July 12, 2025 • 21 mins
Tommy Rall could do it all — tap, jazz, ballet, acrobatics — each with technical precision, power, and a musicality that lit up the screen.
Gene Kelly once called him “the best all-around dancer.”
Bob Fosse choreographed for him.
Jerome Robbins hand-picked him for his premiere ballets.
So why isn’t his name mentioned in the same breath as theirs?
From Kiss Me Kate to Seven Brides for Seven Brothers to My Sister Eileen…
From Broadway to (American) Ballet Theatre…
Rall’s range was unmatched.
This episode dives into the remarkable — and under-credited — career of one of Hollywood’s most versatile dancers, from his vaudeville roots to stealing scenes in MGM’s most iconic musicals.
He wasn’t the flashiest. He wasn’t the most promoted.
But again and again, he was the standout.
This is the story of a dancer who didn’t chase stardom — he chased mastery.
And along the way, he left a mark that still echoes today.
It’s time we speak his name alongside the greats — and the most famous — of Hollywood’s Golden Age.
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):
[music]
(00:02):
In the Golden Era of Hollywood, MGM was packed with powerhouse male dancers, Fred Astaire,
Jean Kelly, Donald O'Connor, Bobby Van and the Nicholas Brothers.
And yet when both Kelly and O'Connor were asked at different times in their lives, who
the best all around dancer was, they named someone else.
(00:24):
And that someone else is who we're talking about today on my podcast, Hey, Dancer, and
my weekly series The Rest of the Story, where I go deep on the dancers who stories deserve
more space.
If you're loving this series on dance legends, make sure you're following and subscribed,
wherever you're watching or listening, hit that notification bell so you know when a new
(00:48):
episode drops and like, share, comment.
Let's get these dance stories popping up in everyone's feed.
And make sure you stick around through the end, because I'll shed some light on a few
things today's subject was brilliant at, off the dance floor.
Okay, let's get into it.
He was born in Kansas City in December 1929, but raised in Seattle.
(01:13):
His father, Edward, was said to have started as a sewing machine salesman and later ran
his own business.
His mother, Margaret, was a homemaker.
He grew up with an adopted older brother named Jimmy.
When he was four, he was diagnosed with a crossed eye and reading became a challenge.
His mother worried.
(01:33):
Not just about school, but about what kind of life he'd be able to build if academics
were always a struggle.
So she enrolled him in a dance class.
She didn't do it for the spotlight.
She hoped it might give him a shot at a career that didn't rely so heavily on books.
Some accounts say the condition was corrected through surgery.
(01:55):
Others credit visual exercises.
Either way, his eye was eventually corrected, but dance had already taken root.
He was in too deep and too good to stop.
The kind of good you don't brush off the kind people remembered.
He kept training, kept improving.
And by the time he was eight, he was already performing in local Vodville style theaters
(02:19):
in Seattle, where he started to develop the acrobatic skills that would later become a
signature.
And then, in the early 40s, the family moved to Los Angeles.
He began taking tap lessons and his teacher, recognizing his rhythm and raw ability, helped
him land a spot at Universal Studios.
(02:41):
That's where he joined the Jive in Jackson and Gilles.
An energetic teenage dance group featured in a string of fast paced wartime musicals.
These weren't prestige pictures, but they were packed with music, movement, and big band
numbers designed to lift spirits and sell tickets.
He shared the screen with young stars like Gloria Jean, Peggy Ryan, Dan Daly, and Donald
(03:05):
O'Connor, and danced in sequences with the Andrews sisters Woody Herman and other marquee
acts of the day.
The movies were light fast and often thin on plot, but for a teenage dancer, they were a master
class in how to perform for the camera.
He was barely into his teens and already working regularly on sound stages, learning from
(03:27):
professionals and building real film experience.
After his run with Universal, he kept training, but now the focus shifted.
It wasn't just tap and acrobatics anymore.
He began studying ballet and character work with some of the most respected teachers in Los
Angeles, Adolf Bohm, Bronislava Nijinska, and David Lyshin.
(03:50):
A former ballet-ruse dancer and choreographer known for bridging classical technique with theatrical
flair.
Lyshin saw something in him, not just a film dancer, but a serious performer with range.
So when ballet theater, the company that would later become American Ballet Theater, came
through Los Angeles in 1944, Lyshin recommended him for the touring company.
