#5 ‘Singin’ In The Rain’

Tap-Dancing Through Misogyny With a Smile

Let’s be honest: Singin’ in the Rain is the cinematic equivalent of being handed a cupcake by a man who’s just kicked your chair out from under you. It’s colorful, charming, and choreographed within an inch of its life—but underneath all that jazzy razzle-dazzle lies the same old smug celebration of men doing whatever the hell they want, while the women giggle, trip over themselves, or, ideally, shut up and sing pretty.

Set during the painful puberty years of Hollywood—when the silent film industry was gasping its last and “talkies” were stealing the show—the film pretends to be about artistic transition and technological innovation. But really? It’s just an excuse to let Gene Kelly smirk his way through musical numbers while the women fight for screen time, dignity, and basic respect.

Kelly plays Don Lockwood, a vainglorious silent film star who’s spent his career lying to the public about his humble origins and pretending to tolerate his screeching co-star Lina Lamont. Enter Kathy Selden, played by Debbie Reynolds, a young woman with talent, grace, and a spine made of gelatin. She’s introduced with promise—she critiques Hollywood bombast, stands her ground, and makes Don flinch.

And then… poof. Instant romantic interest. Within 15 minutes, she’s reduced from witty adversary to human doormat, forced to play second fiddle to his ego, his ambitions, and yes, his redemption arc. She literally dubs over another woman’s voice and doesn’t even get credit for it. Meanwhile, Don gets to be the hero and the romantic lead, and all Kathy gets is a patronizing kiss and the implication she should be grateful.

Let’s talk about poor Lina Lamont for a second. Sure, she’s painted as the villain—vain, deluded, and possessing a voice like a cat trapped in a gramophone—but she’s the only one telling the truth. She wants credit. She wants control. She’s sick of being used as a pretty puppet. In another universe, she’s the feminist antihero we never knew we needed. Instead, the film dunks on her repeatedly, mocking her accent, her ambition, her appearance—while the men backstage plot to erase her from her own film.

Meanwhile, the men are rewarded for their schemes, their swagger, and their ability to pirouette around accountability. Cosmo Brown (Donald O’Connor) is essentially a slapstick misogynist court jester, making his friend look good by comparison. He gets to dance on furniture and insult women and somehow we’re supposed to find him lovable.

Yes, the dance numbers are iconic. Yes, the colors pop like candy on celluloid. But when you look past the Technicolor gloss, Singin’ in the Rain is yet another old Hollywood self-congratulation ceremony—one that chuckles indulgently at female ambition and sells male arrogance as charm.

3 out of 5 umbrellas
(One for the choreography, one for the set design, one for Debbie Reynolds’ stamina after being treated like set dressing in tap shoes. The rest is all wet.)