SINGIN' IN THE RAIN: 4K UHD Blu-ray (MGM, 1952) Warner Home Video
Few movie musicals are as deservedly cherished as Singin’ In The Rain (1952), and even fewer as ceaselessly irreplaceable and vivacious on the screen seventy-years later. In retrospect it all comes off so effortlessly, one tends to overlook just how much hard work was involved along the way, and also, how the film almost didn’t get made at all. Co-directed by Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen, Singin’ In The Rain offers up definitive versions of Arthur Freed/Nacio Herb Brown’s most splendid pop tunes. For years Freed, who had begun his MGM career as a songwriter in the late-twenties before quickly moving up the ladder to full-fledged producer, had toyed with the idea of commemorating his own song catalogue. And why not? The studio had had terrific winners, venerating the music of Jerome Kern (Till The Clouds Roll By, 1946) and Rogers and Hart (Words & Music, 1948). If anyone could pull off another ‘anthology’ musical it was Gene Kelly, fresh from his exuberant star turn in Vincente Minnelli’s An American in Paris (1951), the first movie musical to win Best Picture since 1936’s The Great Ziegfeld. Yet, and, for a long while, Singin’ In the Rain remained in limbo, due, at first, to a minor contractual dispute with screenwriters, Betty Comden and Adolf Green, then, because the duo became stumped to conceive an angle for the story.
It may seem incredible today, but Singin’
In the Rain was formerly penciled in for singer, Howard Keel – not dancer,
Gene Kelly! When Comden and Green learned of this casting decision it nearly
broke their stride. For days they tried to fashion a tale about a western rodeo
star who makes it big in the movies. When that didn’t work, Comden finally came
up with a most brilliant suggestion, to tell a fictional story about the early
sound era in Hollywood. The team were further inspired by the real-life tragedy
of silent matinee idol, John Gilbert whose career ended with the advent of
sound. But since, Singin’ In the Rain was a musical, the hero of Comden
and Green’s effort would ultimately fare on the sunny side of the street. As
Stanley Donen once pointed out, there is no intelligent reason for naming the picture
after the song ‘Singin’ in the Rain’; a pop standard since Hollywood
Review of 1929, and appearing several more times throughout the 1930s and
40s as either a full-fledged production number or background music in other MGM
films. In many ways, the song became an early anthem for the studio – one they could
look back on with immense pride. Moreover, it was a presold commodity with
built-in audience appeal.
Casting was something of a minor
challenge. As Gene Kelly had just finished An American in Paris – and
yet to learn just how popular the release was to become with audiences and the Academy,
Comden and Green reluctantly sent him their script, expecting him to politely
decline. Instead, Kelly came to the table brimming with excitement and fresh
ideas. Arthur Freed’s first choice to play Kelly’s cohort was Oscar Levant –
not surprising, since the two had had genuine chemistry in An American In
Paris. However, Comden and Green were convinced the part should go to another
dancer instead. After briefly considering George Murphy (too old), and, Fred
Astaire (unavailable) Freed concurred that Donald O’Connor could be brought in
– borrowed from Universal. Likewise, the studio’s first choice to play opposite
Kelly as his befuddled girlfriend, Lena Lamont was another American in
Paris alumni, Nina Foch – judged too sophisticated and quickly replaced
by the sadly underrated Jean Hagen. The part of the ingénue proved the most
perplexing to cast. There are conflicting stories as to how Debbie Reynolds came
to the forefront. Stanley Donen remembers it as being a mutual decision made
between him and Kelly. However, the actress recalls being foisted upon Kelly
and Donen by L.B. Mayer much to Gene’s chagrin.
“Do you dance?” Kelly
reportedly inquired during his first meeting with Reynolds and Mayer.
“No,” Reynolds reluctantly
admitted.
“Mr. Mayer,” said Kelly, “She
doesn’t dance.”
“She’ll dance!” Mayer
thundered.
