Dancin’ shoes

When I was 14, we got a television and cable tv for the first time. Previously, my only contact with movies had been Saturday afternoon matinees of Tarzan, for 25 cents a show sponsored by the downtown merchants during the Christmas season to give parents time to shop, and once, when I was 12, a trip with my cousins to see “The Wizard Of Oz.”

But with a tv in the house, I discovered WGN and TBS, the first major cable offerings. On hot summer afternoons in the gap between waking and going to work, I watched old musicals. “Singing In The Rain,” “On The Town,” “Brigadoon” and “American In Paris” became my favorite movies. They had one thing in common: Gene Kelly. That man could dance, loose jointed and flowing like honey, up the walls, over chairs and swinging from lamp posts. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

Instant love.

I was horrified when I found out he was older than my father.

So I pretended he wasn’t. In 1980 I even went to see the disasterous Xanadu, just because he was in it. Now 25 years later, I’ve still got a crush on the star of the 50s.

Last week I indulged in “American In Paris” again, and even though the movie is a sexist nightmare, and even though he’s dead, Kelly’s still got it. I’m reminded of the other great dancer I admired, Gregory Hines. I could watch either of them move for hours.

I think we’ve lost the awareness of the sexual allure of men who can dance, and I miss it. Men that comfortable in their bodies were incredibly magnetic, in a way that muscle-bound, gun-toting action heros are not. The old soft shoe and tap still turn me on. I love the finesse and control of it.

Guess I’m older than I thought.

6 Comments