Formal dancing isn't easy. Everyone's gone on the dance floor, swung wildly and moved their hips to the beat but try doing a perfect waltz. That's a different story altogether. I did a play years ago in which I was taught to waltz. It was, unfortunately for me, necessary for a scene in the play. It wasn't difficult to learn but it wasn't easy either. While it didn't require extraordinary athletic ability or magisterial grace it did require discipline. And it taught me what a discipline dance is.
For one thing I never understood "leading." I'd seen dozens of movies and television shows where the man jokes that the woman is leading but I didn't really get that concept until a dance instructor taught me to waltz for that part. The man places his hand squarely on the small of the woman's back and forcefully pulls her along. Where she spins and turns and moves is not her choice. She is led by the man.
The instructor was a diminutive woman and told me how to do this. I placed my hand on her back and with all the firmness of day old milquetoast gently limped along. She told me I was not leading properly. And then, playing Delbert Grady to my twin Grady daughter, she "corrected" me. This five-foot-two tall woman placed her hand on my back and effectively turned me into a marionette. I moved where she wanted me to and when she wanted me to. It was forceful to say the least. And I got it. From that point on, I led and led well.
So in a superficial way, I had become a dancer but only by the thinnest of definitions. I knew the basic moves and knew where to go but only because someone was telling me so. I would've never figured it out on my own. She choreographed, I danced. And those are two very different things.
Many people make the mistake of lumping choreographers and dancers together as if one were the other. They are not. The problem with film dance is that when one is asked, "Who are the greatest dancers the screen has ever produced?" the answer usually has more to do with choreography than dance. Russ Tamblyn, for example, was an incredibly gifted athletic dancer, but without Michael Kidd or Jerome Robbins telling him what to do he was just some guy doing back flips off a wooden beam or spinning around inner-city basketball courts.
So back to the question, "Who's the greatest dancer in film?" We all know the familiar names: Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Eleanor Powell, The Nicholas Brothers, Bill "Bojangles" Robinson, Ann Miller, Cyd Charisse, etc. But when most people provide the answer they're usually thinking choreography, not dancing.
Let's take three athletic dancers to make the case: Gene Kelly, Fayard Nicholas and Harold Nicholas. All three were superb athletic dancers but all three suffered from criticisms lobbed against them that there were more gymnastics involved than dancing. Kelly was particularly irked by this and incorporated ballets and graceful duets throughout his films to counter the charge. The Nicholas Brothers also heard this but had no directorial power to change it. Years 
ago I watched a documentary on the Nicholas Brothers in which a choreographer complained that the problem with the Nicholas Brothers was that once you saw them do a number you had seen all their moves. The routine was, so to speak, routine: Jump down into a full split, leap over each other, tap, spin, repeat.
To be sure, it is one hell of an impressive routine and wows audiences every time they see it. But the charge remains: the Nicholas Brothers are great dancers, but not great choreographers. As such they don't have the variety that an Astaire or Kelly has to assist in evaluating their legacy. They've got that one routine, transplanted to a different set for each new film. But is that really because they weren't good choreographers? I say, "No."
The Nicholas Brothers were given one number per film at best. So let's engage in a thought experiment. Let's say Gene Kelly had only one number per film. That's it, just one. And he had no directorial power or say to change that. Now, if given only one number to show what he could do, and instructed by the producer to make it a showstopper, do you think he would do a piece where he does a graceful ballet with Debbie Reynolds on a soundstage at a fictional studio? Do you think he would do a sweet little number with a bunch of French children on a sidewalk in Paris? Would he even bother with that umbrella and puddle-filled street? Or would he leap and bound and flip over backwards every chance he got to burn his talent onto the mind of the viewer? I vote for the last one on the list. I think he contorts and twists and turns and jumps like a frog from Calaveras County every chance he gets. And his talents as a choreographer? Well, quite simply, we never discover them.
Only we did discover them and I'm glad we did. His famous stroll down the wet streets in Singin' in the Rain is a beautifully and deceptively simply choreographed piece of dance art. His big dance finales in Singin' and An American in Paris are also wonders to behold. And even his simple little piece with the Nicholas Brothers in The Pirate is nice to look at, although one suspects Kelly made it a little too simple so as to not be shown up by his extremely physical partners.
So when the question is asked and the answer is delivered it more often than not involves dancing on the ceiling or a sailor cutting the rug with Jerry the mouse. In other words, great choreographed numbers performed by great dancers. The Nicholas Brothers never got to do those numbers and that's a shame. But that shouldn't distract us from the fact that they were extremely talented dancers, even if a lack of choreographic variety didn't allow us to see many different aspects of their talent.
The fact is, I don't know who the greatest dancer in the history of film is. For all I know it might be some dancer in the crowd at the end of An American in Paris but he or she never had the looks or the charm or charisma to make it big. As for the rest it's all guesswork. Kelly and Astaire were terrific choreographers as well as dancers. The Nicholas Brothers on the other hand had that routine. You can watch it below from Down Argentine Way. After the first minute or so of singing and hamming it up they go into it full throttle. When it's over it's hard to imagine any other dancers ever competing with them for sheer physical prowess. It's that amazing. And there's nothing routine about that.
This has been a part of the Ferdy on Films Invitation to the Dance Blogathon.
