The year 1931 continued to be a prolific one for Gene. In September, he found himself choreographing, starring in, and directing a revue for the Beth Shalom Synagogue in Squirrel Hill. The job had originally been offered to Lou Bolton but, as was his way, Bolton inexplicably disappeared from town before fulfilling his responsibilities. Harriet lost no time in suggesting Gene as his replacement. The revue was not to take place until spring of 1932, allowing Gene time to hone his students’ skills.
Ruth Portnoy, the wife of the cantor, was the first to call Gene “Pied Piper.” The affection his young pupils felt for their teacher was mutual. Gene often claimed that working with children was most fun because they danced purely from emotion rather than constricting their styles to cerebral theories. One student recalled that Gene taught her to do an Irish jig with her arm behind her back in order to hide the large cast around it. “He made me laugh, joking about how he was even more accident-prone than I was. . . . Although I was basically a klutz, he always made me feel I could truly dance,” she said.4
Though Gene was much occupied with the business at Beth Shalom, he remained no less active at Lou Bolton’s Dance Studios. By mid-1931, Harriet was disappointed that enrollment at the Johnston dance school had failed to increase. She and Gene faced competition from another studio in town run by what Gene called a “schmuck” who told parents that their children were “little geniuses” after only one lesson. The “schmuck” tried to discredit the Kellys by pointing out to potential clients that neither Gene nor his family were members of the Dancing Teachers Union and thus had no right to open a school. Gene, enraged, decided that he would “run the school so well that his opposition would be forced to close rather than compete with him.”5 Nonetheless, Gene did apply to become a member of the Chicago Association of Dancing Masters to enhance his credibility. The institution turned him down, but Gene was determined to be accepted the following year.
The Kellys’ first method of rallying interest in their school was to spread news by word of mouth, as they did not have the means to pay for advertisements. Gene endeavored to gain a reputation in town that could not help but attract clients. He found that he would have to overcome the same obstacles he had faced in Pittsburgh as a child—bullies. “Johnstown seemed an unlikely place for such an enterprise [a dancing school]. Since it was a steel town, ‘effete’ was hardly the word for it. When its male citizens saw Gene coming, they placed hand on hip derisively and waved at him with simulated daintiness,” a Saturday Evening Post journalist wrote in 1950.6 Gene had little difficulty winning over the men of Johnstown after interacting with them in terms they understood: sports and fighting. Gene explained, “I couldn’t get around to licking everybody in town, so I played baseball and basketball every chance I got, and that convinced them I was a real guy.”7 He also won “a bruising fist fight at the Y.M.C.A. pool [that made him] known in the local pubs.”8
From June to December 1931, Gene cemented his high standing in Johnstown not through sport or fights but a series of exceptional revues starring the students of Lou Bolton’s Dance Studio. Harriet often wrote the elegant descriptions in the revue programs, such as: “Dancing is the loftiest, the most moving, the most beautiful of the Arts, because it is no mere translation or abstraction from life: it is life itself.”9
Dancing did not always seem distinguished to Gene, particularly when he had to play in cloops. However, all this changed when Gene and Fred, through a series of extraordinary circumstances, landed a gig with one of the most talented jazz musicians of the era. The job was at an all-black club in Altoona, Pennsylvania, where the legendary Cab Calloway and his Cotton Club Revue were scheduled to perform. Harriet was able to secure Fred and Gene an audition with Calloway by the simple expedient of failing to mention they weren’t black. Calloway’s representative had called Harriet, asking if she had any recommendations of a black brother act that could fill the place of the Nicholas Brothers. The brothers, a talented acrobatic dancing duo, had abruptly left Calloway after they were offered work in Hollywood.
“Well, I know of a great brother act, the Kelly Brothers, playing at the Nixon and Stanley Theatre,” Harriet told Calloway’s representative.
“Send them over!”
At the theater in Altoona, the club manager asked Fred and Gene with raised eyebrows: “You’re the Kelly brothers?” Calloway strode over. In Fred’s words, he “took one look at us, looked at his manager, and in a real Amos and Andy put-on said, ‘Somebody done make a big mistake!’ Did you know this was an all-black show?”
“Yes, but I thought you needed a dance team,” Fred told him, handing Calloway’s band their arrangements.
