he couldn't even walk.
(18:11):
While still, bedridden, someone offered him a new kind of opportunity. Directing, he took it.
And over the next decade, he carved out a second career behind the camera, including major studio features and a run of successful TV work. But in 1971, after years away from the stage, and thinking dance might be gone for good, Broadway called.
(18:36):
The show was Folly's. He was 51, and the role, Buddy, demanded everything, voice, presence, and dance. He signed on with director Hal Prince. But when rehearsals began, he couldn't even lift a leg.
The years off stage had taken their toll. His body was out of shape. His muscles had locked up. But he remembered something Gregory Peck once said, quoting Moss Hart, "Shake your life up. Don't become stagnant."
(19:04):
So he did. He trained. He pushed. He fought to move again. Not with the legs he once had, but with something deeper. A lifetime of musicality.
Style, instinct, rhythm in his bones. And when he stepped on that stage, he danced again.
The right girl, a solo packed with energy and regret, stopped the show. Clive Barnes called it a flashily effective acrobatic dance solo. His performance earned him a Tony nomination.
(19:33):
It was a comeback few thought possible, and a reminder of what had always been true. He was a dancer first, and one of the best.
In 1990, the industry finally gave him a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It was overdue. His daughter once said, quote, "My father was a great talent."
(19:54):
Always getting left out of what he deserved when it came to recognition. End quote. What he brought was unmistakable. Daring athleticism, balletic precision, and a showman's sense of rhythm and risk.
He made dance cinematic, but never just for spectacle. Always for story. And whether the spotlight lingered or moved on, the work will always remain.
(20:18):
He was one of the greats. No asterisk, no footnote, just fact. His name, Gene Nelson. And now you know the rest of the story.
Alright, dance fam. As I mentioned, I'm gonna get into a few more things on Mr. Nelson. But before that, if you enjoyed this podcast, if you were entertained, felt like you learned something new, inspired by his story.
(20:43):
Now recognize him as one of the greats. Do me a favor and hit that subscribe button. That notification bell so you always know when a video drops. Follow, subscribe, like, comment, share with people who need to know Gene's story.
I'd be so appreciative. Alright, now as I always say, I don't usually dig into people's personal lives. But in Gene's case, in this isn't really that personal, it's sort of public.
(21:10):
His marriage and on-screen partnership with Miriam Nelson deserves a moment here. They weren't just married. They danced together. She was a prolific choreographer with a seven decade career in Broadway Hollywood and television.
She lent her talents to such films as Breakfast at Tiffany's and the apartment. And when Gene got his break in the daughter of Rosie O'Grady, they got to perform together. She even called out how he wished she had been in the spotlight more.
(21:43):
He dreamed of them being true partners side by side. And even when that didn't fully happen, you could feel the impact they had on each other's careers.
As I mentioned in the main script, Gene reinvented himself behind the camera. He directed endless episodes of television shows, some including The Rifleman, The Donna Reed Show, The Mod Squad, Star Trek, and I Dream of Gene.
(22:07):
It was actually Gene who was that shows very first director and he created Gene's iconic blink and arm crossing. What?
That little gesture became a pop culture staple. And while it wasn't always visible, his work often shaped the shows from the inside.
On multiple occasions, actors earned Emmy nominations for performances and episodes he directed. And I think a true testament as to how good he was at it and how much he was loved on all the shows he worked on was that he directed multiple episodes of the same series.
(22:45):
For example, he directed 21 episodes of The Donna Reed Show, 18 episodes of The Mod Squad, 8 episodes of The Rifleman.
Again, that just shows how much he was respected and loved in every interview I read about Mr. Nelson about his direction of TV or film or just working with him on stage, whatever.
(23:06):
Everybody always said he was just the friendliest, nicest, most easygoing, hardworking guy. He also directed two films starring Elvis Presley, Kissin Cousins and Herum Scaram.
And even co-wrote the screenplay for Kissin Cousins earning a writer's guild nomination, my god, this guy is talents.
(23:27):
He taught theater and directing at San Francisco State University where he designed a course called The Complete Actor Director.
He also put out a tap instructional video which he filmed at Debbie Reynolds Studio. That was my original dance home. And in this tutorial video, if you will, he helped dancers learn from someone who had lived every phrase of performance.