(04:16):
He was 14, and just like that, this kid from Seattle, who'd spent the past few years spinning
through Hollywood musicals, was now on the road with one of the most prestigious ballet
companies in the country.
ballet theater wasn't just a company, it was training at the highest level.
The schedule was grueling.
(04:36):
30 cities in 60 days, again and again with dancers sleeping on trains, transforming upright
seats into makeshift bunks, one night performances, constant travel and no guarantee of job security.
But for a young artist, it was a dream.
He studied music on the road, carried art books in his bag, and still a teenager, he found
(04:59):
himself dancing in works by Agnes DeMille and Anthony Tudor, performing to scores by modern
giants like Leonard Bernstein, who sometimes stood right there in the pit, conducting.
The schedule was brutal, but the exposure to world-class choreographers, composers, conductors
was the kind of education any artist would dream of, much less a teenager, and it shaped
(05:24):
everything that came next.
While on tour with ballet theater, the company made a stop in Los Angeles, and that is when
it happened.
He was rehearsing at Perry's studios, the legendary space above Cafe Mon Martra, on Hollywood
Boulevard, where everyone from Martha Graham to the ballet ruse had passed through.
In 1944, so did a teenage dancer on tour and so did Jerome Robbins.
(05:51):
Robbins was already choreographing for ballet theater, but he wasn't a household name
yet, and he wasn't touring with the company full-time.
So when they crossed paths in the hallway, the young dancer didn't recognize him, but
Robbins stopped him and said, "I like your dancing.
I'd like to work with you through the years."
(06:12):
That moment stuck.
Robbins had just choreographed a new ballet called Fancy Free, a bold, jazz-infused piece
that felt distinctly American.
One of the original dancers, Harold Lang, was leaving.
Robbins needed a replacement.
He asked, "Can you do a double-air tour into a split?"
The young dancer answered, "Sure."
(06:34):
And did it right then and there.
That was enough.
Robbins told him to learn the role, and he did.
Soon after, he was cast in interplay, too, a fast witty ballet that mixed classical steps
with American street rhythm.
Exactly the kind of movement this dancer loved.
He later said, "You don't see much of that kind of choreography anymore.
(06:57):
I loved it."
Robbins pushed for precision down to the beat, hit the arms a touch earlier, he'd say,
and this dancer could do it.
Instantly, he had a knack for picking up and absorbing Robbins' choreography on the spot
and dancing it back quick, sharp musical and clean.
That mattered to Robbins a lot, and audiences noticed, too.
(07:22):
He was still just 16, dancing featured roles in two of Robbins' early high-profile ballets.
And when interplay opened at the Broadway Theatre in New York in 1946, the New York Times
took note.
Critic John Martin wrote that he is, "developing into a first-rate performer."
And "came off with the lion's share of the honors."
(07:46):
The raw talent was turning into something refined.
And even at that level, ballet theatre couldn't promise stability.
Dancers were often laid off for weeks or months at a time.
One day Robbins made a different kind of offer.
Why don't you come do a musical?
So he did.
In the spring of 1947, he dipped into musical theatre with a revival of Louisiana purchase
(08:11):
on the West Coast.
It wasn't Broadway, but it planted a seed.
Soon after, he moved to New York, and over the next five years, he built a serious stage career,
dancing in productions like "Look Ma, I'm Dancing."
Small wonder, "Mis-Liberty" and "Call Me Madam."
Some were choreographed by Jerome Robbins, others by "Rising Stars" like "Gawer Champion."
(08:35):
He wasn't just getting cast, he was standing out.
Now he was singing, acting, dancing and learning to command a stage.
And during that run, he was also choreographing for the "Fay Emerson Show."
A live weekly television series that featured a different American city each episode.
He create the choreography, perform it on air, then head straight to the theatre to dance
(09:00):
act two of "Call Me Madam."
One of the audience members during those years, Gene Kelly.
Kelly had first seen him in "Fancy Free" and again in "Small Wonder."
He could not forget this dancer.
So in 1952, when it came time to cast his most personal film, "Invitation to the Dance,"
Kelly reached out.
(09:20):
It was an experimental three-part musical told entirely through movement.
No dialogue, just dance.
