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The dancing, directed by Jerry Robbins, who directed the whole Broadway show, gets the picture off to a stunning start as The Jets and The Sharks careen across the screen in the famous rumble routine—just possibly the most gorgeously galvanic sequence of dances ever caught on celluloid. But somehow, in the long run, the dancing palls a little, perhaps partly because some of its sweat and ardor evaporates in the camera, perhaps principally because the famous snap-that-finger, tilt-that-pelvis school of American choreography, now the rage of a dozen foreign capitals, is beginning to look terribly old levi here at home.