And thus, Reynolds embarked upon a
crash course to learn and do just that. It wasn’t easy. Kelly was a task
master. While he never expected the impossible from his leading ladies, he
generally demanded they do everything he did, backwards and in high heels – so,
pretty much ‘impossible’ unless, of course, the elegant she was a trained
dancer like Cyd Charisse. At one point,
learning to be a perfectionist from the ground up left Reynolds tearful and
whimpering beneath a rehearsal piano during the lunch hour break. She might
have stayed there too. Except that to her rescue there came none other than
Fred Astaire. It was Astaire who provided Reynolds with the knowledge that “dancing
is the hardest thing you can do, Debbie,” and validating his claim by
affording her the rarest of opportunities - to watch him rehearse his new
routines on another sound stage. “And he did the steps,” Reynolds
recalls, “…and got frustrated and he broke his cane…and he turned to me and
said, ‘You see? This is how hard it gets if you want to be great, and you can
be. Now go back in there and start!’”
Recreating Hollywood, circa 1929
also challenged the production team. The studio had matured in the intervening
decades and had divested itself of much of their older props and equipment
necessary to convincingly resurrect that bygone era anew. Art director Randall
Duell and set designer, Jacques Mapes spent months in research and months more
rebuilding vintage microphones and Cooper-Hewitt stage lights as props, while
Walter Plunkett feverishly designed the costumes, taking into his sketches an
acceptable amount of artistic license in shortening the hemlines to keep up
with the fifties’ contemporary tastes. Freed, a stickler for authenticity
objected to these alterations but was eventually vetoed. The final wrinkle to
be ironed out was The Broadway Ballet – an elaborate ‘dream sequence’,
in every way meant to top the ballet from An American In Paris and
lavishly appointed at an initial budget of $80,000. This quickly ballooned to
$600,000. Without blinking an eye, Dore Schary, Mayer’s replacement in the
mogul’s seat, blindly approved the overrun, calling in Lennie Hayton to
transform the song, Broadway Rhythm into an orchestral celebration of
the roaring twenties. Meanwhile, Gene Kelly got down to business on the title number,
choreographing Singin’ in the Rain down to the exact spots where
he wanted potholes dug out of the pavement on MGM’s New York Street backlot to
add puddles he could jump through. The number was shot with large black tarps
covering the outdoor set to simulate a night shoot with a mix of water pumped
through an elaborate overhead system of pipes. Regrettably, the number had to
be repeatedly delayed after four in the afternoon, when overuse of the
California water system from nearby residents drained the pressure in the
sprinklers (designed to produce the rain shower in the movie) down to a mere
trickle. Worse, wearing a soaked through woolen top coat and pants that had
already begun to shrink, Kelly contracted the flu. He sojourned on with a fever
no less, shooting the bulk of the number before retreating home to recover anew.
Singin’ in the
Rain is the story of Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly), a silent screen matinee idol
who, along with his platinum co-star, Lena Lamont (Jean Hagen) is the envy and
toast of Hollywood. We arrive at a
particularly glamorous movie premiere where gossip columnist, Dora Bailey
(Madge Blake) is grabbing sound bites from the stars attending on the red
carpet just outside of Grauman’s Chinese Theater. First to arrive is film
composer, Cosmo Brown (Donald O’Connor) who is dealt with short shrift before
Lockwood and Lamont appear in a stretch limo. Dora asks for a few words about
what it takes to become a real star, to which Don feeds their adoring fans with
a boatload of banana oil. We see Cosmo and Don as a pair of struggling extras. Cosmo
plays the piano to accompany the action, while Don takes his lumps on the chin
and from Lena who treats him like some untouchable peasant because of his lowly
status as a stunt double. However, when the Monumental Pictures’ head, R.F. Simpson
(Millard Mitchell) learns his ‘team’ of stunt doubles is actually one man, he
decides to costar Lena and Don in a picture together. Alas, from the outset,
their so-called love affair – a pure fabrication of studio sanctioned fan
magazines, is acrimonious at best. Nevertheless,
returning to the evening’s premiere, Lockwood and Lamont’s latest effort proves
to be yet another colossal hit. Afterward, Don successfully discourages Lena
from delivering a speech of gratitude, giving thanks to the audience from them
both. It’s only after the two are concealed off stage that we learn the real reason
for this secrecy. Lena is a horrible shrike whose voice grates on the nerves
like fingernails on a chalk board.
