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TIME: Almanac 1993
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TIME Almanac 1993.iso
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1992-09-25
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July 6, 1987The Great American FlyerFred Astaire: 1899-1987
Elegance is usually an imposition, a set of mannerisms employed
by the swells to cover their emptiness and maintain their
distance from us plebeians. Fred Astaire's achievement--no, his
glory--was that he made elegance infectious. He democratized
and Americanized the word most overused to describe himself.
And he did the same thing for dancing. Before the advent of
sound movies, dance for most Americans meant tap dancers "laying
down iron" in vaudeville. Before Astaire, screen dance was a
thundering herd of chorines tapping out a Busby Berkeley
abstraction. "I didn't think I had too much of a chance,"
Astaire would later say--with good reason. To be sure, he and
his sister Adele had worked their way from Omaha through
small-time vaudeville to stage stardom in New York and London.
But Adele had retired, and at 34, Fred was not obvious star
material: a skinny fellow with a reedy voice and an unassuming
air.
In fact, his manner and his voice were basic to his success,
creating an illusion of ordinariness. This was not unplanned.
Nothing in the use of his only instrument--himself--ever was.
A cool calculator of effects, a steely perfectionist in
execution, he always affected astonishment over adulation. As
Mikhail Baryshnikov said, Astaire often seemed to stand wryly
outside himself, observing his work as wonderingly as anyone
else.
Astaire also observed that it was time for a dancer to exploit
the movies' capacity for intimacy rather than spectacle. In the
nine films he made with Ginger Rogers between 1933 and 1939,
most of their great numbers were not performed on a stage. Shot
full figure in long takes, the pair tapped across park
bandstands in the rain (Isn't This a Lovely Day?) and on roller
skates (Let's Call the Whole Thing Off), and used an entire
country club in The Yam number, which for compressed intricacy
may have been their most heart-stopping routine. But more than
skill and wit informed their partnership. Rogers, as Critic
Arlene Croce said, offered Astaire a "genial resistance,"
bringing out "toughness" and "masculine gallantry" and, one must
add, his narrative skill. Their best pas de deux tell full
romantic tales: challenge, hesitation, soaring consummation,
wistful afterglow.
The nostalgia surrounding Rogers-Astaire tends to bleach out
other partners. But if Rita Hayworth, Cyd Charisse and Lucille
Bremer melted more quickly into his arms, they did so with
unsurpassed lyricism. Indeed, it is with Charisse during the
Dancing in the Dark sequence of The Band Wagon that he attained
romantic apotheosis. That film brought him to another kind of
culmination. He always liked to shed his top hat, white tie and
tails and make magic with homely props--a golf club, a hat rack,
a handful of firecrackers. In Band Wagon, glum and lonesome,
he entered an amusement arcade and emerged 6 1/2 minutes later,
having completed the greatest solo dance in movie history, Shine
on Your Shoes.
Most of dance's immortals write their greatness in air. Fred
Astaire's is forever captured on film. But when he died last
week at 88, that consolation was dimmed by the knowledge that
the culture that produced him--especially the songwriters whose
work gave wings to his feet--was gone too. He, alas, lived to
see the future--and it was a subliterate, flashcut music video.
--By Richard Schickel