Russ Tamblyn: Acrobat Who Rewrote Dance in Iconic Hollywood Musicals | The Rest of the Story | Ep 32
September 13, 2025 • 20 mins
Russ Tamblyn flipped, tumbled, and changed the movie musical forever.
From a daredevil kid climbing telephone poles, to winning tumbling championships, to early tap training and a stage break with Lloyd Bridges — his path snowballed fast.
Soon he was thrown into the barn-raising of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers — even though he wasn’t supposed to dance at all. He was choreographed by Hermes Pan while partnering Debbie Reynolds (Hit the Deck), and staged by Alex Romero for a jaw-dropping shovel routine in The Fastest Gun Alive. He even left a mark on Elvis Presley in Jailhouse Rock. And then came Jerome Robbins’ ultimatum in West Side Story: no flips, no tricks… just dance. Could he live up to it?
In this episode of The Rest of the Story on Hey, Dancer!, I uncover how a gymnast-turned-actor became a dancer in Hollywood’s greatest musicals — and why his movement still resonates on film today.
Check out my Return to Dance docuseries!
Support my Instagram — where I post daily dance inspo, insights and fun! @backtogreat
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
He pushed the movie musical forward, bringing flips, props, and street rhythm into choreography
(00:10):
that moved the story.
Welcome to my podcast, "Hey, Dancer" and my weekly series, The Rest of the Story.
I'm your host, your editor, your narrator, your researcher, all the things.
My name is Miller Daurey.
And if you would take a second and do the engagement stuff, you know, like, comment, share,
(00:31):
hit that notification bell so you always know in a video lands, subscribe, follow, it goes
a long way.
It lets the platform know you like what I'm doing.
And that's what I'm trying to do, spread, inspiring stories of dance legends.
And hey, if you're a little bit curious with regard to me personally, I've got a return
(00:52):
to Dancer's documentary series here on YouTube.
So go ahead and check that out.
Remember, this is a dance-centered podcast, so while our subject today has a plethora of
acting experience, we are mostly focused on the dance.
Okay, let's get into it.
He was born on December 30, 1934, in Englewood, California.
(01:16):
His father, Eddie, was a juvenile dancer comedian from New York.
His mother, Sally, was a chorus girl.
He had an older brother, Warren, and a younger brother, Larry.
When the depression hit, his dad couldn't get work, and money was scarce.
The family was often broke, but even in that environment, he was in constant motion.
(01:39):
He once said, quote, "As a little boy, I used to always leap and jump around.
It seemed to come about very naturally and very effortlessly without any work."
End quote.
One day, neighborhood kids dared him to shimmy up a telephone pole in front of his house.
They even placed beds that he couldn't do it.
(01:59):
He climbed all the way to the top, pressed into a handstand, and held it.
His mother spotted him from the ground.
She later admitted she wanted to scream, she was terrified, but was afraid he'd startle
lose balance or touch the high-voltage wires that ran just a few feet from where he was,
bouncing upside down way up high.
(02:22):
He came down carefully, and before his mom could even scold him, the kids paid up.
He walked away with nearly a dollar in change.
Whenever I've had the urge to do something, instead of worrying about what could go wrong
or what people might think, I've just done it.
He later wrote.
One example came at the Grenada Theater in Englewood.
(02:44):
On Saturdays in the early 1940s, the theater ran kids' matineez, and he would jet onto
the stage uninvited, hamming it up in front of a packed house of children.
He cartwheeled, fell down, rolled backward into a headstand.
The audience of kids exploded with laughter, which only fueled him to keep going.
(03:06):
But the manager wasn't laughing.
One Saturday, this manager was waiting in the wings, and then finally grabbed this boy by
the shirt collar, marched him into his office and called his mother.
The boy braced for punishment, but instead, his mom surprised him by asking, "Would you
like dance lessons?"
(03:28):
And so, at 11, he began tap lessons with Bob Cole in Englewood, a short, portly, enthusiastic
teacher.
His mother sometimes played piano during the classes to help cover the cost.
In that first year, he worked his way from the Walt's Club into more demanding steps.
