Cyd Charisse could do it all: sing, act, and dance like music coming to life. Her long legs made her famous. But the woman who seemed like she was built for the spotlight began as a sickly, skinny Texas girl named Tula Ellice Finklea. After she got polio, her parents put her in ballet “to build me up.” It did more than that; it changed her life. When Hollywood finally called, producer Arthur Freed corrected her brother’s misspelling “Sis” to “Sid.” This is how the name Cyd came to be.
She grew up in Amarillo, where the wind and dust were more prevalent than stage lights. Ballet altered her body and helped her find her way. She was taking lessons from professional tutors when she was a teenager, initially in Los Angeles and then in other countries. She mastered classical lines and épaulement, which would become her hallmark style. When she started touring with ballet, she tried out Russian-sounding stage names for a while, like many American dancers did at the time. But her style never changed: it was always a calm, unfussy grace with powerful musicality.
Not talking, but dancing, got her into movies. She first shows up as a shimmer—uncredited jobs, specialty numbers, and that calm girl who moves in a way that is different from everyone else. At the height of its power, MGM signed her and let her flourish. She looked like quicksilver next to Gene Kelly in Ziegfeld Follies (1945). The way she looked was a hint of what was to come: even in a few bars of choreography, her line read all over the room. Then came the scene that made her a cinematic star: in Singin’ in the Rain (1952), she floated through the “Broadway Melody” ballet with jet-black hair, a poisonous green dress, and legs that seemed to stretch on forever. She expressed everything without saying a word. She comes and goes like a dream, but the mark stays.
People like to fight over Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly, and Charisse is one of the few dancers who made both guys look even better than they were. She could fight back with silk-covered steel against Kelly and convert breath into speech against Astaire. “Dancing in the Dark” from The Band Wagon (1953) is almost nothing. There are no fancy motions or camera trickery; just two folks walking into a waltz in Central Park. But it seems to go on forever because of what Charisse does: the tiny gap before she gives in and the way her back tells you what her face won’t. Astaire is said to have dubbed her “beautiful dynamite.” She thanked him back without choosing a side, saying something like, “That’s like comparing apples to oranges.” The truth is that she talked to both musical gods in the same way.
People loved to say that Lloyd’s of London insured her legs for a million dollars, which made her stand out even more. It was the way she talked about moving. You could stop any frame and see the ballet training: the long, sharp line from shoulder to wrist, the carriage, and the turnout. She didn’t do ballet steps, though; she breathed through jazz and modern shapes until they felt like they had to happen. Notice how she shifts her weight, how her foot finds the floor like a cat, and how a turn concludes with the softest whisper of a head. Some dancers will give you speed, but Charisse will teach you how to stretch, hold, and then break time like a silk ribbon.
Even if the music started to go wobbly in the 1950s, MGM kept her occupied. There are so many great moments: the noir-tinted danger of her vamp in Singin’ in the Rain; the cool sophistication (and sly humor) of The Band Wagon; the tart sadness of Brigadoon (1954), where her epic line softens for a Highland romance; the urban bite of It’s Always Fair Weather (1955); the urbane fizz of Silk Stockings (1957), where she updates Garbo’s Ninotchka with deadpan wit and deadly glamour; and the smoky, grown-up allure of Party Girl (1958), whose nightclub numbers doubled as character studies. The choreographers gave her a lot of work, even though the script didn’t. They gave her room since they knew that the camera likes to see things from a distance.
She was the studio’s fantasy off-screen: always on time, ready, and not interested in gossip. She got married to Nico Charisse, her old dance teacher, when she was very young. They had a son named Nico Jr. In 1948, she married singer Tony Martin. Their second marriage lasted for 60 years, which is practically a record in Hollywood. People who worked with her said she was shy and snarky, and she would rather remain home than attend to parties. She also preferred rehearsal clothes over gowns and orange juice to martinis. She didn’t feel sorry for herself when the movie musical ended. Instead, she moved on to TV variety shows, European movies, and finally the stage. She and Martin did a fancy dance in the club. In the 1990s, she wowed Broadway audiences in Grand Hotel with the kind of authority that comes from years of experience.
A life touched by stardust isn’t without anguish. American Airlines Flight 191 crashed after leaving Chicago in 1979, killing everyone on board. Sheila Charisse, who was 36 years old and married to Cyd’s son, was one of these people. People still talk about the accident in quiet voices, like it was one of those American tragedies. The disaster left Charisse and her family with an empty space in their lives that would never be filled. It was a reminder that being calm under stress isn’t only a technique on stage.
But she kept working, teaching, and mentoring. She advised younger dancers that elegance without technique is just clothes. In 2006, she won the National Medal of Arts, which was a formal way to say what dancers, directors, and fans had known for fifty years: that she helped define an art form in movies. She died two years later, at the age of 86, following a heart attack. The next person was Tony Martin in 2012. The song kept playing even after their long duet was over.
You should truly think about what she accomplished that no one else does three times.
“Broadway Melody” (from “Singin’ in the Rain”) She moves like a knife that has been wrapped in satin. The famous green suit isn’t just a costume; it’s a dance as well. The bias cut makes every step look like a line drawing, while the slit lets you see the engine. When she folds into Kelly’s arms, it appears like she’s giving up, but her back never gives up. She has the choice to be gentle.
The song “Dancing in the Dark” is on “The Band Wagon.” Not any fireworks. Just breathing and a walk that won’t stop. The way she stretches her leg and puts her heel on the ground shows what the music can’t: that love is about rhythm, not fighting.
“Silk Stockings” title number— Charisse uses silence as a weapon. The jokes are deadpan, and the control is strong. She shows you the army hidden in the satin and then laughs with you when you realize it.
Her presence has a wider influence than merely the set pieces. Before Charisse, the standard for a leading lady in a musical was “a young woman who can dance.” After Charisse, choreographers started writing for women who could dance like Astaire and be the center of attention, not merely an ornament. Directors learnt to let the camera stay on a shot longer, editors learned to cut less, and partners learned to pay attention. She created room for the next group of dancers, who weren’t afraid to be statuesque, modern, or hard.
The million-dollar legs, the calm hauteur, and the emerald dress that ignited a thousand crushes are all popular fables. But the deeper truth is better. Cyd Charisse showed that strength can look like silk, grace can be athletic, and a story can go down a calf and across an ankle to land softly, exactly on the beat.
After a long time, the movies still play. Put on The Band Wagon and dance in the park. When you see “Singin’ in the Rain,” the green dress will shift in your mind. If you watch Silk Stockings again, pay attention to how a lifted eyebrow may be a dance. You don’t have to feel nostalgic to like her; you just have to see her.
She spoke in action. Her legacy is still alive.
