I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [78]
God, how we feasted in Tijuana, where the cuisine was varied, scrumptious, and fascinating. Tamales filled with esoteric fruits, corn puddings with spices alien to me. Chicken mole? With chocolate sauce? “Scotty,” I said, “I can’t imagine it. It’s like putting ketchup on ice cream, they just don’t go!” But oh, yes they do. And was it delicious. Mexican chocolate is different; it’s real. Between puffs of cigarette, Scotty claimed that chocolate came from Mexico. “Before Cortés, the world didn’t know about it.”
Tijuana’s dangers? I never saw any. Or if I did, I didn’t know it.
Our soundstage vibrated with energy. There was buzz about Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. When the cast and stars from other stages had a break, they would rush over to our set to watch.
The adaptation of Plutarch’s tale was inventive and goofy, the music, top-notch, the lyrics by Johnny Mercer couldn’t have been better, but it was the alchemy of Stanley and Michael that transformed the material into something surprising and extraordinary. Co-captains for every artistic decision, they had handpicked the cast, and molded and guided us. The entire cast, including extras, consisted of a conglomerate—jazz dancers and acrobats from Las Vegas; hoofers from Broadway; dozens of assorted Hollywood stuntmen; even a buddy of mine, Kelly Brown, from American Ballet Theatre, who happened to be a hell of a horseman. Our athleticism gave the entire film an energy and precision that make the barn scene and the fight with the townspeople standouts. Michael was a brilliant choreographer, and nobody knew how to film dance better than Stanley. Yet no one expected Seven Brides to become one of the greatest musicals in the history of Hollywood. Stanley and Michael deserve the credit.
In the midst of shooting, we’d hear “Reloading!” or “Replacing lights!” followed by “Take a break, kids!” then we’d all slouch around. Suddenly, Tommy Rall would bound out of his chair, look at me, and say, “You want to see a brandy?” Then he’d back up to give himself room, and flip over, his head upside down, in a kind of cartwheel without hands—first, to one side, then the other, then back again. Abruptly, he’d stop, walk back to his chair, and plop down. It was kind of crazy. Michael used it during the movie’s “Competition Dance,” where Tommy triumphs over all his rivals, with a series of brandies performed on top of two parallel sawhorses. If he had missed by an inch, he would have broken legs and head, and have died.
I once bragged to Tommy that I could knock off several consecutive entrechats huit—where you leap vertically and open and close your feet, alternating positions four times before landing11—but “I’ve never managed to make entrechat dix,” I lamented. Tom mumbled laconically, “Yeah, I can do entrechat dix. I’ve done it a lot. I’d do them now for you, but not with these boots on. How about I do a bunch of double and triple tours in a row?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just got up, stood in front of me in fifth position, and propelled himself into the air, spinning twice to the right. Bouncing off the cement floor, he repeated the double tour, then knocked off a triple. Just like a ball rebounding off a hard surface, Tommy continued the sequence—double tour, double tour, triple tour, double, double, triple—over and over again. We got vertigo watching. As with the brandy, he abruptly stopped and, without a word, strode directly to his chair and sat down. His nonchalant “It’s a piece of cake” attitude was endearing.
In my memory, only one display of consecutive tours overshadows Tommy’s—Phillip Mosco’s. Phil was a dancing friend I had known from my early