(23:50):
Now, I want to mention a few other teachers, dance teachers he studied with. I wasn't quite sure where in the timeline they fit, but Jean in different interviews I watched mentioned them.
He talked about studying briefly with Hania Holm in New York and she was one of the great pioneers of modern dance. He said it was kind of during and after a lot of his film work.
(24:12):
So he already had a lot of dance training, but it clearly proves that he was always searching to be better, always training, always studying.
He also mentioned that in LA he had studied with Nick Castle, a legendary choreographer in his own right. And I'll end on this. I read an interview with a biographer Scott O'Brien who actually wrote a biography on Jean Nelson who said in this interview, quote, "The spotlight on male cinema dancers has focused mainly on Fred Astaire and Jean Kelly."
(24:44):
A lot of Astaire musicals were released over a period of 25 years and Kelly 15 years. Jean Nelson musicals were released over a 5 year period, even so his style and mesmerizing athletic grace was all his own unique and deserving of more recognition.
End quote. And that's exactly why I do this series.
(25:05):
History doesn't always remember who it should, even the most dazzling, the most deserving. They can be left out of the spotlight over time. It's just the way it works, but it doesn't erase the work. It doesn't dim the legacy. And if even for a moment, their names are back in the conversation.
If someone hears their story and sees them in a new light, that's something. That matters. That is why I'm here. Until next time, dance fam.
(25:32):
[MUSIC]
(upbeat music)
(bell dinging)
[Music]
(00:02):
Fred Astaire and Jean Kelly were already legends, and for a while, he was the one people thought would follow in their footsteps, and honestly, he did.
Yet somehow, his name still gets left out of the conversation.
But not today. Welcome to "Hey, Dancer, and to the rest of the story."
(00:23):
My name is Miller Dauray, I'm your host, your researcher, your writer, your editor, all the things. This is my weekly deep dive into the dancers who changed the game.
If you're into this kind of dance history, or film history, and attainment history, make sure you're following or subscribed, wherever you're watching or listening.
Tap that notification bell so you don't miss new episodes and feel free to like, share, or drop a comment.
(00:48):
It helps it really does to get the stories out into the world and stick around through the end, because I'll get into how the legacy of our subject today kept evolving.
Okay, let's get into it.
He was born in 1920 in Seattle, Washington. After a year, the family moved to Astoria, Oregon, where his mother's relatives lived.
(01:12):
Not long after, they relocated to Hollywood, California, settling on Orange Grove Avenue. His father, Leander, worked as a machinist for Douglas Aircraft.
But he was also a ballroom dancer, a roller skater, and in his youth had done considerable acrobatic work.
When the family relocated to San Monica, Leander, who loved the beach, started teaching his son, elementary acrobatics.
(01:40):
And Springs and Flipps, which this little boy picked up quickly. In school, he got into swimming and track.
And then, when he was 12, he went to a matinee at the Wilshire Theatre on 14th Street in San Monica and saw flying down to Rio with Fred Astaire.
That did it. That changed everything.
(02:03):
He spent days imitating Fred Astaire on the hardwood floors at his home. His father laid down Linoleum in the garage and enrolled him in dance classes at the Miramar Hotel, where he studied with Roy Randolph.
But he didn't stick with it. He liked class, just didn't want to practice. That's when his dad stepped in. No practice, no lessons.
(02:26):
And then, the gay divorcee came out with Fred Astaire. He saw it and told his parents he wanted to start again.
And this time, he would take it seriously. He enrolled at the Allbright School of Dance, where he studied with a professional New York hoover named Steve Granger.
Granger taught him original Bill Robinson routines using the old records.
(02:50):
He teamed up with another student, Ted Hanson. They performed Toastans, Double Wings and Challenge Steps at Markets and Veterans Homes. Unpaid, but gaining experience.
By his sophomore year at San Monica High School, he was ready to level up.
He enrolled in the Fanshin and Marco School of Dance in Hollywood, a pipeline for serious performers.
(03:14):
The names passed through those doors, Judy Garland and Miller and Rita Hayworth, who was assisting her father Eduardo Cancino in teaching Spanish dance at the time.