In the second story, "Ring Around the Rosie," our guy appears as the flashy boyfriend, tearing
into a rhythm-driven solo and leading a group of men with bold, intricate footwork.
Some critics called the sequence "the most electric in the entire film."
(09:44):
It was a whirlwind, Broadway one month, London Soundstages the next national television
in between, but he was thriving.
The kid who once danced to help his eyesight was now shaping full productions in musicals
on film and on live TV.
Then came the run that would define him on screen.
(10:06):
He returned to Hollywood and in 1953 landed the role of Bill Calhoun in MGM's "Kiss Me
Kate."
It was a dream project, a coal-poorter musical, a technical or spectacle and a dual role that
let him play both the "Brash Gambler" Calhoun and the Shakespearean Lucentio in the show
(10:28):
within a show.
He got to do wet with Anne Miller in the sizzling rooftop number "Why Can't You Behave?"
Going off not just footwork but chemistry, charm and comic timing and then came the number
from this moment on.
Added to the film version, it wasn't in the Broadway show, the number became one of the
most iconic sequences in MGM musical history.
(10:52):
The staging was Elizabethan, the cast, stacked, Bob Fossi, Janey Coyne, Carol Haney, Bobby
Van, Anne Miller, and there he was, holding his own.
Dancing with Miller in a jazz ballet fusion that was equal parts athletic and elegant.
His entrance alone was a showstopper soaring in from high above the wings with aerial grace,
(11:17):
landing soft as a feather and launching straight into a duet that danced like a conversation.
Critics took notice, so did choreographers, and he was just getting started.
The next year he was cast in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, as Frank Ponepi, the fiery
acrobatics sixth brother.
(11:37):
It wasn't supposed to be a prestige picture MGM had bet big on Brigaduin that year, and
considered Seven Brides a beat-tier release, but the dancing changed everything.
Chorigraft by Michael Kidd and packed with a powerhouse ensemble were talking rust-tamblin
mat-mattox and Jacques D'Imbois, the film exploded with movement.
(12:00):
The barn-reasing scene alone required three weeks of rehearsal, dangerous planck work and
pinpoint accuracy, miss a landing and you'd break something.
He didn't miss.
In fact, he shone, flipping, leaping, brawling, dancing with the kind of speed and strength
that made audiences sit up, and he wasn't done yet.
(12:22):
In 1955, Columbia cast him as Chick Clark in my sister Eileen, opposite Janet Lee and
Bob Fossy.
It wasn't a blockbuster, but it did give him a rare showcase, a challenge dance, choreographed
by Fossy himself, the two play rival suitors, squaring off trading steps and pushing each other
(12:44):
in rhythm and style.
Fossy's choreography was tight, nuanced, stylized, and he nailed it.
His leaps, pirouettes, and sharp accents adding a whole new layer to the scene.
Years later, he'd say it was some of his best work on film.
That same year, he signed a contract with Universal and starred in the second greatest sex,
(13:07):
a rural musical loosely based on Liz Astrada.
The film didn't make waves, but the barn dance sequence, filled with frenetic square dance
energy, gave him room to show his genius.
Then came Mary Andrew.
Another lively ensemble piece, this time at MGM with Danny K, choreography by Michael Kid,
(13:27):
and a joyful Johnny Mercer score.
He played one of the trapeze artist brothers, diving into the physical comedy and acrobatic
choreography that had become his signature.
Then came the next chapter.
As the Hollywood musical began to fade, he made a bold pivot, back to Broadway.
In 1959, he returned to the stage in Juno, a short-lived but artistically ambitious musical
(13:53):
based on Sean O'Casey's Juno and the Pei Cock.
He didn't sing a note, but Agnes Demille crafted a 12-minute dance solo for him that some
said stole the show.
His role as Johnny Boyle, a wounded former rebel, let him act and move with rare, dramatic
weight.
(14:13):
The show closed after just two weeks, but his performance earned him the prestigious Outer
Critics Circle Award for Best Supporting Actor.
Two years later, he was back in a much brighter spotlight.
In Milk and Honey, the Broadway debut of composer Jerry Herman, he played David, a young Israeli
husband caught between love and homeland.
(14:35):
This time he sang.
He danced, and once again he stopped the show with a long solo choreographed by Donald Sadler.
The title song and his duet, I will follow you, showcased a rich, tenor voice most audiences
had never heard from him before.