R.F. is unnerved by
Lena’s lack of innate acting talent. After all, in silent movies all she really
needs to succeed is a pretty face. And Lena certainly has that. Leaving the
premiere in separate cars, Don is accosted by a flock of overly adoring fans
who tear his tuxedo to shreds. To escape their adulation, he flees into
oncoming traffic and mounts a moving street car before tumbling into the
passenger seat of an old jalopy driven by aspiring actress, Kathy Selden
(Debbie Reynolds). She mistakes him for
a masher, but then, after learning his real identity, nevertheless discounts
his acting as mere ‘dumb show’ much to Don’s chagrin. Following the premiere,
Simpson throws a house party for his stars, where he debuts a ‘new’ invention -
the talking picture. No one except Simpson pays much attention to it. Later,
Selden – who is working to pay the bills – emerges from the center of a frosted
cake to perform a burlesque routine with a pack of pretty-in-pink chorus girls.
As payback, Don teases Kathy about her present career and Kathy, in a spirited
moment, hurls a cream pie at him. In
true slapstick fashion, the custard misses its mark and strikes Lena in the
face instead. Days later, Don cannot get Kathy out of his head. But his hopes
to find her prove fruitless. Happy chance for everyone, Cosmo discovers Kathy has
been hired as an extra by Monumental Pictures and is already working. Don takes
Kathy aside and woos her in true Hollywood fashion. She can see his intensions are honorable and
he, in return, has already begun to worship her. The two begin a passionate
romance. This culminates with Don taking to the streets outside of Kathy’s
apartment in the middle of a torrential downpour to sing and dance in the rain.
Regrettably, Lena learns of Kathy’s
presence and, owing to her clout at the studio, promptly has her fired. But
when Lena’s voice proves impossible for audio recording in the latest Lockwood
and Lamont ‘sound’ picture, Simpson hires Kathy back to dub Lena without any
knowledge of this bait and switch. The picture is almost finished and ready for
premiere when Lena’s good friend, Zelda Zanders (Rita Moreno) exposes R.F.’s
grand plan, thereby forcing Lena to exercise the rights in her contract. These
stipulate the studio cannot do anything that would be detrimental to her career.
Backed into a corner, Simpson agrees, Kathy’s dubbing must be kept a secret
from the press. Predictably, at the Grauman’s premiere, this plan backfires
when Lena is asked to sing for her fans. Simpson sets up a microphone behind
the curtain for Kathy with Lena out front lip-syncing. Don and Cosmo decide it
is high time to knock this simpering diva off her mink-lined tuffet. So, they
raise the curtain and expose the lie with Don shouting for everyone to hear, “That’s
the voice you heard and loved tonight – Kathy Selden!” The scene dissolves
to an exterior with Kathy and Don embracing in front of a billboard, heralding
their co-starring in a new movie, ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ for
Monumental Pictures.
Singin’ In the
Rain is arguably the world’s first ‘perfect musical’. The embarrassment of
riches on tap throughout fit so succinctly together, the picture’s plot and
score so effortlessly stitched into one cohesive grand razzmatazz, it is impossible
to be unimpressed by what’s here, and even more difficult to remain objective
when reviewing it, arguably searching for critical flaws. The score is undeniably
first rate. During production, a few new songs were added including a comedy
solo for Donald O’Connor that Arthur Freed wrote on the fly – basically plagiarizing
the Cole Porter melody ‘Be A Clown’, loosely reconstituted as ‘Make
‘em Laugh’. Song writer, Irving Berlin was quick to point out the glaring
similarity between the two and was quickly, and quietly ushered off the set by
Arthur Freed. However, Porter, well aware of the parallels between the two,
nevertheless remained silent, and never to voice his objections. Ever the
gentleman, Porter likely realized Freed had backhandedly paid him the supreme
compliment by ‘borrowing’ from his repertoire. Flattery, as they say,
will get you anywhere.
The dance routines in Singin’ In
The Rain are as near to perfection as one could hope, particularly Kelly’s
exuberant ‘rain soaked’ title routine and the delightful ‘Good
Mornin’, superbly executed by Kelly, O’Connor, Reynolds – the latter never
missing a step and convincingly keeping up with her two trained dancers cohorts.
