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Directed by Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly
Written by Adolph Green and Betty Comden
Starring Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, Donald O’Connor, Jean Hagen
USA, 1952
Rated G
What a glorious feeling,
I'm happy again...
I saw Singin’ in the Rain first a few years back and, to this day, I feel it has saved me from numerous moments of bleakness. Just a week ago, it was the last day of school and I, being hopelessly sentimental, was all gloom and doom. My creative writing teacher just happened to have brought it that day and I watched and relished its fantasy of a quirkily amiss but perfect world. Singin’ in the Rain, surely the greatest musical ever made in my eyes, has been caught in many more such coincidences in my life that have salvaged me from black-and-gray states, and it always shines a light of optimism. Needless to say, I adore the film.
The movie is quintessential Hollywood and its tale of the hilarious transition from the silent film to the talkies gives a substantial, engaging story to the ‘50s musical formula (which is rare.) While Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard (another favorite) told the dark truth of this painful moment in cinematic history and how once-famous stars of the silent screen were tragically neglected, Singin’ in the Rain is bright and makes a nasty, funny villainess out of a naïve silent superstar, Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen), who is part of the most popular screen duo at the time with leading man, Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly). The film opens at a premiere of their latest silent flick, and Singin’ in the Rain enjoys poking fun at the banal machinery behind many thematically inane silent movies.
We soon discover to our surprise that Lina has the most horrid voice, like nails on a chalkboard. She is utterly witless and believes Don loves her just because she reads it in fan magazines (which can be seen as a little ridicule of the disillusionment of the public by Hollywood propaganda). Don soon becomes acquainted with an ordinary fan named Kathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds), who fires back at Don’s initial pompous presumption with age-old statements that ‘the stage is more dignified than the screen.’ The two soon fall in love though, and the lovers’ conflicts begin with Lina, who still assumes that Don is going to marry her. Away from the romantic struggle, which is giggle-inducing, Singin’ in the Rain milks more knee-slapping hilarity again out of Lina’s infantile ignorance. It is announced that Hollywood’s new gadget- sound- is successful with audiences, and that they love Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer (the actual first film with parts of sound), and Monumental Pictures, the home of Lockwood and Lamont, will start making sound films.
The extent of Singin’ in the Rain’s humor may surprise people; this has to be one of the funniest musicals ever made. A frantic, muddled director toils with sound on the set of the new Lockwood and Lamont talkie, The Dueling Cavalier, and arguably the funniest scene in the film is the one in which he has trouble recording Lina’s voice. The movie ends up being a failure at its premiere due to its banal dialogue and its being out-of-sync, which begins another conflict.
Writers Adolph Green and Betty Comden shaped this glorious script from a set of famous tunes from the silent era. In most musicals of the ‘40s and ‘50s, it is obvious that the music-and-dance numbers are placed there just for the sake of squeezing in a crowd-pleasing hit, and it is no different in Singin’ in the Rain. Sometimes the numbers are so unnecessary. "Moses Supposes," the only song specifically written for this movie, is so lyrically silly and insignificant, and the movie could have flowed a bit better without it and the resulting number, but the dancing and choreography is extraordinary in that sequence. There are no bad scenes in Singin’ in the Rain, and certainly no bad musical numbers.
"Make ‘em Laugh," performed by Donald O’Connor, who plays Don’s witty sidekick Cosmo Brown, is an awe-inspiring, acrobatic delight. The scene prior to the number is fun; we are shown glimpses of the laughable simplicity of the silent movie sets. Don woos Kathy on a movie soundstage, with lights, props, and a backdrop of moon and stardust, in "You Were Meant For Me," because he does not know how else to create the ultimate fantasy of courtship, and he can only express his emotions through song and dance. "Beautiful Girl," an awfully undermentioned number, steals from An American in Paris, but features a wonderful song, and there is even a tribute to Busby Berkeley’s kaleidoscopic images in the montage preceding the number. "Good Morning" allows Debbie Reynolds to show off her adeptness at dance. In the film’s big setpiece, the lengthy number "Broadway Ballet," Gene Kelly slides, gallops, and dives through a number of splendid sets, right into the claws of Cyd Charisse’s femme fatale. And, of course, the absolutely stunning "Singin’ in the Rain" number has to be one of the most beautifully sustained crescendos of joy and first-love ever put to celluloid.
There is a difference between Gene Kelly, a superb choreographer and dancer, and dance genius Fred Astaire. If you watch one of the great-but-hokey Astaire-Rogers musicals like Swing Time, Top Hat, and the marvelous The Gay Divorcee, you witness how sophisticated Astaire is as a dancer. He’s miraculous, making music not with his comparable-yet-sweet voice, but with his feet and tap shoes. The very sound of his heels clicking and clacking is ear candy- the sound belongs on a CD for purchase- and the sight of it is nothing short of grand and beguiling. But he is obviously more highbrow than Gene Kelly, who is the dancer for the people, the ordinary man with amazing talent. His limbs seem freer than Fred’s; when he dances, he is floating and defying the laws of gravity. His dancing is cool, casual, and precise, and he looks like he’s having a grand ol’ time walking on air.
Singin’ in the Rain does not boast any groundbreaking performances, but the entire cast is a joy, especially Jean Hagen as Lina. Her voice cracks and crumbles and she sounds so dumb, but Hagen actually dubbed for the singing Debbie Reynolds. Hagen is brilliant and takes her caricature character to wonderful, lively heights. I think the reason why Singin’ in the Rain is so much better and more enjoyable than the Best Picture Oscar-winner An American in Paris (a film I personally like but recognize as a dud plot-wise) is because its female antagonist is more fun, more boisterous, and also because Singin’ in the Rain is about something, whereas American in Paris, its predecessor, serves up a dreadfully formulaic love story sprinkled with brilliant dance numbers. As for the rest of Singin’ in the Rain’s cast, Donald O’Connor is the consummate funnyman, extremely likable and nice; Debbie Reynolds is a beam of light; and Gene Kelly has a sweet presence and underrated, subtle acting skill (actors who make skill look effortless, like Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn, among others, are not given enough credit because their talent isn’t blatant).
Singin’ in the Rain’s magic was a gorgeous mistake; it was just another Hollywood machine that wasn’t meant to be as timeless as it became. There have been other such accidents, though few, in movie history. The other film I love passionately that would ‘tie’ Singin’ if I were to compile a favorites list is an exact opposite of this God-sent musical. Ingmar Bergman’s Persona is deep, strangely stylized, and haunting in a disturbing way. They are two very different pictures, but both are dreamy and transporting. Singin’ in the Rain is a movie about movies (even the romance is too Hollywood to be taken as anything but fiction) and the relevance and importance of the fantasies we see onscreen. (Persona is partly about how we have become a society of actors.)
Singin’ in the Rain has an aura of charm and elegance and wittiness that time cannot touch. It evokes the magic of newness- the newness of sound to the movie industry, and the newness of love to the film’s cute couple, and to any couple. The first time I saw this movie, I cried because I didn’t want the film to end. A few years later, I still feel sad that the movie doesn’t last forever. There will never be another film like it again (there is something so special about the Technicolor of the ‘40s and ‘50s; it's sugary and so fantastical that it’s no wonder why so many dramas were made in black-and-white in that era), because the world has become too cynical, and critics seem to applaud only brutally honest works. But I know no other film that brings me closer to heaven and indescribable ecstasy, and no other film reminds me more of how purely magical the movies are (or used to be.)
** The film has saved me yet again... I've had a painful soar throat all day and we just began a musical unit in theatre class. My teacher played Singin' in the Rain for us. [MARCH 2, 2001] ** By Andrew Chan
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