The school didn't just train dancers, it put them on stage. Because he was one of their top students, he was selected to perform in the Fanshin and Marco Juvenile reviews.
(03:37):
These weren't recitals, they were full on professional productions, staged at the Paramount Theater in downtown Los Angeles.
The Paramount was LA's answer to Radio City Music Hall, a grand movie palace where audiences came for a double bill, a film plus a live stage show.
Fanshinets, LA's answer to the Rockets, took seasonal breaks at Christmas, Easter and Summer. During those gaps, the Juvenile review stepped in.
(04:07):
He danced in the live prologues for two weeks at a time, earning $15 a week. His first real paycheck in show business.
And while he was performing downtown, his name was already showing up in the local papers. Not for dance, but for his tightrope and tumbling work. And later for track.
He earned his varsity letter at the school's honor awards. And by June, his photo appeared again. This time announcing his election as yell leader for senior year.
(04:39):
He went on to organize the largest cheerleading team in the school's history, then came senior ditch day. His class walked out at noon and headed for the polar palace.
A popular skating rink in Los Angeles run by former hockey player, Bert Clark. He borrowed a pair of skates and he was hooked.
(05:01):
He picked up shifts at a local cafe then skated nightly, self taught, obsessive, watchful eyes at the rink started to notice, including Clarks. And within three months, he landed an audition for the Sonya Henny Hollywood ice review. He got the job.
Sonya Henny was one of the most famous athletes in the world, a three time Olympic gold medalist and international movie star. Her review was a spectacle and he performed in six of its live numbers, touring for three months at a time and earning $75 a week.
(05:40):
During one of those breaks, he was cast in her films, second fiddle, and everything happens at night at 20th Century Fox. It was still Sonya's world just now on a sound stage. He joined the screen actor's guild at 19 and just like that, he was in the movies.
I must say that my dance training put me way ahead of the game and I progressed very rapidly, he once said he was a tap dancer and acrobat, but now he wanted to integrate ballet to bring classical dance into his training as it very much paralleled the figure skating ideal.
(06:20):
He started taking private lessons with Bert Pravall at Nico Cheris' studio in Hollywood, two hours a day every day. I really worked hard with him so that I was able to employ more completely dance in the skating. He said of the experience and it showed.
He and partner Joanne Dean created a jitterbug routine on ice, something no one had ever seen before. He became the first person to do 13 Arabian cartwheels without using his hands on ice while wearing skates.
(06:54):
They performed at the coconut grove at the Orphium Theatre in Los Angeles and in the review, it happens on ice which played to over 1.5 million people.
In December 1941, he was backstage waiting for a matinee when the announcement came over the loudspeaker. Pearl Harbor had been bombed. He enlisted the following march on his birthday.
(07:18):
While stationed at Camp Monmouth, he found a way to stay in shape and let off steam. Most evenings he brought a portable radio to the Rec Hall and danced.
That is where he was spotted by a fellow soldier. Private first class Irving Lazar. He invited him to perform in a post-tallon show on base. He didn't know it at the time but Irving Berlin was in the audience that night. Scouting for his new, All Soldier Review.
(07:47):
A few days later, his name showed up on a transfer report. He was headed to Camp Upton on Long Island, joining 365 other servicemen to begin rehearsals for this is the Army.
A full-scale soldier review backed by the war department and written by Berlin himself. They opened on Broadway in July 1942. Now the soldiers remained enlisted and received army pay while performing. It was military service, just through dance.
(08:21):
The show opened on Broadway on July 4, 1942 and it was an instant smash. The official run lasted just under three months but the momentum didn't stop there. The cast hit the road, traveling the country by train and parading from the station to the theater with a full marching band in every city.
(08:45):
In Washington, D.C., they performed a special matinee for President Roosevelt and Eleanor. Then in 1943, the cast headed west to film the movie version at Warner Brothers when filming wrapped the original company was disbanded. But not entirely, the cast was cut from 350 to 150.
(09:08):
The movie made the cut and a new phase began, a two-year global tour for the troops. They opened at the palladium theater in London in November 1943, performing for the Queen of England, General Eisenhower and other top military and civilian dignitaries.