The brothers were surprised to receive a standing ovation from Calloway and his band after their performance. “That was really something. The guys we were nuts about were applauding us!” Fred recalled. As Fred and Gene left the theater, they saw two men changing the marquee to read: EXTRA-SPECIAL ADDED ATTRACTION—GENE AND FRED KELLY—THE KELLY BROTHERS. “What a time that was; just kids and having the time of our lives,” Fred reflected in 1989.10
The Kellys proved to be so popular at the club that Calloway asked them to stay with the act when he played for three days in Johnstown. Throughout his career, Gene had a remarkable rapport with black dancers. Because of his intolerance for racial prejudice, he was a nonthreatening presence and truly appreciated what other cultures had to offer. Indeed, he later named black dancers John Bubbles and Bill Robinson (Bojangles) as two of his early influences. Bubbles is commonly credited as the father of “rhythm tap,” a style of tap dance that, as opposed to Robinson’s style, did not emphasize clean phrases and toe taps. Rather, it melded tap dancing with the emerging improvisatory style of jazz.
In 1958, Gene explained why tap dance was the ultimate “indigenous American type” that “exists here and only here. . . . It is like America itself. It’s the real melting pot of the folk dances of several countries.” Gene asserted that tap was even more definitive of America because it used jazz as its inspiration—a type of music born completely in the United States. Gene concluded that tap was especially appealing to the male dancer because “men, like small boys have always enjoyed making noise, stomping their feet to music; it makes them feel more a part of it.”11
Aside from tap dancers like Robinson and Bubbles, Gene admired another distinctly American performer, Martha Graham. Graham, a fellow Pittsburgher, impressed Gene because she “danced to percussive sound and to poetry [rather than music]. The popular classic ballets were fairy tales. It was necessary to express something more and in stronger terms. That resulted in a revolution in dance.” Though Graham’s style impressed him, Gene was not interested in pursuing modern dance.
In complete contrast to the influences of modern American innovators, Gene took inspiration from California native Isadora Duncan (1877–1927), a mother of American modern dance; and Russian Vaslav Nijinsky, a contemporary balletic performer. Gene was struck by Duncan’s incorporation of fantasy and spontaneity in her dance as well as her dedication to teaching young people her philosophy. Nijinsky epitomized Gene’s thesis that dance was an athletic pursuit. Known for his gravity-defying leaps, he was also a talented choreographer. For the rest of his life, Gene spoke reverentially of the Russian view of dance as a virile form of expression for men.
No matter how much he took from other cultures, Gene could not forget where his evolving dance style first found its roots: Ireland. In 1990, Gene told a journalist for Irish America magazine: “The Irish really dominated the popular dance in twentieth century America. . . . [Irish Americans] blended the tap dancing of the Irish—as I call it—with the syncopation of the music of the blacks and created a whole new form of tap dancing.”12
The mélange of different dance styles and music from other cultures not only helped Gene’s style evolve but widened his appeal to the diverse clientele in Pittsburgh. Indeed, a sort of “Kelly mania” overtook Squirrel Hill. Parents of children at Beth Shalom were shocked
when their sons and daughters begged to be sent to dancing school with “that handsome Irish fella.”13 Interest grew stronger after Beth Shalom’s long-anticipated Revue of Revues opened on April 15, 1932. The show was created on virtually no budget; the parents of the more than two hundred students made most of the costumes, and Harriet provided scenery and props from odds and ends gleaned from the Kelly attic or bargain stores. For the show’s musical accompaniment, Gene assembled a band from the local high school. The show’s program gave advance rave reviews for Gene’s contributions: “His work with the children speaks for itself. He has presented clearly and thoroughly every type of dancing in a manner that cannot be surpassed.”14 The Revue of Revues earned an impressive $1,100, more than enough to allow the synagogue to retain the services of their rabbi. Those at Beth Shalom were so delighted with the outcome that they asked Gene to stage a show each summer for the next seven years.
