Here's a review currently running in The Wall Street Journal. This is the pre-edited version. You can find the Journal piece at http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123879685776088067.htm ________ By Dave Shiflett Hollywood, fabled kingdom of detox and botox, is not known for producing sturdy role models. Fred Astaire was an exception. Then again, by celebrity standards, Mr. Astaire was a freak. Two new books remind just how unusual he was. The late Peter J. Levinson’s “Putting on the Ritz: Fred Astaire and the Fine Art of Panache” (St. Martin’s, 426 pages, $32.50) thoroughly chronicles this extraordinary life while Joseph Epstein’s “Fred Astaire” (Yale University Press, 191 pages, $22) is much lighter on its feet while pursuing the question: “Whence derived Fred Astaire’s sublimity, his magic?” Mr. Levinson’s book will have great appeal to readers who desire details such as Mr. Astaire’s waist measurement (29 inches) while Mr. Epstein’s book, part of a series on “American Icons,” will delight readers who have come to admire his sometimes magical prose. Together they provide an engaging portrait of the sultan of suave. He was definitely an odd bird. He despised publicity, appears to have been a fierce monogamist, was a regular churchgoer and decidedly Republican in his politics. He was also pleasantly bi-polar: To the south, one of the best pair of feet ever to grace a stage while, to the north, a highly disciplined head -- topped by a hairpiece and, in its most memorable moments, a top hat. In between wasn’t bad either. Mr. Astaire was around 5’7”and weighed 135 pounds; he never grew a gut (“What is a calorie anyway?” he once asked jazz critic Benny Green), was always dressed to the nines – or tens -- and remained light on his feet until his death in 1987. He wasn’t born sublime, but instead in Omaha , in (1899). His father was a Catholic of Jewish heritage who appears to have tap-danced around the commandment regarding adultery while his mother dedicated herself to ushering Fred and sister Adele, three years older, into a show business career. They hit the road for New York in 1905 and found early fortune as traveling entertainers; a gig with on the Orpheum Circuit paid $150 a week, writes Mr. Levinson (who died in 2008), compared to the weekly $2 skilled workers made at the time. Adele was the golden one, hailed by George Bernard Shaw as “one of the most beautiful women I have ever met.” Fred, whose features were nowhere near as stunning as his clothes, developed a capacity for hard work that would drive his sister and future dancing partners crazy – and result in performances that drove fans to tears. “Freddie,” Noel Coward said, “when I see you dance it makes me cry.” Hard work might not explain all his sublimity but it played a big part, as did the angelic (looking, at least) women who followed Aldele as partners (Mr. Astaire and his sister last danced professionally in 1932). Mr. Epstein’s pulse especially quickens while recalling Cyd Charisse, though there was also Rita Hayworth, Judy Garland, Leslie Caron, Barrie Chase and of course Ginger Rogers. Both authors agree that Ms. Rogers was not the most polished dancer of the lot, though as Mr. Epstein says that may have been central to producing magical results. “What it meant, in practice, was that Fred Astaire, through relentless rehearsal, in effect trained her – and trained her above all else to dance his way with him.” Part of their appeal arose from common roots. Ms. Rogers was also a midwesterner (born in Independence, Missouri) and together they were glamorous yet, as Mr. Epstein puts it, “never lost the common touch.” While both books primarily focus on Mr. Astaire’s feet they also offer high praise for his vocal chords, often overlooked despite a long list of hits including “Top Hat,” “Cheek to Cheek,” “ The Way You Look Tonight,” “Top Hat, White Tie, and Tails,” “They Can’t Take That Away from Me,” and “Puttin’ on the Ritz.” The authors are in good company. “He’s as good as any of them – as good as Jolson or Crosby or Sinatra,” said Irving Berlin. “Astaire can’t do anything bad,” agreed Jerome Kern. He was also a favorite of the Gershwins and incredibly proficient in the studio. While contemporary rock bands may spend a year of more cobbling together instantly forgettable albums, Mr. Astaire released a historic series of records in the 1950s that were largely unrehearsed, Mr. Epstein writes, “and none required more than four takes.” Also unlike some musicians, Astaire actually sought out the company of police officers. Mr. Levinson tells the story of when Mr. Astaire, who liked to ride around in patrol cars, was present at the capture of a bank robber: The collared crook produced the piece of paper he had drawn the robbery plans on and asked for an autograph. He knew his share of sadness. His first wife, Phyllis, died of lung cancer in 1954 at 46, and he remained single until marrying Robyn Smith, a jockey, in 1980. He was 80, she was 43 years younger – which to some readers will seem the epitome of sublimity, though Mr. Levinson reviles Mrs. Astaire the Younger for what he believes has been a tight-fisted administration of his estate. Mr. Astaire seems not to have thought himself especially sublime, at least according to Debbie Reynolds, who says he “called himself a businessman, an ordinary man, not a dancer. He felt he was a businessman who danced.” Yet Mr. Epstein is not exaggerating in writing that what “Fred Astaire did was elevate the entertainment of popular dance into an art; and he did it by dint of superior taste and sublime style.” If that’s not sublimity, it’s close enough for this world. If we ever get around to cloning people, let’s hope Fred Astaire’s at the top of the list.