But for him, the stage wasn't hitting like it once had.
(14:56):
His next two musicals, Cafe Crown in 1964, and Cry For Us All in 1970, closed quickly
despite strong talent involved, but he kept going.
He appeared in cameos and character roles across a handful of films, often returning to dance.
In Funny Girl, he played the prince in a ballet spoof of Swan Lake alongside Barbara Streisand.
(15:23):
In pennies from heaven, he tapped his way through a Vodville number with Steve Martin, executing
an aerial cartwheel nearly four decades after his teenage film debut.
And in dancers, 1987, he shared the screen with Mikhail Baryshnikov playing a former colleague
from their fictional ballet past.
(15:44):
He was never the loudest name on the marquee, never the most promoted.
And to this day, people still ask why he wasn't more famous.
He was choreographers, film historians, anyone who really knows that era and talent it
took to thrive in it.
Why someone that good, that handsome, that versatile, that consistently excellent, a true
(16:08):
triple threat, didn't become a household name.
That's in the stars, and obviously impossible to answer, but all I can tell you, if there's
one dancer I've been asked to cover more than anyone else for this series, by those watching
like you, it's this guy, and that says something.
Because talent like that doesn't disappear.
(16:30):
It echoes in performances in pedagogy, in the dancers who came after.
What he brought to the screen and to the stage wasn't just steps, and it was more than his
gift of technical mastery and endless styles of dance.
It was storytelling, musicality, and flight.
He danced like he could define gravity, because sometimes he did.
(16:56):
His name, Tommy Rawl, and now you know the rest of the story.
All right, dancers, before I get into a little non-dance stuff on this legendary guy, if you
enjoyed getting to know Mr. Rawl even one-one-hundredth as much as I did doing my research on him, my
god.
You gotta do all the engagement things, okay?
(17:19):
Make a comment, share with your dance fam, make sure you're subscribed, or following, hit
that notification bell so you are always immediately alerted as to when a new episode drops.
I do put so much love and time into crafting each episode, so you showing up in this way,
it goes a long way.
Okay, so what set Tommy apart, and what two few people know is just how much more he could
(17:44):
do. He wasn't just a dancer, I hate to say just a dancer because that's everything, but
he didn't only dance, he could sing and act.
He was a dancer who could sing opera, and not just in passing, he studied seriously for
years, and by the early 60s, he was performing with companies like the opera company of Boston,
(18:05):
New York City Opera, and the American National Opera Company.
Those that demanded not just vocal power, but physicality, one in particular, the title
role in, I'm not sure how to pronounce this, Les Jongler, De Notre Dame, called for dancing,
singing, juggling, and acrobatics, and he delivered.
That's not a musical theater tenor, okay?
(18:27):
That's something else entirely.
He also continued acting, appearing in dramatic roles in films like Walk the Proudland and
World in My Corner.
And then just when you think that was enough, it turns out, you know, you're not going to
dance out, he was also a visual artist.
I'm thinking right now of my past episode on Jeffrey Holder, who could just do endless talents
(18:48):
and the skills.
Rawl was a gifted painter who trained formally at Shunard and the Arts Students League.
His work even appeared in the book Actors as Artists.
He lived a long life, a full one, quietly, without a lot of fanfare, but dancers like him just
don't come around often and they rarely do at all.
(19:10):
Dancer, singer, acrobat, choreographer, actor, painter, not loud, not flashy, just always excellent.
I don't remember researching somebody where every single thing, even the New York Times,
like the 1946 Something or Other review I read of the Valais he did with Robbins.
That critic was really harsh on everybody, but not rawl.
(19:33):
Just as if whenever he did something, he was going to be the standout or at the very least
get beautiful reviews.
Not that it's about reviews, but I think that says something.
He was just so consistently praised and deeply, unshakably committed to the art.
He once said, quote, you have to love music and dance because this business is so difficult.
(19:55):
If you don't love the art and just want to be a star, then I think you're a dead duck.
I don't think you could stand it otherwise.
And he didn't chase stardom.
He chased mastery and he caught it.
And by the way, me saying earlier that people wonder why he wasn't more famous.
It's not a commentary on my behalf at least that fame is better or worse and that he should
(20:20):
have been a thing that maybe he wasn't like more of a household name.