With Gene in such good graces at the synagogue, he gained permission from the caretaker to offer one-on-one private lessons in the establishment’s basement. After he had collected a sizable number of students, he transferred his lessons to the ballroom of the Pittsburgh Hotel. However, the marble dance floor was “murder” on the feet, so he continued to search for an ideal spot in which to teach his private students. In the meantime, the Kellys fell into a regular weekend routine: the family left Pittsburgh on Friday (Gene hired a chauffeur for $2 a week so the family could rest during the commute), spent the night at a boardinghouse in Johnstown operated by Harriet’s friends, and began classes on Saturday morning. The classes went until ten at night, at which point the family climbed back into their Chevrolet and returned to Pittsburgh in time for Mass and Sunday classes at Beth Shalom.15
During the time Gene was working at Beth Shalom, he found a new location for the dance studio in Johnstown reflective of his and his family’s success. The venue, located in a two-story building on Vine Street, offered a much larger space than the third-floor room in the American Legion Hall.16 Optimistic that enrollment would rise, the Kellys planned an elaborate gala opening. On the day of the party, all the Kellys, even James, assembled proudly in their new studio, representative of “years of struggle, hard work, and an unfaltering belief in their abilities.” A table covered with plates of cookies, bottles of soda, and bowls of candy gave the room even more appeal. The Kellys waited and waited for clients to come through the door. An hour passed. Finally, a pair of twins who had been with the school since its beginnings came inside. They were two of the students whose tuition Harriet “carried.” The girls looked back and forth in confusion at the empty hall and the listless Kellys, wondering if they had the wrong date. Harriet, in an uncharacteristic show of vulnerability, burst into tears. James murmured: “We went too far, too fast.”17
Gene, unfazed, began to arrange a publicity campaign to attract clients. He went to all the newspapers and radio stations in town and offered the owners’ children free lessons if he could place advertisements in their periodicals or on their programs. He next engaged high school students to place flyers in every Johnstown mailbox announcing the upcoming presentation of a children’s musical show he claimed was as high quality as anything on the renowned vaudeville circuit of theaters owned by B. F. Keith. He called the revue Gene Kelly’s Kiddies’ Vodvil and also renamed the new Johnstown studio the Gene Kelly School of Dance. If nothing else, he hoped his name would entice his old pupils to come back. The Herculean efforts Gene put into building interest in his school made him feel, as he put it, as if he had celebrated his own bar mitzvah.18 Before, he felt he had merely been a boy helping his mother. Now, at twenty years old, he was a man ready to move from adolescence into adulthood.
Within two weeks, it was clear that “Kelly mania” was as alive in Johnstown as in Pittsburgh. The bulk of Gene’s former students returned to his school plus a plethora of new ones. Gene observed that an inordinate number of the newcomers seemed to be attractive females. He claimed that Johnstown boasted an extraordinary number of young women who could “dance like devils. Even at thirteen or fourteen, they were knockouts and certainly the best advertisements of the school we ever had.”19 One such student was twelve-year-old Jeanne Coyne, a “lithe, exotically attractive” brunette whose crush on her teacher developed into a secret love that she carried with her for over two decades. “I remember the first time I saw him,” Jeanne later recounted.
My heart, which had been thumping at the prospect of meeting the maestro himself, slid back into normal as the young man with the broad smile approached us.
“You have good legs for a dancer,” he said. “You’ll have a lot of fun here.”