His father wasn't thrilled at first worried the performing life might bring his boy the
(03:52):
same heartache he'd known, but he eventually gave in.
And when he saw his sons first recital, he beamed saying, "Well, it's no wonder, dancing
in his blood."
Cole encouraged him to join the Screen Children's Guild, which gave him his first onstage
experience in USO's During World War II.
(04:14):
Cole thought this kid had such performing potential that he then guided him to an acting
coach, Grace Bowman, who worked out of a big craftsman house north of Hollywood Boulevard.
She had a small stage in her front room where this boy performed monologues.
She clapped her hands, bracelets and costume jewelry clattering, and sheared her approval
(04:37):
of his work.
At the end of lessons, he would walk down her wide cement steps on his hands.
When Cole felt he taught the boy all he could, he passed him along to Willie Covan.
Covan was a master of tap, a man who'd worked with the best, and he saw the boy's potential
immediately.
(04:58):
Just like before, the family couldn't afford the lessons, so his mother sat at the piano
playing to cover the cost.
That became a through line.
If this kid was going to learn, she'd make sure the bills got paid with music.
The family moved to north Hollywood, and he enrolled at North Hollywood Junior High.
By then, he was already being noticed for his gymnastics.
(05:21):
He spent hours tumbling, even flipping into the haystacks at a neighbor's barn.
I was kind of born doing gymnastics, he once said.
At this point, he was regularly traveling into the city for his weekly acting and dancing
lessons.
He'd hop off the street car at Hollywood Boulevard in Highland Avenue, head to a tall building,
(05:42):
climb the stairs all the way to the top floor, and push through the door to the roof.
That is where he carved his own path to Vine Street, leaping from building top to building
top like some kind of superhero before ever walking into class.
It was that same reckless streak as the telephone pole all over again, fearless, dangerous, and
(06:05):
impossible to contain.
At 13, he got his break on stage in a play called Stone Jungle at the Coronet Theater in Hollywood,
directed by and starring Lloyd Bridges, already an established film actor at the time.
He was cast as Pie Eye and was paid $35 a week, a serious sum for a 13-year-old in 1948.
(06:29):
An opening night, he received a note from Bridges praising his acting.
The next day, the reviews were positive and the Los Angeles Daily News singled him out
as a sensitive portrayal of the little boy.
From there, he signed with his first agent, and not to mention a Hollywood director Joseph
Losey, who saw him in the show, quickly cast him in RKO's The Boy with Green Hair.
(06:55):
And from that point, the roles came steadily.
Cecil B. Demille cast him as the young Saul in Samson and Delilah, then came Father of the
Bride, playing Elizabeth Taylor's younger brother, and its sequel, Father's Little Dividend.
There was the kid from Cleveland, and more, a steady stream of films that kept him working.
(07:17):
In the early film projects, he returned to school, now at North Hollywood High.
It wasn't as exciting as a movie set, but he enjoyed public school, that drive to move,
to flip, to tumble, to be a daredevil.
Never went away, no matter how many film sets he walked on to.
And so, he joined the gymnastics team, and won the Los Angeles City Tumbling Championship,
(07:40):
placing third in the state.
By the early 1950s, he'd already logged more than a dozen movies.
Then came Retreat Hell, a Korean War story.
His performance in that movie impressed MGM so much that it led to a studio contract.
And that's where he stood, a working actor, a champion tumbler, still a teenager, and about
(08:04):
to be cast in a film that would change his course entirely.
When MGM prepared Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, choreographer Michael Kid wanted all six
brothers played by professional dancers.
The studio disagreed, the compromise, four were seasoned pros, Mark Platt, Jacques Demboise,
(08:25):
Matt Maddox, and Tommy Rawl.
And two were simply actors pulled from the contract list.
Those two weren't expected to dance.
But one of them grew restless.
He wandered into Michael Kid's rehearsal hall one day, where the brothers, who could dance,
were being drilled in choreography.
Kid noticed the young man walk in and asked if it was true he could tumble.
(08:50):
And right there, on the spot, he answered with a backflip.
That one flip changed everything.
Kid decided Tumbling would be a perfect addition in the barn dance sequence.
