Extended detours into pure ballet notwithstanding, the "stage-oriented" economy of Singin' in the Rain does not permit it to linger on the outright repetition of any shot or sequence. However, allied techniques allow it to achieve a certain degree of formal and sentimental unity. In terms of large-scale structure, the decision to bookend the film's action between two theatrical premieres is extraordinary. Unlike a more explicitly flashback-driven story like Sunset Boulevard (a near-contemporaneous but darker meditation on Hollywood's transition to sound), the trajectory here is less circular than spiral in form: The gala debut of the film-within-a-film that closes Singin' in the Rain echoes the launch of the Royal Rascal that began it, but the superficial similarities only demonstrate how much the characters (and our understanding of them) have evolved in the meantime.
This "shot and echo" structure also gives viewers a chance to reflect on the film's awareness of its own illusionistic nature. We enter the world of Singin' in the Rain as moviegoers, as fans lined up for a glimpse of the stars "in real life." We leave as industry insiders well schooled in the way the film's vision of Hollywood behind the curtain functions, having spent time on the soundstages as well as the stars' mansions. When that "curtain" rises to expose the gap between backstage realities (embodied by Kathy, "the girl whose voice you heard and loved tonight") and the glamour propagated by the fan magazines, we (and Don Lockwood) have been prepared for it and know where to place our loyalties.
On a smaller scale, Singin' in the Rain provides some repetitive cues by returning to the production of the film-within-a-film at various points in its evolution...
We see the same scene played out in the silent idiom, then with sound, and, after the disastrous test screening, in its final form. This approach is not so much literal as implicitly musical: a "theme" is stated and then tested in its variations. First, the failure of the silent film as a mirror of reality is demonstrated through the silent camera's failure to capture anything but Lockwood and Lamont's romantic mummery. Then, the technical realities of sound production are introduced as a possible solution, but its failures (and Lamont's) are only exploited for comic effect at the test screening. While a hybrid solution is explored, it too is unsuccessful, ultimately allowing the film to make one last argument for legitimate theatrical talent as the ground of authenticity.
And for Singin' in the Rain, authenticity is the hallmark of joy. Kathy is loveable to the extent to which she is real: She dances, she expresses independent viewpoints and an interest in "live" (unmediated) theatre, and most of all, the character has vocal talent. Lina Lamont may look "refined" on film, but significantly can't sing or dance; her career depended on the constraints inherent in the silent form and the advance of cinematic technology only reveals her limitations. But those who can perform in a relatively unmediated environment manage to not only adapt to technological innovation but also connect with other human beings. Their cinematic output -- Kelly's output, O'Connor's, Charisse's -- is what Singin' in the Rain means to me that a Royal Rascal does not. Film only preserved their personality and their talent for generations like mine to enjoy. That's the breathtaking thing, and it's what we remember.