O’Connor and Kelly perform ‘Fit As A Fiddle’ (the last tune Freed and Nacio
Brown ever composed), and, later, have an electric dance off with ‘Moses
Supposes’. The biggest number in the
film, ‘The Broadway Ballet’ is a mind-blowing spectacle that charts a
young man’s aspirations to rise to prominence from burlesque hoofer to Broadway
superstar. In the middle of this incredibly lavish production number, Kelly
shares a pas deux with sultry, Cyd Charisse, guest-starring as a devious black
widow attracted to money rather than men. By the time Singin’ in the Rain
wrapped, it was over budget by $620,996 - a forgivable miscalculation
considering its final cost of $2,540,800 was eclipsed by its $7,655,000 gross.
That it was not even nominated for a Best Picture Oscar has always been a
source of consternation for fans. Certainly, Singin’ In the Rain
deserved at least the nod – and arguably - the win. Its unfortunate timing –
coming as it did one year after An American in Paris had already raided
the Oscar closet – is ultimately more responsible for the Academy’s oversight
than anything else. But as MGM’s publicity proudly declared back in the day, “what
a joy to see Singin’ In The Rain” – forever a testament to Gene
Kelly’s prowess as a truly unique American dancer/director, and, in hindsight,
to mark the beginning of the end for MGM’s glorious final flowering of the
Hollywood musical - that uniquely American art form it had literally put on the
map back in 1929. What a joy indeed!
Singin’ in the
Rain arrived on Blu-ray back in 2012, given the royal treatment with a
ground-up restoration from archival elements painstakingly restored. I'll just go on record here, adding that I have never quite understood Warner's marketing the picture to home video with only Gene Kelly's likeness exclusively plastered on its cover art. When MGM/UA released its VHS from days of yore, long before Warner's acquisition of the old MGM library, it employed the original poster art, illustrating Kelly alongside his co-stars, Donald O'Connor and Debbie Reynolds. And while Kelly is undeniably one of the stars of this picture, he also is NOT the only one. But I digress. Given the superiority
of Warner Bros. MPI film preservation facilities, and the positively gorgeous
results it yielded on this 3-strip Technicolor beauty, it was thought that
nothing could top what was here. But now, Warner Home Video has elected to step
up their game yet another notch – and a very considerable notch it is! In 4K, Singin’
in the Rain has gained a major advantage in overall image resolution. Points
of interest that were merely razor sharp and pristine on the original Blu, now
burst onto the screen with a revitalized clarity that surely belies the film’s
70th anniversary. Colors are amazing! Not only do we get the
richness and vibrancy of 3-strip Technicolor in its prime, but in HDR we get graded
subtleties to truly advance the total spectrum of color output. Contrast is
vastly improved, affording blacks a far more refined level of distinction with
superior shadow detail to boot. I could not be more ‘over the moon’ about any
4K release than this, and so nice to see a bona fide classic get such attention
paid from top to bottom and side to side. Singin’ in the Rain will
astound you in 4K. As far as I can tell, the DTS 5.1 audio remains identical to
the previously issued Blu – not a bad thing, as the original master was in top
form. A few disappointments. For kick starters, Warner has nixed including the
lengthy tribute to Arthur Freed: Musicals Great Musicals, from
the extras. We still the original audio commentary, featuring Debbie Reynolds,
Cyd Charisse and Donald O’Connor among others. And Warner has left their
50-min. tribute, ‘Singin’ in the Rain: Raining on a New Generation
– a rather superfluous doc and a holdover from its 60th Anniversary
deluxe edition Blu-ray. Gone also, the juke box feature, that allowed for a
comparison of the songs in the film with their original versions excised from
other MGM musicals. Ditched too, the handsome
collector’s booklet, a reproduction of original poster art, plus a tote
umbrella! Bottom line: ‘Let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the
place!’ Singin’ in the Rain in 4K is a no brainer purchase. But I
wouldn’t give away my deluxe 60th anniversary Blu-ray set. Very
highly recommended!
FILM RATING (out
of 5 - 5 being the best)
5+
VIDEO/AUDIO
5++
EXTRAS
2.5
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