I personally believe that what is meant to be is meant to be and that he had his path
in this lifetime.
And it was a beautiful path and there are obviously blessings and curses that come with being
famous and that ultimately it's about a life well lived.
Just want to make that clear.
(20:41):
It's not a commentary on fame being better or anything like that, you know?
I think people just wonder when it comes to role because he was so damn talented.
But as an artist myself, I have seen the most talented people on the planet never book
a job.
Just, there's no rhyme or reason, you know, for so much of it.
(21:02):
Anyway am I rambling?
Until next time, dance fam.
[Music]
[music]
(00:02):
In the Golden Era of Hollywood, MGM was packed with powerhouse male dancers, Fred Astaire,
Jean Kelly, Donald O'Connor, Bobby Van and the Nicholas Brothers.
And yet when both Kelly and O'Connor were asked at different times in their lives, who
the best all around dancer was, they named someone else.
(00:24):
And that someone else is who we're talking about today on my podcast, Hey, Dancer, and
my weekly series The Rest of the Story, where I go deep on the dancers who stories deserve
more space.
If you're loving this series on dance legends, make sure you're following and subscribed,
wherever you're watching or listening, hit that notification bell so you know when a new
(00:48):
episode drops and like, share, comment.
Let's get these dance stories popping up in everyone's feed.
And make sure you stick around through the end, because I'll shed some light on a few
things today's subject was brilliant at, off the dance floor.
Okay, let's get into it.
He was born in Kansas City in December 1929, but raised in Seattle.
(01:13):
His father, Edward, was said to have started as a sewing machine salesman and later ran
his own business.
His mother, Margaret, was a homemaker.
He grew up with an adopted older brother named Jimmy.
When he was four, he was diagnosed with a crossed eye and reading became a challenge.
His mother worried.
(01:33):
Not just about school, but about what kind of life he'd be able to build if academics
were always a struggle.
So she enrolled him in a dance class.
She didn't do it for the spotlight.
She hoped it might give him a shot at a career that didn't rely so heavily on books.
Some accounts say the condition was corrected through surgery.
(01:55):
Others credit visual exercises.
Either way, his eye was eventually corrected, but dance had already taken root.
He was in too deep and too good to stop.
The kind of good you don't brush off the kind people remembered.
He kept training, kept improving.
And by the time he was eight, he was already performing in local Vodville style theaters
(02:19):
in Seattle, where he started to develop the acrobatic skills that would later become a
signature.
And then, in the early 40s, the family moved to Los Angeles.
He began taking tap lessons and his teacher, recognizing his rhythm and raw ability, helped
him land a spot at Universal Studios.
(02:41):
That's where he joined the Jive in Jackson and Gilles.
An energetic teenage dance group featured in a string of fast paced wartime musicals.
These weren't prestige pictures, but they were packed with music, movement, and big band
numbers designed to lift spirits and sell tickets.
He shared the screen with young stars like Gloria Jean, Peggy Ryan, Dan Daly, and Donald
(03:05):
O'Connor, and danced in sequences with the Andrews sisters Woody Herman and other marquee
acts of the day.
The movies were light fast and often thin on plot, but for a teenage dancer, they were a master
class in how to perform for the camera.
He was barely into his teens and already working regularly on sound stages, learning from
(03:27):
professionals and building real film experience.
After his run with Universal, he kept training, but now the focus shifted.
It wasn't just tap and acrobatics anymore.
He began studying ballet and character work with some of the most respected teachers in Los
Angeles, Adolf Bohm, Bronislava Nijinska, and David Lyshin.
(03:50):
A former ballet-ruse dancer and choreographer known for bridging classical technique with theatrical
flair.
Lyshin saw something in him, not just a film dancer, but a serious performer with range.
So when ballet theater, the company that would later become American Ballet Theater, came
through Los Angeles in 1944, Lyshin recommended him for the touring company.
(04:16):
He was 14, and just like that, this kid from Seattle, who'd spent the past few years spinning
through Hollywood musicals, was now on the road with one of the most prestigious ballet
companies in the country.
ballet theater wasn't just a company, it was training at the highest level.
The schedule was grueling.
(04:36):
30 cities in 60 days, again and again with dancers sleeping on trains, transforming upright
seats into makeshift bunks, one night performances, constant travel and no guarantee of job security.
But for a young artist, it was a dream.