Then came Scotland, the Midlands, Ireland and finally Liverpool, where they boarded a troop ship bound for Algiers and Italy. But this wasn't just show business. He was still enlisted and still a soldier.
(09:43):
During those two years abroad, he served as a steamship operator, a 20-millimeter gunner, and second in command to an electrician. And when he wasn't doing that, he was dancing.
He said, "We performed in the rain in thunder and lightning under the wildest conditions you could ever imagine. I don't think I could have ever gotten the theatrical background or theatrical training.
(10:07):
Twelve years summed up in those two years, a wild experience."
He came home in 1945, war was over, so was this is the army. And for the first time in years, he had no direction.
Then came a call. John Dauro, a Hollywood agent who represented stars like Gene Kelly and June Allison, had seen him perform. He arranged a screen test at 20th Century Fox. The studio liked him. But not the name. He submitted a list of options. They chose his mother's maiden name.
(10:43):
Those early years at Fox were rocky. He was trying, auditioning, showing up, making the rounds. But the studio didn't seem to know what to do with him. He was trained, versatile, and eager, but not yet visible.
Then came a break. Not from the studio, but from a rising star. June Haver. She'd seen him perform at the Fox Studio Club's annual mash. But it was later catching him alone in a rehearsal studio.
(11:12):
He was experimenting with rhythms and tricks that convinced her. She pushed hard for him to be cast in her next film, insisting that the producers watch his screen test.
That film was, I wonder who's kissing her now in 1947. He appeared in three musical numbers, including the grand finale sequence.
(11:33):
He appeared in three musical numbers of fantasy scenes in period costume. It was the first time he got to dance on screen for Fox. Haver, later told columnist Ina Zitlin, he'll be the Gene Kelly of the 20th lot. You watch.
And after filming, she admitted she was prouder of helping to discover him than of almost anything else in her career. But even that wasn't enough to shift things.
(11:57):
The studio still didn't know where he fit. He was dubbed. His lovely singing voice replaced by someone else's. He was cut from scenes. And he kept hearing the same line. He looked too young.
26 years old and being told he couldn't play a grown man. He almost landed the male lead in Easter parade until Fred Astaire came out of retirement and took the part.
(12:21):
In the meantime, he was stuck, relegated to bit parts with no dancing. In Gentleman's Agreement, he acted in a brief hotel scene delivering just a few lines.
In the walls of Jericho, he was silent and uncredited in the courtroom climax. In a apartment for Peggy, he was on screen for less than 30 seconds before being cut entirely.
(12:42):
For someone who had trained in ballet, tap and acrobatics, who had just proven himself in a full scale musical who could flip, fly and hold his own in front of the camera, it wasn't enough.
He started to feel the writing on the wall. Then came a shift and a risk.
He accepted a role in a new stage review, Lend and Ear. It was produced by and starred William Eith and choreographed by Gower Champion and featured a cast full of performers the studio had let go, including Carol Channing.
(13:17):
The show opened at the Los Palmas Theatre in Hollywood in June 1948. He had four standout numbers.
One of them, his dance solo in "Who Hit Me" sung by Ivan Adair, drew particular attention, placing him alongside Channing and Eith as one of the top attractions.
Soon after, Lend and Ear moved to Broadway. The critics raved.
(13:42):
Drama critic Robert Garland called his work "Show Stopping." The Associated Press predicted he wouldn't be unknown for long. He won a Theatre World Award.
Then came his television debut. Ed Sullivan's "Thost of the Town" where he and the cast performed routines from Lend and Ear.
And that's when Warner Bros. called. The film was "The Daughter of Rosie O'Grady."
(14:07):
In the opening number, he kissed his real-life wife Miriam on the cheek, then flipped forward onto a haystack all in one smooth take.
Finally, a camera had captured what he could do. Critics took notice. One called him, quote, "one of the screen's favorite dancing stars before long."
End quote. Then came three films with Doris Day, "T for Two," "Lullaby of Broadway," the West Point story.
(14:34):
In "T for Two," he tapped his way up and down staircase, even along the banister. In "Lullaby," he danced on top of a piano, then vaulted clean over the page cabinotrio.