The boy, who, by the way, played the youngest brother, Gideon Ponypy, protested.
How could he possibly hold his own alongside dancers of that caliber?
(09:14):
But Kid reassured him, saying it would be simple, square dance steps.
He also happened to remember a routine from his tap lessons with Willie Covan, dancing
with a cane.
He showed it to Kid who loved the idea but swapped the cane for an axe.
He had to consecutively jump over the axe back and forth multiple times on a narrow wooden
(09:39):
plank, which, by the way, happened to be quite a few feet off the ground.
And so yes, his acrobatic skills became part of the choreography and part of the magic.
When the film opened in July 1954, no one expected much.
Instead, it became a smash hit, burning five Oscar nominations.
(10:01):
And for this teenager, flipping, tumbling, leaping in the middle of it all, it changed the course
of his career, making him a household name and a celebrated dancer even featured in Dance
and Dancers magazine.
From that moment forward, he wasn't seen as just another contract actor.
(10:22):
He was known unmistakably as a mover.
The studio doubled down, hit the deck, a full on MGM musical, and a test
of partnering.
He's paired with Debbie Reynolds, not just for charm, but for real dance work staged by
Hollywood's most prolific choreographer of all time, Hermes Pan.
(10:44):
The film opens to good reviews and after back-to-back musical hits, he's seen as a musical star.
And on the lot, the shift is immediate.
The musicals say hello in passing and the paycheck jumps to 550 a week at just 20 years old,
partnering, musicality, caring a number.
(11:06):
He can do all three.
In the fastest gun alive, a Stark Glenford Western, he was told needed a light dance number.
And so he asked for Alex Romero, who assisted Michael Kid on Seven Brides.
What they stage is jaw-dropping.
Starting off with a sorta musical soft shoe ho-down, then he grabs shovels and proceeds to dance
(11:32):
on the blades themselves like stilts.
Not just standing or walking, but truly dancing.
Using remarkable athleticism combined with balance and musicality.
And the scene goes on with him doing everything from swinging from the rafters on a rope, flipping
into haystacks as he clears five foot horse stalls and flying off a sea saw end, it never ends.
(11:59):
The movie magic part is that a second pair of shovels were made with boots hard bolted
to a plate on the blades, letting the metal rise with his foot on every step.
Now the studio was thrilled, Ford wasn't.
He argued a serious black and white western had suddenly turned into a big colorful MGM
(12:21):
musical, and the number was pulled from the first preview.
But the preview still ran a credit that mentioned his dance number, and 95% of the survey cards
came back with the same question.
Where was the dance?
So the studio put it back.
(12:41):
And the sequence he later noted went viral decades later.
In prep for Jail House Rock on the MGM lot, Alex Romero, working on the film's choreography,
asks him to give Elvis Presley a few pointers.
So over lunch in Elvis's dressing room, they start running steps.
(13:02):
Elvis is curious as to how he's able to quickly snap his knees in so dramatically.
And so he shows him.
He explains to just exaggerate what he's already doing.
Give it more oomph.
They drill it through the entire lunch break.
Back on set, Elvis shows Romero what he's learned.
Romero is pleased, and that sharper knee pop becomes a signature accent in the number and
(13:29):
is often considered one of Elvis's greatest on-screen musical moments.
On Tom Thumb, he plays the title role.
The showstopper number, Talented Shoes, plays like a story book illusion.
A cobbler gifts enchanted shoes, and suddenly this toy-sized man is gliding and dancing across
(13:51):
an enormous bench.
It's exactly his sweet spot, problem solving in rhythm, letting choreography turn props into
partners.
It's as if the whole film is dedicated to his youthful energy and acrobatic genius.
While the movement explodes on screen, the industry takes notice.
(14:12):
An Academy Award nomination for Peyton Place at just 24 years old and a golden globe for
most promising newcomer.
By decades end, it isn't either acting or dancing.
It's both.
He can partner a star, carry a number, and hold a close-up.
He's drafted at the height of his fame.
(14:34):
After basic training, Fort Sill assigns him to special services.
