In his perfection as a performing artist, Fred Astaire (1899-1987) did seem otherworldly. One of the greatest of dancers, Astaire’s film performances are miracles of timing, inventiveness, and charm; in his elegant appearance, dressed in formal or casual garb, Astaire is always perfectly turned out. A romantic poet in motion, Astaire’s style in dance and looks was and continues to be something to be envied and emulated. Even Mickey Mouse imitated him.
In Thru the Mirror (1936), one of Disney’s best color shorts, the agile cartoon mirrors the dancing man. Mickey cavorts atop at giant silk cylinder hat parodying the title costume from Astaire’s Top Hat, a feature released the year before (1935) by RKO, which was to become Disney’s film distributor in 1937. Wearing a smaller version of the topper, Mickey partners with an anthropomorphic matchstick. While no match (sorry) for Ginger Rogers, who was Astaire’s film dance partner at the time, the stick literally adds fire to the mouse’s toe-tapping steps until it’s replaced by a pair of strutting white gloves carrying (again) a top hat and large walking stick.
THRU THE MIRROR (1936)(Mickey Mouse’s Fred Astaire imitation starts at 3:00 – 3:54)
It wasn’t the first time Disney tipped his hat in a toon tribute to Astaire. In 1935, Disney’s Silly Symphony Cock o’ the Walk used the rhumba “The Carioca” from the first Astaire/Rogers teaming, Flying Down to Rio (1933), to stage an elaborate barnyard musical number with hens, roosters, ducks, geese, and even peacocks for a splash of extra color. None other than Lincoln Kirstein, co-founder of the New York City Ballet, found the cartoon “an inspired satire on a Busby Berkley super-duper, but its color and fantasy were incidentally beautiful in themselves.”
COCK O’ THE WALK (1935)(The Carioca runs from 1:55 to 5:15 and also at the finale, from 7:30 to end 8:23)
Each semester in my Action Analysis classes at NYU, I screen at least one performance by Fred Astaire, and it’s not just for my own pleasure: I believe that animators are, in essence, choreographers. When we break down his dances frame-by-frame, we can see the superb clarity of movements that demonstrate all the basic principles of animation. Equally important as mechanics, his intricate and entertaining choreography is always in support of the sequence’s acting goals.
One particular favorite to study is Swing Time, the delightful 1936 Astaire/Rogers musical, and specifically the “Pick Yourself Up” number. The animation principle of Squash and Stretch is visible in the elongation and compression of the couple throughout the dance; “anticipation” is seen in the necessary preparatory movement that precedes Astaire lifting Rogers, while “follow-through,” a secondary movement trailing a main action, is present in the way Roger’s skirt and hair and Astaire’s coat tails, follow and arrive late after primary body movements. I could go on, including the principle of Arcs (an organic as opposed to a mechanical trajectory); “easing” into and out of movements; exaggeration and staging for clarity and entertainment value; and “overlapping action,” in which certain actions occur at different times. Astaire and Rogers use the principles to give an acting performance within the dance that drives the narrative.
They dance with a purpose, in this case demonstrating to a curmudgeonly boss (Eric Blore) that Ginger Rogers, a dance instructor, has just taught Fred Astaire this intricate routine. Such were the suspension-of-disbelief plots of 1930s Hollywood musicals. Throughout their demonstration, Astaire and Rogers continually look toward and mime to Blore how easy it all is. For the finale, as dance critic Arlene Croce wrote, “the music has switched to a new riding theme that creates a wave of exhilaration – and anxiety: they’re going out but they can’t possibly get out that fast. Yes, they can, and calmly: clear across to the other side [of the room] and out. They walk away leaving everything in flames.”
SWING TIME (1936)
Another thing I love about Astaire: even in films that are near misses or outright duds, he always has at least one number in which he transcends the plot material and ascends to artistic heights. Yolanda and the Thief (1945) is precisely such a lavish failure, a fantasy musical that had everything going for it: gorgeous Technicolor styling and direction by Vincente Minnelli, a wonderful cast, backed by the full production values of the extraordinary Arthur Freed unit at MGM. Unfortunately, the script is full of soggy whimsy and artsy pretension. Yolanda has, however, become a cult favorite primarily because of two Astaire dance sequences; one, an extended Dream Ballet stuffed with Dali-esque surrealist imagery that fascinates but ultimately bores.
But “Coffee Time,” the second dance routine, is simply great. It’s a rare instance when everything works beautifully, from designer Irene Sharaff’s stand-out color choices (Astaire’s perfectly tailored grey jacket and creme-colored pants and his partner Lucille Bremer’s bright yellow dress with bright red sash set against the coffee-colored costumes of the chorus) to the zig-zag floor design derived from Rio’s sidewalks.
A pulsing jazz-oriented musical arrangement in 4/4 time to which the dancers choreographed by Eugene Loring move in 5/4 time is mesmerizing. Minnelli’s signature fluid camera moves become yet another dancer, and the editing adds to the excitement of performance, especially after a false ending, when music and dancers build again to an intensely satisfying crescendo. Leading the way with dynamic energy and star power is Fred Astaire. He is the sun around which everything else revolves; his dynamism brings essential magic to the sequence. Reviewing the film in 1945, The New York Times noted that “Coffee Time puts movement and color to such use as you seldom behold on the screen.” Behold it and Fred Astaire in all their glory at the link below — a Christmas present to yourself. Happy holidays!
YOLANDA AND THE THIEF (1945)