All two zane went the strings of my heart. It was the number he refused to be dubbed for. He wanted it real.
And for the West Point story, James Cagney kept showing up just to watch him rehearse.
(14:59):
By 1951, the momentum was real. He won the Golden Globe for "New Star of the Year" and was photographed that night shaking hands with Fred Astaire.
The same dancer who once scratched up his mother's floors trying to imitate Astaire now stood beside him, a rising star in his own right.
(15:20):
For a stretch in the early 1950s, his name was above the title. He was a lead, front and center on movie posters, a dancer who could act, sing, and carry a film.
In "She's Working Her Way Through College" in 1952, he tore through a gymnasium solo that defied belief. Swinging from rings, giant swings on the bars, flipping across mats all while singing.
(15:46):
The number took four days to shoot and three months to rehearse. One review said, "Places him in a class with Jean Kelly and Fred Astaire."
Virginia Mayo later called it her favorite film, and called him a dancer who insisted on rehearsing until everything was perfect.
In "Three Sailors and a Girl" he powered through an intricate number set in an autogorage, risky, inventive, and full of grit.
(16:15):
But even then, the cracks were starting to show. In painting the clouds with sunshine, his dance scenes were a highlight, but the film itself was forgettable.
In "She's Back on Broadway," the studio didn't even have a role for him. "They just invented one," he later said, "so I could do the dances."
The kind of parts that once felt like a showcase were already starting to feel like afterthoughts, and then came something worse.
(16:41):
Pain.
During "So This is Paris" in 1954, he made a bad landing and twisted his back. He was diagnosed with a hermated disc, and finished the shoot on pain pills.
When he auditioned for "Ocula Homa," he was still injured. He taped up his back, pushed through rehearsals, and never said a word.
The moment he wasn't dancing, he was lying down, resting.
(17:05):
Agnus Demille, who had choreographed the original Broadway production, and now the film, chose him herself. She didn't know he was injured.
She just saw what he could do, and she built the number around him.
He played "Wild Parker" and brought character, rhythm, and sheer athleticism to every frame of the Kansas City number.
(17:26):
Twirled a rope like a rodeo pro, danced on top of a moving train car. For a dancer, it was a peak moment, a legacy moment, but somehow it wasn't a turning point.
The truth is, the momentum had already started to stall. Studios had stopped building films around dancers. The golden age of movie musicals was fading.
(17:47):
And even "Ocula Homa," one of the biggest musicals of all time, couldn't reverse the trend. Hollywood still didn't know what to do with him.
But then came a devastating accident.
While filming a western in the late 1950s, he was thrown from a horse. His pelvis was crushed. His legs went numb. He couldn't dance. For a while, he couldn't even walk.
(18:11):
While still, bedridden, someone offered him a new kind of opportunity. Directing, he took it.
And over the next decade, he carved out a second career behind the camera, including major studio features and a run of successful TV work. But in 1971, after years away from the stage, and thinking dance might be gone for good, Broadway called.
(18:36):
The show was Folly's. He was 51, and the role, Buddy, demanded everything, voice, presence, and dance. He signed on with director Hal Prince. But when rehearsals began, he couldn't even lift a leg.
The years off stage had taken their toll. His body was out of shape. His muscles had locked up. But he remembered something Gregory Peck once said, quoting Moss Hart, "Shake your life up. Don't become stagnant."
(19:04):
So he did. He trained. He pushed. He fought to move again. Not with the legs he once had, but with something deeper. A lifetime of musicality.
Style, instinct, rhythm in his bones. And when he stepped on that stage, he danced again.
The right girl, a solo packed with energy and regret, stopped the show. Clive Barnes called it a flashily effective acrobatic dance solo. His performance earned him a Tony nomination.
(19:33):
It was a comeback few thought possible, and a reminder of what had always been true. He was a dancer first, and one of the best.
In 1990, the industry finally gave him a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It was overdue. His daughter once said, quote, "My father was a great talent."
(19:54):
Always getting left out of what he deserved when it came to recognition. End quote. What he brought was unmistakable. Daring athleticism, balletic precision, and a showman's sense of rhythm and risk.
He made dance cinematic, but never just for spectacle. Always for story. And whether the spotlight lingered or moved on, the work will always remain.