He studied music on the road, carried art books in his bag, and still a teenager, he found
(04:59):
himself dancing in works by Agnes DeMille and Anthony Tudor, performing to scores by modern
giants like Leonard Bernstein, who sometimes stood right there in the pit, conducting.
The schedule was brutal, but the exposure to world-class choreographers, composers, conductors
was the kind of education any artist would dream of, much less a teenager, and it shaped
(05:24):
everything that came next.
While on tour with ballet theater, the company made a stop in Los Angeles, and that is when
it happened.
He was rehearsing at Perry's studios, the legendary space above Cafe Mon Martra, on Hollywood
Boulevard, where everyone from Martha Graham to the ballet ruse had passed through.
In 1944, so did a teenage dancer on tour and so did Jerome Robbins.
(05:51):
Robbins was already choreographing for ballet theater, but he wasn't a household name
yet, and he wasn't touring with the company full-time.
So when they crossed paths in the hallway, the young dancer didn't recognize him, but
Robbins stopped him and said, "I like your dancing.
I'd like to work with you through the years."
(06:12):
That moment stuck.
Robbins had just choreographed a new ballet called Fancy Free, a bold, jazz-infused piece
that felt distinctly American.
One of the original dancers, Harold Lang, was leaving.
Robbins needed a replacement.
He asked, "Can you do a double-air tour into a split?"
The young dancer answered, "Sure."
(06:34):
And did it right then and there.
That was enough.
Robbins told him to learn the role, and he did.
Soon after, he was cast in interplay, too, a fast witty ballet that mixed classical steps
with American street rhythm.
Exactly the kind of movement this dancer loved.
He later said, "You don't see much of that kind of choreography anymore.
(06:57):
I loved it."
Robbins pushed for precision down to the beat, hit the arms a touch earlier, he'd say,
and this dancer could do it.
Instantly, he had a knack for picking up and absorbing Robbins' choreography on the spot
and dancing it back quick, sharp musical and clean.
That mattered to Robbins a lot, and audiences noticed, too.
(07:22):
He was still just 16, dancing featured roles in two of Robbins' early high-profile ballets.
And when interplay opened at the Broadway Theatre in New York in 1946, the New York Times
took note.
Critic John Martin wrote that he is, "developing into a first-rate performer."
And "came off with the lion's share of the honors."
(07:46):
The raw talent was turning into something refined.
And even at that level, ballet theatre couldn't promise stability.
Dancers were often laid off for weeks or months at a time.
One day Robbins made a different kind of offer.
Why don't you come do a musical?
So he did.
In the spring of 1947, he dipped into musical theatre with a revival of Louisiana purchase
(08:11):
on the West Coast.
It wasn't Broadway, but it planted a seed.
Soon after, he moved to New York, and over the next five years, he built a serious stage career,
dancing in productions like "Look Ma, I'm Dancing."
Small wonder, "Mis-Liberty" and "Call Me Madam."
Some were choreographed by Jerome Robbins, others by "Rising Stars" like "Gawer Champion."
(08:35):
He wasn't just getting cast, he was standing out.
Now he was singing, acting, dancing and learning to command a stage.
And during that run, he was also choreographing for the "Fay Emerson Show."
A live weekly television series that featured a different American city each episode.
He create the choreography, perform it on air, then head straight to the theatre to dance
(09:00):
act two of "Call Me Madam."
One of the audience members during those years, Gene Kelly.
Kelly had first seen him in "Fancy Free" and again in "Small Wonder."
He could not forget this dancer.
So in 1952, when it came time to cast his most personal film, "Invitation to the Dance,"
Kelly reached out.
(09:20):
It was an experimental three-part musical told entirely through movement.
No dialogue, just dance.
In the second story, "Ring Around the Rosie," our guy appears as the flashy boyfriend, tearing
into a rhythm-driven solo and leading a group of men with bold, intricate footwork.
Some critics called the sequence "the most electric in the entire film."
(09:44):
It was a whirlwind, Broadway one month, London Soundstages the next national television
in between, but he was thriving.
The kid who once danced to help his eyesight was now shaping full productions in musicals
on film and on live TV.
Then came the run that would define him on screen.
(10:06):
He returned to Hollywood and in 1953 landed the role of Bill Calhoun in MGM's "Kiss Me
Kate."
