Sammy Davis Jr. and Glenn Ford’s rapid gunfight stunned the set—speed fades, charisma lasts forever
It was the summer of 1956, and the temperature on the MGM lot in Culver City, California, was unbearable. The sun beat down on the sprawling studios, turning the air to thick, sweltering heat. Sound Stage 7 had been transformed into a dusty western town for the filming of The Fastest Gun Alive, a film that was set to showcase Glenn Ford’s legendary quick-draw skills to the world. Ford, at the peak of his career, was about to demonstrate his impressive speed—a record-breaking 0.4 seconds from holster to target, a feat that had earned him the title of “the fastest gun in Hollywood.”
But on that particular day, as the crew gathered to watch the master at work, something completely unexpected happened. Something that would change the course of this legendary film set forever. It wasn’t just about who could draw faster. It was about a meeting of two legends—one known for his impeccable precision and discipline, the other for his unmatched artistry and charisma. And when the dust settled, everyone on that set knew that while speed might make you famous, it was charisma that made you immortal…
Glenn Ford had spent years perfecting his craft, training obsessively to become Hollywood’s fastest gun. Under the tutelage of Arvo Ojala, the master gunfighter who had coached many of the greatest western stars, Ford had honed his technique to an almost military level of precision. Every morning for three years, Ford practiced the same motion over and over: hand to holster, grip, draw, aim, fire. Muscle memory replaced conscious thought. His training was pure discipline, and the result was undeniable—0.4 seconds from the moment his hand touched the gun to the moment it hit its target. A speed that could be timed only by high-speed cameras.
That afternoon, Ford was practicing his legendary draw between takes. The set was clear, the crew standing at a safe distance, all eyes on the man who had made quick-drawing an art form. The gun, a gleaming Colt .45, seemed to obey Ford’s every command, its movements efficient and flawless. The sound of the gun clearing the holster was barely audible, followed by the sharp crack of the blank cartridge as Ford repeated the motion, again and again. Each time, it was the same—perfect, precise, mechanical. It was a display of technical mastery, one that left the crew in awe.
But then, the unexpected happened.
Enter Sammy Davis Jr.
Sammy Davis Jr. wasn’t supposed to be on set that day. He had been visiting MGM to discuss a potential recording contract, but word had spread around the lot that Glenn Ford was practicing his legendary quick draw. Sammy, always fascinated by firearms—not for their violence, but for their artistry—had wandered over to see it for himself.
At 31, Sammy Davis Jr. was already one of the most versatile entertainers in America. He could sing, dance, act, play multiple instruments, and do impressions that left audiences breathless. But what few people knew was that Sammy had a private hobby—gun handling. Not quick-draw gunfighting like Ford, but something entirely different: gun spinning, manipulation, and trick shooting. To Sammy, firearms were not tools of violence, but objects of beauty, something to be treated with the same respect and creativity he applied to every other art form.
As he stood at the edge of the set, watching Ford practice, his eyes locked on the rhythm and precision of Ford’s draw. Sammy wasn’t thinking about competing. He wasn’t trying to outdo Ford. He was simply appreciating the beauty of a craft he admired deeply. His focus was absolute, and soon, Ford noticed him.
“Sammy,” Ford said, his voice carrying across the set. “I heard you were visiting today.”
Sammy, always full of energy, pushed himself off the equipment and walked toward Ford. “I had to see the famous draw for myself,” he said with a grin, his admiration evident.
Ford smiled, holstering his Colt with practiced ease. “Stories have a way of growing in the telling,” he said. “But I appreciate the kind words.”
The two men exchanged pleasantries, but none of the crew expected what would happen next. Ford, ever the professional, asked, “I understand you’ve got an interest in firearms, Sammy. Arvo Ojala mentioned that you’ve been asking about technique.”
Sammy’s eyes lit up, but he wasn’t interested in Ford’s precise technique. “Not technique like yours,” he said. “What you do is pure precision. Pure speed. What I do is…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Different.”
Ford’s curiosity was piqued. “Different how?”
Sammy, not one to back down from a challenge, asked, “Mind if I take a look at that Colt?” Ford hesitated. His guns were precision instruments, crafted specifically for his technique. But something in Sammy’s respectful tone convinced him. Ford unholstered the gun and handed it over.