He organizes dances, talent contests, and fashion shows for the sergeant's wives.
His main duty becomes teaching a weekly trampoline class.
He's allowed a 30-day leave to promote Tom Thumb.
Rides a float in the May Seas Thanksgiving Day parade, and that's when he first sees Westside
(14:57):
story on Broadway.
Back in Hollywood, he goes after the film.
He wants Tony.
But the offer turns out to be Riff.
He hesitates, but takes it.
Even though he thinks he's mainly an acrobat and is worried about the tough technical dancing
in the number, cool.
In his first meeting with Jerome Robbins, Robbins sets the terms, quote, "I know you've
(15:22):
tumbled and done gymnastics and all the musicals you've made, but Riff is not an acrobat.
You're gonna have to do straight dancing in this."
So he promises to work hard and keep up.
In rehearsals, Robbins is rigorous.
Miss a step three times and you sit in the corner.
After more than a year of preparation, cameras roll.
(15:45):
The New York Prologue is danced on Hot Concrete, Days End with Shinsplitz.
Even when a scene is danced and filmed clean, Robbins may call it again.
Fully reversed.
Every pattern mirrored right to left, left to right.
It's brutal to pick up on the spot, but the dancers get through it.
(16:05):
Later, when Robbins is no longer on the film, the dance hall number opens up.
He's now free to add a cartwheel into a backflip with a jacket toss.
The very vocabulary Robbins barred.
He would later find out that it turns out Robbins loved the tumbling addition, his acrobatics
indeed helping to tell the story.
(16:27):
And at the invitation only, first screening, he felt a hand on his shoulder in the aisle.
It was Fred Astaire and he told the young man, "What a great dancer you are.
I'm such a big fan.
If ever there was confirmation that he was more than a tumbler, a trickster, an athlete,
it was this."
(16:48):
Then a fairy tale, The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm, as the woodsman with event
mimeuse dancing princess under Alex Romero, the vignette opens on solo gymnastics and rope.
Prop forward physical then shifts into a pada da.
He partners her, almost balletic, showing off his grace.
(17:09):
1975 back to tap.
He says yes to an Atlanta-based staging of the musical George M.
Based on the life of the famous early American song and danceman, George M. Cohen.
He calls Alex Romero to again choreograph.
But this time it's different.
He has to rebuild.
(17:30):
He rents a hall, dust off the tap shoes, and grinds a month of dance workouts.
Drops weight finds stamina before reporting to rehearsal in Fort Lauderdale and opening
in Atlanta.
It's a return to discipline and a reminder.
He can carry a tap heavy roll, night after night.
(17:52):
1978 reinvention cabaret at the little theater on the square, a venue in suburban Chicago.
As the MC, he sings and dances.
He later calls it his favorite theater experience.
1980 prestige summer stock, buy by birdie at the starlight Kansas City and the muni St.
(18:13):
Louis opposite none other than Chita Rivera.
Singing and dancing, including put on a happy face, they trade West Side Story memories.
She was Anita on Broadway, sharing a stage with Chita is its own kind of credential.
And in the movie Human Highway, for the first time he's asked to choreograph an entire number.
(18:36):
It takes a worried man.
He builds simple, teachable steps for a cast that hasn't danced much.
Neil Young, Dean Stockwell, Dennis Hopper.
Taking them through and getting a full company to move together on his counts.
Along the way when Hollywood felt thin, he moved outside of the hubbub of Los Angeles to
(18:59):
Tepenga Canyon and began experimental art films and collage, shifting his center toward
the fine arts.
He didn't stop performing, he just chose when.
On television he returned as Dr. Jacobi and later Dr. Amp in the landmark series Twin
Peaks.
Work on his own terms, art, close, community, close.
(19:24):
Performance when it mattered.
It wasn't an exit from Hollywood, it was a recalibration.
Movement was still the way in, it just looked different.
He didn't consider himself a dancer until, after West Side Story, someone pointed out
that he'd worked with Hermes Pan, Jerome Robbins and Alex Romero.
(19:45):
That he not only studied with choreographers, but with some great masters, quote, and that
hit the point.
