liked to follow with his Peter Lorre impression. Like the hippo he resembled, he could charge an innocent passerby if the spirit moved him, barking expletives like a stripper at a speakeasy raid, then laugh and do it again. City born and raised, Hackett introduced Fosse to another side of all-night New York, leading him to underground clubs and dancehalls, tutoring him in the unwritten history of hipster comics and the wide world of Jewish shtick. Best friends, they hung out every night; by day, they rehearsed the show.
Fosse was obsessed. “He was always there early,”Carl Reiner said, “warming up and doing his steps over and over again, and he was always making up new steps, always inventing. When the rest of us were resting, there was Bobby, getting there early to invent.” He was inventing himself a little too. Fosse’s
Call Me Mister
bio, which cited his tour of “fashionable bistros of the middle-west,” was less actual than aspirational, obliquely disclosing a deep-down, never-to-be-resolved affliction of class—as in, he thought he had none. If they liked his act, he fooled them. “Bobby had the first-act finale number,” Reiner said. “It was the signature song, ‘Call Me Mister,’ and he had a very big dance specialty in it, a solo. I was a floorwalker in the number, he was a customer, and he was dancing around getting clothes for this soldier coming out of the army. And he was just brilliant—so flashy—and he wasn’t going to let anyone get in his way. Even then he had that kind of ambition. One very funny thing I’ll always remember is, at one point he had leaped offstage—stage right—and my entrance was timed to his leap-off. So one day I took a head-start run before I leaped onto the stage just as he was leaping off and as we crossed in the air—I’ll never forget—he said to me, ‘Carl, I’m the lead dancer and you’re outjumping me!’ It was fantastic! Later, he said, ‘Why don’t you land over there, in that third of the stage?’ And I said, ‘But all I can
do
is jump! You dance. My thing is I jump!’ Anyway, we laughed about that, I remember.”
No one was more committed. “At the end of that number,”dancer Jeanna Belkin said, “Fosse, who was featured, had to do
à la seconde
turns and very quickly in a two-four tempo. When the curtain started coming down, Marian Niles and I, watching from the wings, would rush downstage at just the right time to stop him from spinning into the curtain. He was that involved in the dance. He was that passionate.” This happened every night. And every night, Niles reached out to save him.
Call Me Mister
opened in New Haven, after which it moved on to Philadelphia and then Boston; it played to loving audiences and solid reviews for five months—a long time. “We had a pretty crazy company,”said Reiner. “People were fighting, people were falling in love.”
Fosse had one eye on Niles, a peppy chorus dancer with the face of a girl and the mouth of a hooker, Debbie Reynolds after a night with Mae West. They called her Spooky.She was up for anything. “Marian was a spitfire,”said dancer Harvey Evans. “She was just dynamite.” “I wanted to walk behind herwith a tape recorder,” said dancer Margery Beddow. “Everything she said was hysterical.” In addition to being a career smoker, drinker, and all-night partier, Niles had what none of Fosse’s former girlfriends did: talent and experience. “Spooky was a wonderful tap dancer,”said Belkin. “The show called for her to do a mixture of ballet and tap, and she could move smoothly between them. There were others who were stronger in the chorus, others with longer legs, but Spooky was the best tap dancer in the bunch.” Like Fosse, she had been dancing for money since she was a kid, but unlike Fosse, Niles really had played some of the most fashionable bistros, and some of them in New York. She was a
real
pro. “Bobby liked beauty but he loved talent,”said dancer
Fosse was obsessed. “He was always there early,”Carl Reiner said, “warming up and doing his steps over and over again, and he was always making up new steps, always inventing. When the rest of us were resting, there was Bobby, getting there early to invent.” He was inventing himself a little too. Fosse’s
Call Me Mister
bio, which cited his tour of “fashionable bistros of the middle-west,” was less actual than aspirational, obliquely disclosing a deep-down, never-to-be-resolved affliction of class—as in, he thought he had none. If they liked his act, he fooled them. “Bobby had the first-act finale number,” Reiner said. “It was the signature song, ‘Call Me Mister,’ and he had a very big dance specialty in it, a solo. I was a floorwalker in the number, he was a customer, and he was dancing around getting clothes for this soldier coming out of the army. And he was just brilliant—so flashy—and he wasn’t going to let anyone get in his way. Even then he had that kind of ambition. One very funny thing I’ll always remember is, at one point he had leaped offstage—stage right—and my entrance was timed to his leap-off. So one day I took a head-start run before I leaped onto the stage just as he was leaping off and as we crossed in the air—I’ll never forget—he said to me, ‘Carl, I’m the lead dancer and you’re outjumping me!’ It was fantastic! Later, he said, ‘Why don’t you land over there, in that third of the stage?’ And I said, ‘But all I can
do
is jump! You dance. My thing is I jump!’ Anyway, we laughed about that, I remember.”
No one was more committed. “At the end of that number,”dancer Jeanna Belkin said, “Fosse, who was featured, had to do
à la seconde
turns and very quickly in a two-four tempo. When the curtain started coming down, Marian Niles and I, watching from the wings, would rush downstage at just the right time to stop him from spinning into the curtain. He was that involved in the dance. He was that passionate.” This happened every night. And every night, Niles reached out to save him.
Call Me Mister
opened in New Haven, after which it moved on to Philadelphia and then Boston; it played to loving audiences and solid reviews for five months—a long time. “We had a pretty crazy company,”said Reiner. “People were fighting, people were falling in love.”
Fosse had one eye on Niles, a peppy chorus dancer with the face of a girl and the mouth of a hooker, Debbie Reynolds after a night with Mae West. They called her Spooky.She was up for anything. “Marian was a spitfire,”said dancer Harvey Evans. “She was just dynamite.” “I wanted to walk behind herwith a tape recorder,” said dancer Margery Beddow. “Everything she said was hysterical.” In addition to being a career smoker, drinker, and all-night partier, Niles had what none of Fosse’s former girlfriends did: talent and experience. “Spooky was a wonderful tap dancer,”said Belkin. “The show called for her to do a mixture of ballet and tap, and she could move smoothly between them. There were others who were stronger in the chorus, others with longer legs, but Spooky was the best tap dancer in the bunch.” Like Fosse, she had been dancing for money since she was a kid, but unlike Fosse, Niles really had played some of the most fashionable bistros, and some of them in New York. She was a
real
pro. “Bobby liked beauty but he loved talent,”said dancer
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