When I think of Ann Reinking, I see legs. Legs in shimmering black tights. Legs in heels. Legs stretch effortlessly up to a 6 hour extension. They weren’t the only thing that made her dance so resplendent, but they were the anchor of her daring. In addition to their shape, they had a strength that entrenched her body, giving her pelvic insulations a sort of silky groove and her precision a natural, teasing sensuality. Even lying on a bed, her legs could tell a story.
Ms Reinking, who died in her sleep at 71 while visiting family in Seattle over the weekend, was one of Bob Fosse’s most important dancers and, for a time, his lover. This bed comes into play in a non-dancing scene from Fosse’s semi-autobiographical film “All That Jazz”, in which Ms. Reinking plays a thinly veiled version of herself. At that point, all she wants is Joe Gideon (Roy Scheider, in the Fosse-based role) to stop sleeping.
The dialogue is funny, but her legs rob her of the scene: leaning back, she drapes them, naked, on the mattress. Her power is heightened by her piercing blue eyes and long, shiny black hair, parted in mid-70s perfection. (Is there anything cooler than a 1970s dancer?) But really, it comes down to those legs.
Ms. Reinking made her career on Broadway and, above all, in the work of Fosse, for whom she was a muse. She met Fosse officially at an audition for “Pippin”, but she was already an admirer of his work. In an interview, speaking of seeing ‘Chicago’, she said, ‘I was transfixed. It went beyond interest. I don’t know why it just caught my attention. And it was a silent roar when they were done.
In 1977, two years before the release of “All That Jazz”, Mrs. Reinking, then 26, herself created a roar in “Chicago” when she replaced Gwen Verdon – Fosse’s wife, who starred in several of her major Broadway shows, including “Damn Yankees” and “Sweet Charity” – as backing vocalist Roxie Hart, a role she reprized in 1996 when she directed the show in the Fosse style for an Encores! presentation at the City Center.
During the 1990s, Ms. Reinking became the keeper of Fosse’s legacy: The Encores! the rebirth led to a production on Broadway, for which she received a Tony for Best Choreography. “The hope is that by rediscovering ‘Chicago’ the public will rediscover what theater was like,” Ms. Reinking said in a 1996 interview with The Times. “It was sophisticated, complicated, adult.” (At the time of the coronavirus shutdown, “Chicago” was still running.) In 1998, she co-designed, along with Richard Maltby Jr. and Chet Walker, “Fosse,” a revue that performed on Broadway from 1999 to 2001.
While best known for her work in musical theater, Ms. Reinking – known as Annie, at least during her “dance” days – started out in ballet. (Prior to the unveiling of the 1996 version of “Chicago,” she said her choreographic approach was more balletic than Fosse’s.) When she arrived in New York City as a young woman, she had a scholarship with the Joffrey. Ballet. On the West Coast – she is from Seattle – she had studied with the San Francisco Ballet and learned ballets from George Balanchine.
We don’t talk so much about it when we talk about Ms. Reinking’s career path, but it can be seen in her dancing: there is an ingrained elegance, an internal organization of the body that one feels even when she is not. not pronounced. One of the reasons Margaret Qualley, who brought Ms. Reinking to a sparkling life on the “Fosse / Verdon” TV series, was so good is that she shares that elegance; she was also a ballet dancer.
Ms. Reinking may be gone, but her dance continues: lush, full-bodied, sumptuous. And that’s not all Fosse. I forgot about “Annie”, but in this 1982 film, Mrs. Reinking plays Grace Farrell, secretary to billionaire Oliver Warbucks, who encourages her to adopt Annie. In the issue “We Got Annie”, Ms. Reinking dances a storm.
Wearing a silky yellow dress – she swirls around her legs like a partner – she begins with a jazzy and playful walk, stopping every few beats for a shimmy shoulder or whirlpool. She kicks and withers like a rag doll. Dashing down a hallway, she jumps into a chair, plays the harp with a few snaps of her fingers and continues forward, spinning in space as if sliding in the wind – blurry, glistening but indelibly articulated.
What a daredevil! What abandonment! In her exuberance, one has the impression that Mrs. Reinking is showing us the sound of laughter. It’s over too soon, but it’s aptly named: at least in these few minutes, we also have our Annie.