And I don't think I ever again said in an interview, I'm not a dancer or that I hadn't
studied.
It was just on the job training, end quote.
His movement lives inside Hollywood's greatest musical images, barn planks and axes in
(20:09):
Seven Brides, shubbles and rafters in the fastest gun alive, enchanted shoes in Tom Thumb
and the Jets lines in West Side Story.
What he proved was simple.
Being a dancer and executing choreography is more than years of in-studio technical training.
It's telling a story through movement, with timing and musicality.
(20:32):
And at that, he was one of the best.
His name, Russ Tamblin, and now you know the rest of the story.
[MUSIC]
He pushed the movie musical forward, bringing flips, props, and street rhythm into choreography
(00:10):
that moved the story.
Welcome to my podcast, "Hey, Dancer" and my weekly series, The Rest of the Story.
I'm your host, your editor, your narrator, your researcher, all the things.
My name is Miller Daurey.
And if you would take a second and do the engagement stuff, you know, like, comment, share,
(00:31):
hit that notification bell so you always know in a video lands, subscribe, follow, it goes
a long way.
It lets the platform know you like what I'm doing.
And that's what I'm trying to do, spread, inspiring stories of dance legends.
And hey, if you're a little bit curious with regard to me personally, I've got a return
(00:52):
to Dancer's documentary series here on YouTube.
So go ahead and check that out.
Remember, this is a dance-centered podcast, so while our subject today has a plethora of
acting experience, we are mostly focused on the dance.
Okay, let's get into it.
He was born on December 30, 1934, in Englewood, California.
(01:16):
His father, Eddie, was a juvenile dancer comedian from New York.
His mother, Sally, was a chorus girl.
He had an older brother, Warren, and a younger brother, Larry.
When the depression hit, his dad couldn't get work, and money was scarce.
The family was often broke, but even in that environment, he was in constant motion.
(01:39):
He once said, quote, "As a little boy, I used to always leap and jump around.
It seemed to come about very naturally and very effortlessly without any work."
End quote.
One day, neighborhood kids dared him to shimmy up a telephone pole in front of his house.
They even placed beds that he couldn't do it.
(01:59):
He climbed all the way to the top, pressed into a handstand, and held it.
His mother spotted him from the ground.
She later admitted she wanted to scream, she was terrified, but was afraid he'd startle
lose balance or touch the high-voltage wires that ran just a few feet from where he was,
bouncing upside down way up high.
(02:22):
He came down carefully, and before his mom could even scold him, the kids paid up.
He walked away with nearly a dollar in change.
Whenever I've had the urge to do something, instead of worrying about what could go wrong
or what people might think, I've just done it.
He later wrote.
One example came at the Grenada Theater in Englewood.
(02:44):
On Saturdays in the early 1940s, the theater ran kids' matineez, and he would jet onto
the stage uninvited, hamming it up in front of a packed house of children.
He cartwheeled, fell down, rolled backward into a headstand.
The audience of kids exploded with laughter, which only fueled him to keep going.
(03:06):
But the manager wasn't laughing.
One Saturday, this manager was waiting in the wings, and then finally grabbed this boy by
the shirt collar, marched him into his office and called his mother.
The boy braced for punishment, but instead, his mom surprised him by asking, "Would you
like dance lessons?"
(03:28):
And so, at 11, he began tap lessons with Bob Cole in Englewood, a short, portly, enthusiastic
teacher.
His mother sometimes played piano during the classes to help cover the cost.
In that first year, he worked his way from the Walt's Club into more demanding steps.
His father wasn't thrilled at first worried the performing life might bring his boy the
(03:52):
same heartache he'd known, but he eventually gave in.
And when he saw his sons first recital, he beamed saying, "Well, it's no wonder, dancing
in his blood."
Cole encouraged him to join the Screen Children's Guild, which gave him his first onstage
experience in USO's During World War II.
(04:14):
Cole thought this kid had such performing potential that he then guided him to an acting
coach, Grace Bowman, who worked out of a big craftsman house north of Hollywood Boulevard.
She had a small stage in her front room where this boy performed monologues.