It was a dream project, a coal-poorter musical, a technical or spectacle and a dual role that
let him play both the "Brash Gambler" Calhoun and the Shakespearean Lucentio in the show
(10:28):
within a show.
He got to do wet with Anne Miller in the sizzling rooftop number "Why Can't You Behave?"
Going off not just footwork but chemistry, charm and comic timing and then came the number
from this moment on.
Added to the film version, it wasn't in the Broadway show, the number became one of the
most iconic sequences in MGM musical history.
(10:52):
The staging was Elizabethan, the cast, stacked, Bob Fossi, Janey Coyne, Carol Haney, Bobby
Van, Anne Miller, and there he was, holding his own.
Dancing with Miller in a jazz ballet fusion that was equal parts athletic and elegant.
His entrance alone was a showstopper soaring in from high above the wings with aerial grace,
(11:17):
landing soft as a feather and launching straight into a duet that danced like a conversation.
Critics took notice, so did choreographers, and he was just getting started.
The next year he was cast in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, as Frank Ponepi, the fiery
acrobatics sixth brother.
(11:37):
It wasn't supposed to be a prestige picture MGM had bet big on Brigaduin that year, and
considered Seven Brides a beat-tier release, but the dancing changed everything.
Chorigraft by Michael Kidd and packed with a powerhouse ensemble were talking rust-tamblin
mat-mattox and Jacques D'Imbois, the film exploded with movement.
(12:00):
The barn-reasing scene alone required three weeks of rehearsal, dangerous planck work and
pinpoint accuracy, miss a landing and you'd break something.
He didn't miss.
In fact, he shone, flipping, leaping, brawling, dancing with the kind of speed and strength
that made audiences sit up, and he wasn't done yet.
(12:22):
In 1955, Columbia cast him as Chick Clark in my sister Eileen, opposite Janet Lee and
Bob Fossy.
It wasn't a blockbuster, but it did give him a rare showcase, a challenge dance, choreographed
by Fossy himself, the two play rival suitors, squaring off trading steps and pushing each other
(12:44):
in rhythm and style.
Fossy's choreography was tight, nuanced, stylized, and he nailed it.
His leaps, pirouettes, and sharp accents adding a whole new layer to the scene.
Years later, he'd say it was some of his best work on film.
That same year, he signed a contract with Universal and starred in the second greatest sex,
(13:07):
a rural musical loosely based on Liz Astrada.
The film didn't make waves, but the barn dance sequence, filled with frenetic square dance
energy, gave him room to show his genius.
Then came Mary Andrew.
Another lively ensemble piece, this time at MGM with Danny K, choreography by Michael Kid,
(13:27):
and a joyful Johnny Mercer score.
He played one of the trapeze artist brothers, diving into the physical comedy and acrobatic
choreography that had become his signature.
Then came the next chapter.
As the Hollywood musical began to fade, he made a bold pivot, back to Broadway.
In 1959, he returned to the stage in Juno, a short-lived but artistically ambitious musical
(13:53):
based on Sean O'Casey's Juno and the Pei Cock.
He didn't sing a note, but Agnes Demille crafted a 12-minute dance solo for him that some
said stole the show.
His role as Johnny Boyle, a wounded former rebel, let him act and move with rare, dramatic
weight.
(14:13):
The show closed after just two weeks, but his performance earned him the prestigious Outer
Critics Circle Award for Best Supporting Actor.
Two years later, he was back in a much brighter spotlight.
In Milk and Honey, the Broadway debut of composer Jerry Herman, he played David, a young Israeli
husband caught between love and homeland.
(14:35):
This time he sang.
He danced, and once again he stopped the show with a long solo choreographed by Donald Sadler.
The title song and his duet, I will follow you, showcased a rich, tenor voice most audiences
had never heard from him before.
But for him, the stage wasn't hitting like it once had.
(14:56):
His next two musicals, Cafe Crown in 1964, and Cry For Us All in 1970, closed quickly
despite strong talent involved, but he kept going.
He appeared in cameos and character roles across a handful of films, often returning to dance.
In Funny Girl, he played the prince in a ballet spoof of Swan Lake alongside Barbara Streisand.
(15:23):
In pennies from heaven, he tapped his way through a Vodville number with Steve Martin, executing
an aerial cartwheel nearly four decades after his teenage film debut.