The Art of the Draw
As soon as Sammy held the Colt in his hands, something changed. The gun, which had been a tool for precision and speed in Ford’s hands, now seemed to become an extension of Sammy himself. His fingers wrapped around the grip, and without warning, he began to move. But it wasn’t a quick draw. It wasn’t a mechanical motion. Sammy’s hands spun the gun, flipping it through the air, twirling it with a fluidity that looked more like a dance than a gunfight.
The crew watched in stunned silence as Sammy continued his display. The gun seemed to float, moving in impossible arcs before landing back in his palm, effortlessly, rhythmically. This wasn’t gunfighting—it was artistry. Ford watched, captivated by the way Sammy turned the gun into a performance. The gun twirled, spun, and flipped through combinations that seemed like choreography, yet were clearly improvisational. Through it all, Sammy’s face remained calm, focused, the same concentrated joy he displayed when performing any of his other crafts.
Ford, completely taken aback, asked, “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Same place I learned to tap dance,” Sammy replied with a grin. “Practice, patience, and the understanding that everything—everything—is rhythm.”
Ford, having spent years honing his precision, was now deeply impressed. He had always focused on the technical side of gunfighting, but Sammy had shown him something he had never considered—the artistic side. The rhythm, the flow, the style.
“That’s incredible, Sammy,” Ford said, still in awe. “But what about speed? Pure draw speed?”
Sammy’s expression became more serious. “You want to see my draw?”
Ford nodded, intrigued.
The Showdown
What happened next would become the stuff of legend. Sammy took the classic gunfighter stance, but there was something about his posture that was different from Ford’s. Where Ford’s draw was mechanical, efficient, and fast, Sammy’s stance was flowing, almost as if he were moving with the rhythm of the world around him.
“Count it down,” Sammy said to the crew.
The assistant director called, “Three… two… one…”
Sammy’s draw was unlike anything Ford had ever seen. It wasn’t just fast—it was fast with style. The gun seemed to glide out of the holster, moving through the air in a fluid arc. It landed in firing position with a grace that made Ford’s own technique look mechanical, almost crude by comparison. The crew stood in stunned silence, trying to process what they had just witnessed.
“How fast was that?” Sammy asked, grinning.
Ford shook his head, still in awe. “I don’t know. I couldn’t time it. I was too busy watching it. That wasn’t just a draw. That was a performance.”
Sammy smiled and handed the Colt back to Ford. “Your turn, champ. Show me that 0.4-second magic.”
Ford took the gun, preparing to demonstrate his legendary quick draw. But after watching Sammy’s display, Ford’s own draw felt different. It felt more mechanical, less alive. He performed the motion with his usual precision—fast, efficient, flawless. The blank cartridge cracked, and the crew applauded. But the applause wasn’t the same as it had been for Sammy. It was respectful, but it lacked the awe that had followed Sammy’s performance.
Ford holstered the gun and looked at Sammy, his respect now fully evident. “I see what you mean about different approaches.”
Sammy quickly replied, “Don’t get me wrong. What you do is incredible. That level of technical mastery, that consistency, it’s something I could never achieve.”
Ford nodded. “But what you do…” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “What you do is something I could never achieve either. You turn technique into art.”
A Mutual Respect
The two men stood there, facing each other, their differences clear but their respect for each other undeniable. Ford had spent years perfecting his speed, his precision, his technique. Sammy had approached the same skill with a completely different philosophy—one rooted in artistry, rhythm, and performance. But in that moment, they both recognized the mastery in each other’s approach.
“Speed comes from perfection,” Sammy said thoughtfully. “Mine comes from survival.”
Ford raised an eyebrow. “Survival?”
Sammy’s expression grew serious. “In my world, being fast means staying alive. Being impressive means staying relevant. Being unforgettable means staying employed.”
The weight of Sammy’s words hung in the air. Ford, deeply moved, nodded slowly. “Every performance is life or death for you.”
Sammy’s eyes met his. “Every breath is life or death for me.”
Ford now understood the depth of Sammy’s artistry. It wasn’t just about the draw. It was about creating something memorable, something so unique that it couldn’t be forgotten or replaced.
As they stood there, the crew around them began to disperse, knowing they had witnessed something truly special. Ford, with newfound respect for Sammy’s approach, smiled. “You know what the difference is?” Sammy asked, his voice thoughtful.
Ford nodded, ready to hear the final word. “Your speed is a number, Sammy. But what you do, that charisma—that’s immortal.”
And with that, the two legends, each a master in his own right, had found common ground. Not in technique, not in speed, but in the art of being unforgettable.
And that, above all, is what made them both legends.