She clapped her hands, bracelets and costume jewelry clattering, and sheared her approval
(04:37):
of his work.
At the end of lessons, he would walk down her wide cement steps on his hands.
When Cole felt he taught the boy all he could, he passed him along to Willie Covan.
Covan was a master of tap, a man who'd worked with the best, and he saw the boy's potential
immediately.
(04:58):
Just like before, the family couldn't afford the lessons, so his mother sat at the piano
playing to cover the cost.
That became a through line.
If this kid was going to learn, she'd make sure the bills got paid with music.
The family moved to north Hollywood, and he enrolled at North Hollywood Junior High.
By then, he was already being noticed for his gymnastics.
(05:21):
He spent hours tumbling, even flipping into the haystacks at a neighbor's barn.
I was kind of born doing gymnastics, he once said.
At this point, he was regularly traveling into the city for his weekly acting and dancing
lessons.
He'd hop off the street car at Hollywood Boulevard in Highland Avenue, head to a tall building,
(05:42):
climb the stairs all the way to the top floor, and push through the door to the roof.
That is where he carved his own path to Vine Street, leaping from building top to building
top like some kind of superhero before ever walking into class.
It was that same reckless streak as the telephone pole all over again, fearless, dangerous, and
(06:05):
impossible to contain.
At 13, he got his break on stage in a play called Stone Jungle at the Coronet Theater in Hollywood,
directed by and starring Lloyd Bridges, already an established film actor at the time.
He was cast as Pie Eye and was paid $35 a week, a serious sum for a 13-year-old in 1948.
(06:29):
An opening night, he received a note from Bridges praising his acting.
The next day, the reviews were positive and the Los Angeles Daily News singled him out
as a sensitive portrayal of the little boy.
From there, he signed with his first agent, and not to mention a Hollywood director Joseph
Losey, who saw him in the show, quickly cast him in RKO's The Boy with Green Hair.
(06:55):
And from that point, the roles came steadily.
Cecil B. Demille cast him as the young Saul in Samson and Delilah, then came Father of the
Bride, playing Elizabeth Taylor's younger brother, and its sequel, Father's Little Dividend.
There was the kid from Cleveland, and more, a steady stream of films that kept him working.
(07:17):
In the early film projects, he returned to school, now at North Hollywood High.
It wasn't as exciting as a movie set, but he enjoyed public school, that drive to move,
to flip, to tumble, to be a daredevil.
Never went away, no matter how many film sets he walked on to.
And so, he joined the gymnastics team, and won the Los Angeles City Tumbling Championship,
(07:40):
placing third in the state.
By the early 1950s, he'd already logged more than a dozen movies.
Then came Retreat Hell, a Korean War story.
His performance in that movie impressed MGM so much that it led to a studio contract.
And that's where he stood, a working actor, a champion tumbler, still a teenager, and about
(08:04):
to be cast in a film that would change his course entirely.
When MGM prepared Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, choreographer Michael Kid wanted all six
brothers played by professional dancers.
The studio disagreed, the compromise, four were seasoned pros, Mark Platt, Jacques Demboise,
(08:25):
Matt Maddox, and Tommy Rawl.
And two were simply actors pulled from the contract list.
Those two weren't expected to dance.
But one of them grew restless.
He wandered into Michael Kid's rehearsal hall one day, where the brothers, who could dance,
were being drilled in choreography.
Kid noticed the young man walk in and asked if it was true he could tumble.
(08:50):
And right there, on the spot, he answered with a backflip.
That one flip changed everything.
Kid decided Tumbling would be a perfect addition in the barn dance sequence.
The boy, who, by the way, played the youngest brother, Gideon Ponypy, protested.
How could he possibly hold his own alongside dancers of that caliber?
(09:14):
But Kid reassured him, saying it would be simple, square dance steps.
He also happened to remember a routine from his tap lessons with Willie Covan, dancing
with a cane.
He showed it to Kid who loved the idea but swapped the cane for an axe.
He had to consecutively jump over the axe back and forth multiple times on a narrow wooden
(09:39):
plank, which, by the way, happened to be quite a few feet off the ground.