And in dancers, 1987, he shared the screen with Mikhail Baryshnikov playing a former colleague
from their fictional ballet past.
(15:44):
He was never the loudest name on the marquee, never the most promoted.
And to this day, people still ask why he wasn't more famous.
He was choreographers, film historians, anyone who really knows that era and talent it
took to thrive in it.
Why someone that good, that handsome, that versatile, that consistently excellent, a true
(16:08):
triple threat, didn't become a household name.
That's in the stars, and obviously impossible to answer, but all I can tell you, if there's
one dancer I've been asked to cover more than anyone else for this series, by those watching
like you, it's this guy, and that says something.
Because talent like that doesn't disappear.
(16:30):
It echoes in performances in pedagogy, in the dancers who came after.
What he brought to the screen and to the stage wasn't just steps, and it was more than his
gift of technical mastery and endless styles of dance.
It was storytelling, musicality, and flight.
He danced like he could define gravity, because sometimes he did.
(16:56):
His name, Tommy Rawl, and now you know the rest of the story.
All right, dancers, before I get into a little non-dance stuff on this legendary guy, if you
enjoyed getting to know Mr. Rawl even one-one-hundredth as much as I did doing my research on him, my
god.
You gotta do all the engagement things, okay?
(17:19):
Make a comment, share with your dance fam, make sure you're subscribed, or following, hit
that notification bell so you are always immediately alerted as to when a new episode drops.
I do put so much love and time into crafting each episode, so you showing up in this way,
it goes a long way.
Okay, so what set Tommy apart, and what two few people know is just how much more he could
(17:44):
do. He wasn't just a dancer, I hate to say just a dancer because that's everything, but
he didn't only dance, he could sing and act.
He was a dancer who could sing opera, and not just in passing, he studied seriously for
years, and by the early 60s, he was performing with companies like the opera company of Boston,
(18:05):
New York City Opera, and the American National Opera Company.
Those that demanded not just vocal power, but physicality, one in particular, the title
role in, I'm not sure how to pronounce this, Les Jongler, De Notre Dame, called for dancing,
singing, juggling, and acrobatics, and he delivered.
That's not a musical theater tenor, okay?
(18:27):
That's something else entirely.
He also continued acting, appearing in dramatic roles in films like Walk the Proudland and
World in My Corner.
And then just when you think that was enough, it turns out, you know, you're not going to
dance out, he was also a visual artist.
I'm thinking right now of my past episode on Jeffrey Holder, who could just do endless talents
(18:48):
and the skills.
Rawl was a gifted painter who trained formally at Shunard and the Arts Students League.
His work even appeared in the book Actors as Artists.
He lived a long life, a full one, quietly, without a lot of fanfare, but dancers like him just
don't come around often and they rarely do at all.
(19:10):
Dancer, singer, acrobat, choreographer, actor, painter, not loud, not flashy, just always excellent.
I don't remember researching somebody where every single thing, even the New York Times,
like the 1946 Something or Other review I read of the Valais he did with Robbins.
That critic was really harsh on everybody, but not rawl.
(19:33):
Just as if whenever he did something, he was going to be the standout or at the very least
get beautiful reviews.
Not that it's about reviews, but I think that says something.
He was just so consistently praised and deeply, unshakably committed to the art.
He once said, quote, you have to love music and dance because this business is so difficult.
(19:55):
If you don't love the art and just want to be a star, then I think you're a dead duck.
I don't think you could stand it otherwise.
And he didn't chase stardom.
He chased mastery and he caught it.
And by the way, me saying earlier that people wonder why he wasn't more famous.
It's not a commentary on my behalf at least that fame is better or worse and that he should
(20:20):
have been a thing that maybe he wasn't like more of a household name.
I personally believe that what is meant to be is meant to be and that he had his path
in this lifetime.
And it was a beautiful path and there are obviously blessings and curses that come with being
famous and that ultimately it's about a life well lived.
Just want to make that clear.
(20:41):
It's not a commentary on fame being better or anything like that, you know?
I think people just wonder when it comes to role because he was so damn talented.
But as an artist myself, I have seen the most talented people on the planet never book
a job.
Just, there's no rhyme or reason, you know, for so much of it.
(21:02):
Anyway am I rambling?
Until next time, dance fam.
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