(20:18):
He was one of the greats. No asterisk, no footnote, just fact. His name, Gene Nelson. And now you know the rest of the story.
Alright, dance fam. As I mentioned, I'm gonna get into a few more things on Mr. Nelson. But before that, if you enjoyed this podcast, if you were entertained, felt like you learned something new, inspired by his story.
(20:43):
Now recognize him as one of the greats. Do me a favor and hit that subscribe button. That notification bell so you always know when a video drops. Follow, subscribe, like, comment, share with people who need to know Gene's story.
I'd be so appreciative. Alright, now as I always say, I don't usually dig into people's personal lives. But in Gene's case, in this isn't really that personal, it's sort of public.
(21:10):
His marriage and on-screen partnership with Miriam Nelson deserves a moment here. They weren't just married. They danced together. She was a prolific choreographer with a seven decade career in Broadway Hollywood and television.
She lent her talents to such films as Breakfast at Tiffany's and the apartment. And when Gene got his break in the daughter of Rosie O'Grady, they got to perform together. She even called out how he wished she had been in the spotlight more.
(21:43):
He dreamed of them being true partners side by side. And even when that didn't fully happen, you could feel the impact they had on each other's careers.
As I mentioned in the main script, Gene reinvented himself behind the camera. He directed endless episodes of television shows, some including The Rifleman, The Donna Reed Show, The Mod Squad, Star Trek, and I Dream of Gene.
(22:07):
It was actually Gene who was that shows very first director and he created Gene's iconic blink and arm crossing. What?
That little gesture became a pop culture staple. And while it wasn't always visible, his work often shaped the shows from the inside.
On multiple occasions, actors earned Emmy nominations for performances and episodes he directed. And I think a true testament as to how good he was at it and how much he was loved on all the shows he worked on was that he directed multiple episodes of the same series.
(22:45):
For example, he directed 21 episodes of The Donna Reed Show, 18 episodes of The Mod Squad, 8 episodes of The Rifleman.
Again, that just shows how much he was respected and loved in every interview I read about Mr. Nelson about his direction of TV or film or just working with him on stage, whatever.
(23:06):
Everybody always said he was just the friendliest, nicest, most easygoing, hardworking guy. He also directed two films starring Elvis Presley, Kissin Cousins and Herum Scaram.
And even co-wrote the screenplay for Kissin Cousins earning a writer's guild nomination, my god, this guy is talents.
(23:27):
He taught theater and directing at San Francisco State University where he designed a course called The Complete Actor Director.
He also put out a tap instructional video which he filmed at Debbie Reynolds Studio. That was my original dance home. And in this tutorial video, if you will, he helped dancers learn from someone who had lived every phrase of performance.
(23:50):
Now, I want to mention a few other teachers, dance teachers he studied with. I wasn't quite sure where in the timeline they fit, but Jean in different interviews I watched mentioned them.
He talked about studying briefly with Hania Holm in New York and she was one of the great pioneers of modern dance. He said it was kind of during and after a lot of his film work.
(24:12):
So he already had a lot of dance training, but it clearly proves that he was always searching to be better, always training, always studying.
He also mentioned that in LA he had studied with Nick Castle, a legendary choreographer in his own right. And I'll end on this. I read an interview with a biographer Scott O'Brien who actually wrote a biography on Jean Nelson who said in this interview, quote, "The spotlight on male cinema dancers has focused mainly on Fred Astaire and Jean Kelly."
(24:44):
A lot of Astaire musicals were released over a period of 25 years and Kelly 15 years. Jean Nelson musicals were released over a 5 year period, even so his style and mesmerizing athletic grace was all his own unique and deserving of more recognition.
End quote. And that's exactly why I do this series.
(25:05):
History doesn't always remember who it should, even the most dazzling, the most deserving. They can be left out of the spotlight over time. It's just the way it works, but it doesn't erase the work. It doesn't dim the legacy. And if even for a moment, their names are back in the conversation.
If someone hears their story and sees them in a new light, that's something. That matters. That is why I'm here. Until next time, dance fam.
(25:32):
[MUSIC]
(upbeat music)
(bell dinging)
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