And so yes, his acrobatic skills became part of the choreography and part of the magic.
When the film opened in July 1954, no one expected much.
Instead, it became a smash hit, burning five Oscar nominations.
(10:01):
And for this teenager, flipping, tumbling, leaping in the middle of it all, it changed the course
of his career, making him a household name and a celebrated dancer even featured in Dance
and Dancers magazine.
From that moment forward, he wasn't seen as just another contract actor.
(10:22):
He was known unmistakably as a mover.
The studio doubled down, hit the deck, a full on MGM musical, and a test
of partnering.
He's paired with Debbie Reynolds, not just for charm, but for real dance work staged by
Hollywood's most prolific choreographer of all time, Hermes Pan.
(10:44):
The film opens to good reviews and after back-to-back musical hits, he's seen as a musical star.
And on the lot, the shift is immediate.
The musicals say hello in passing and the paycheck jumps to 550 a week at just 20 years old,
partnering, musicality, caring a number.
(11:06):
He can do all three.
In the fastest gun alive, a Stark Glenford Western, he was told needed a light dance number.
And so he asked for Alex Romero, who assisted Michael Kid on Seven Brides.
What they stage is jaw-dropping.
Starting off with a sorta musical soft shoe ho-down, then he grabs shovels and proceeds to dance
(11:32):
on the blades themselves like stilts.
Not just standing or walking, but truly dancing.
Using remarkable athleticism combined with balance and musicality.
And the scene goes on with him doing everything from swinging from the rafters on a rope, flipping
into haystacks as he clears five foot horse stalls and flying off a sea saw end, it never ends.
(11:59):
The movie magic part is that a second pair of shovels were made with boots hard bolted
to a plate on the blades, letting the metal rise with his foot on every step.
Now the studio was thrilled, Ford wasn't.
He argued a serious black and white western had suddenly turned into a big colorful MGM
(12:21):
musical, and the number was pulled from the first preview.
But the preview still ran a credit that mentioned his dance number, and 95% of the survey cards
came back with the same question.
Where was the dance?
So the studio put it back.
(12:41):
And the sequence he later noted went viral decades later.
In prep for Jail House Rock on the MGM lot, Alex Romero, working on the film's choreography,
asks him to give Elvis Presley a few pointers.
So over lunch in Elvis's dressing room, they start running steps.
(13:02):
Elvis is curious as to how he's able to quickly snap his knees in so dramatically.
And so he shows him.
He explains to just exaggerate what he's already doing.
Give it more oomph.
They drill it through the entire lunch break.
Back on set, Elvis shows Romero what he's learned.
Romero is pleased, and that sharper knee pop becomes a signature accent in the number and
(13:29):
is often considered one of Elvis's greatest on-screen musical moments.
On Tom Thumb, he plays the title role.
The showstopper number, Talented Shoes, plays like a story book illusion.
A cobbler gifts enchanted shoes, and suddenly this toy-sized man is gliding and dancing across
(13:51):
an enormous bench.
It's exactly his sweet spot, problem solving in rhythm, letting choreography turn props into
partners.
It's as if the whole film is dedicated to his youthful energy and acrobatic genius.
While the movement explodes on screen, the industry takes notice.
(14:12):
An Academy Award nomination for Peyton Place at just 24 years old and a golden globe for
most promising newcomer.
By decades end, it isn't either acting or dancing.
It's both.
He can partner a star, carry a number, and hold a close-up.
He's drafted at the height of his fame.
(14:34):
After basic training, Fort Sill assigns him to special services.
He organizes dances, talent contests, and fashion shows for the sergeant's wives.
His main duty becomes teaching a weekly trampoline class.
He's allowed a 30-day leave to promote Tom Thumb.
Rides a float in the May Seas Thanksgiving Day parade, and that's when he first sees Westside
(14:57):
story on Broadway.
Back in Hollywood, he goes after the film.
He wants Tony.
But the offer turns out to be Riff.
He hesitates, but takes it.
Even though he thinks he's mainly an acrobat and is worried about the tough technical dancing
in the number, cool.