It was fun, too, for Gene had a way with youngsters.20
Gene, though he was constantly surrounded by beautiful girls, never became unprofessional with them. After witnessing one too many managers’ “casting couch maneuvers” at cloops, he sought to be the opposite of such men. Instead, he cultivated an attitude of “old-fashioned gallantry” like that of his hero, Douglas Fairbanks.21
As much as Gene was able to put his students at ease, his pupils never forgot he was in charge. “The teacher was the absolute King. When you were teaching, you were not interrupted. A class was one hour, and you danced. You did not sit down,” Fred Kelly explained.22 Gene’s insistence on a professional work ethic and environment in his classes extended to his arrangements for the school’s revues. He made them virtual imitations of legitimate theatricals and organized the Johnstown Youth Orchestra to provide music for the shows, which gave students a “taste of the big time and lent stature to his productions.”23 Though Gene was the dominant figure in arranging all events at the school, he stated, “It wouldn’t have amounted to a damn if it hadn’t been for Harry [Harriet]. She really ran it.”24
By this time, the Kellys had acquired the Pittsburgh location in addition to the Johnstown school from Lou Bolton. Thanks to Harriet’s business acumen and Gene’s dynamism, both studios were enjoying brisk business. Business was so brisk, in fact, that James, unemployed for three years, was now put to work as the schools’ accountant. To the family’s relief, the job replaced alcohol as his pastime.25 At Gene’s studio, female students wore loose, button-up blouses and velvet trunks with three pearl buttons on each side. The mothers embroidered “K” on the blouse as a proud emblem that their girls attended the Kelly studio. Male students simply wore street clothes for uniforms. “Gene wanted to have a masculine image,” Fred stated.26
Almost the entire Kelly family became a part of the studio after Gene employed siblings Louise and Fred as teachers. “My job was to take any of the kids who had missed a lesson and teach them the new material. I think we were the only dance studio in the world that did this,” Fred asserted. Aside from Gene, Louise proved to be the most indispensable member of the studio. “It was called the Gene Kelly Studio, but Louise was really the architect,” Jay commented of her younger sister. Louise taught ballet and beginning dance while Gene instructed advanced students. “Louise was the closest to Gene of all the siblings,” Jay continued. “He just adored her. There was an extreme warmth about Louise.” Even as Gene’s skill increasingly developed, he depended on his sister’s criticism. “She would call out when he had missed the mark. She would sit there and very, very patiently go through and watch him rehearse,” Jay explained.27
While Louise acted as Gene’s critic, Fred was akin to his understudy. When either of the brothers was engaged for gigs, they often stepped in for one another if the other found a better job. “We were never jealous of each other. . . . I’ve always been very proud of him, and he of me,” Fred stated.28
Jay and James Jr. did not pursue careers at the dance studio or any other area of show business; James became an aeronautical engineer and Jay a schoolteacher. Despite the help of his two younger siblings, Gene needed more aides for the studio. He spent most of his spare time poring over theater magazines, viewing local acts, and even traveling hundreds of miles to inspect a potential teacher.
The Gene Kelly School of Dance presented its first revue in February 1932 at the State Theatre in Johnstown. When Gene and his students played for benefits or at out-of-town venues, he charged $35 for his services. After expenses, this left him a $20 profit—a small fortune in the bleakest year of the Depression. One of the dominant reasons Gene’s productions found such success was because, just as he tailored dance to his pupils’ tastes, he customized his shows to the audiences that would see them. He and his students played in primarily working-class towns built on the steel industry. Gene later stated that “subtlety was a dirty word” to many of these theatergoers. He became familiar with his potential audience members via Bakey’s speakeasy, where he shared beers with workers in the production lines. At the same time Gene immersed himself in learning about the work and mindset of blue-collar laborers, he also took on the lofty pursuit of learning French. He proclaimed that he would travel to France someday and get a taste of what he imagined was the most innovative dance in the world.29
In tailoring shows to his working-class audiences, however, Gene omitted French-inspired dance. One such show, a less than subtle revue titled Hits and Bits of 1932, opened in Lilly, Pennsylvania, for the benefit of volunteer firemen. Initially, the revue seemed like a flop—no seats sold at the theater because, according to Gene, the “firemen were smashed out of their minds at the local bar.” Gene devised a solution. He borrowed a fire engine, picked the most attractive girls in the show, and had them stand on the truck while he “rang bells like hell.” Through a megaphone, he yelled that if patrons came to the Liberty Theatre they would see “the best girlie show of their lives.” “Which,” Gene later admitted, “wasn’t true, of course.” However, the firemen did not know this, and by eleven o’clock, seats at the Liberty Theatre had sold out. Gene feared that the house would empty when the audience discovered there was no girlie show. Still, the production did include a degree of suggestive humor. One skit had a girl walk across the stage, saying to Fred: “Why does a chicken cross the road?” “To get to the other side, everyone knows that,” Fred replied. “Wrong,” the girl retorted. “To get some ice cream.” “Chickens don’t eat ice cream!” Fred declared. The girl then put her finger in her mouth and said provocatively: “This chicken does.” Years afterward, Gene said: “Believe it or not, I actually wrote that.”30
He's Got Rhythm: The Life and Career of Gene Kelly (Screen Classics) Page 5