In his first meeting with Jerome Robbins, Robbins sets the terms, quote, "I know you've
(15:22):
tumbled and done gymnastics and all the musicals you've made, but Riff is not an acrobat.
You're gonna have to do straight dancing in this."
So he promises to work hard and keep up.
In rehearsals, Robbins is rigorous.
Miss a step three times and you sit in the corner.
After more than a year of preparation, cameras roll.
(15:45):
The New York Prologue is danced on Hot Concrete, Days End with Shinsplitz.
Even when a scene is danced and filmed clean, Robbins may call it again.
Fully reversed.
Every pattern mirrored right to left, left to right.
It's brutal to pick up on the spot, but the dancers get through it.
(16:05):
Later, when Robbins is no longer on the film, the dance hall number opens up.
He's now free to add a cartwheel into a backflip with a jacket toss.
The very vocabulary Robbins barred.
He would later find out that it turns out Robbins loved the tumbling addition, his acrobatics
indeed helping to tell the story.
(16:27):
And at the invitation only, first screening, he felt a hand on his shoulder in the aisle.
It was Fred Astaire and he told the young man, "What a great dancer you are.
I'm such a big fan.
If ever there was confirmation that he was more than a tumbler, a trickster, an athlete,
it was this."
(16:48):
Then a fairy tale, The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm, as the woodsman with event
mimeuse dancing princess under Alex Romero, the vignette opens on solo gymnastics and rope.
Prop forward physical then shifts into a pada da.
He partners her, almost balletic, showing off his grace.
(17:09):
1975 back to tap.
He says yes to an Atlanta-based staging of the musical George M.
Based on the life of the famous early American song and danceman, George M. Cohen.
He calls Alex Romero to again choreograph.
But this time it's different.
He has to rebuild.
(17:30):
He rents a hall, dust off the tap shoes, and grinds a month of dance workouts.
Drops weight finds stamina before reporting to rehearsal in Fort Lauderdale and opening
in Atlanta.
It's a return to discipline and a reminder.
He can carry a tap heavy roll, night after night.
(17:52):
1978 reinvention cabaret at the little theater on the square, a venue in suburban Chicago.
As the MC, he sings and dances.
He later calls it his favorite theater experience.
1980 prestige summer stock, buy by birdie at the starlight Kansas City and the muni St.
(18:13):
Louis opposite none other than Chita Rivera.
Singing and dancing, including put on a happy face, they trade West Side Story memories.
She was Anita on Broadway, sharing a stage with Chita is its own kind of credential.
And in the movie Human Highway, for the first time he's asked to choreograph an entire number.
(18:36):
It takes a worried man.
He builds simple, teachable steps for a cast that hasn't danced much.
Neil Young, Dean Stockwell, Dennis Hopper.
Taking them through and getting a full company to move together on his counts.
Along the way when Hollywood felt thin, he moved outside of the hubbub of Los Angeles to
(18:59):
Tepenga Canyon and began experimental art films and collage, shifting his center toward
the fine arts.
He didn't stop performing, he just chose when.
On television he returned as Dr. Jacobi and later Dr. Amp in the landmark series Twin
Peaks.
Work on his own terms, art, close, community, close.
(19:24):
Performance when it mattered.
It wasn't an exit from Hollywood, it was a recalibration.
Movement was still the way in, it just looked different.
He didn't consider himself a dancer until, after West Side Story, someone pointed out
that he'd worked with Hermes Pan, Jerome Robbins and Alex Romero.
(19:45):
That he not only studied with choreographers, but with some great masters, quote, and that
hit the point.
And I don't think I ever again said in an interview, I'm not a dancer or that I hadn't
studied.
It was just on the job training, end quote.
His movement lives inside Hollywood's greatest musical images, barn planks and axes in
(20:09):
Seven Brides, shubbles and rafters in the fastest gun alive, enchanted shoes in Tom Thumb
and the Jets lines in West Side Story.
What he proved was simple.
Being a dancer and executing choreography is more than years of in-studio technical training.
It's telling a story through movement, with timing and musicality.
(20:32):
And at that, he was one of the best.
His name, Russ Tamblin, and now you know the rest of the story.
[MUSIC]
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