The trouble with cheating.

I ended my sleep-at-a-reasonable-hour-like-a-responsible-adult streak last night when I had a 1am movie session with Last Night. The main reason I chose to watch it was because of my shameless girl crush on Keira Knightley and her insufferable pout and razor sharp jawline. But it turned out to be my kind of movie in general --which is best described as "slow." That sounds like a backhanded compliment but what I mean is I love movies that you can just marinate in, where nothing really happens, where it's a slightly rose-tinted version of the romance and angst of everyday life, where you get to watch people wash their hands at the sink or make food in their perfect kitchens or walk around in their underwear. Films like Lost in Translation  and Beginners.

So except for Sam Worthington's wooden acting and bovine expressions and the cop-out ending which left me raging a little, Last Night was my kind of movie. And it also got me thinking, which is a miracle for any film to do to a viewer these days. I'll spare you the spoilery details but what the film essentially asks is which kind of infidelity is worse --or, as I chose to read it, which would I rather my partner commit --a one-night stand largely fueled by physical chemistry, or a constant, nostalgic longing for a former love who holds that "special place" even though there is no physical act of  cheating.

I have no immediate or final answer to which I would find more forgivable/understandable because let's face it, both situations suck. And yet both, I think, are so easy to happen without malicious intent. I think I would find the emotional cheating more forgivable and more painful. I say more forgivable because I don't think you can help what you feel, and memory is such a powerful force that escapes control most of the time....and for that reason it would also be more painful to know that some other individual occupies your S.O's mental space, regardless of whether they're even there or not. Whereas I would probably be far more enraged by physical cheating and the choice to act on what you're feeling. Is that less forgivable? On second thought, maybe not given that I could probably also take some twisted comfort in knowing it was "only" based on lustful desire, not loaded history.  

I honestly can't say which I would find easier to deal with but I believe in both cases it's not necessarily a dealbreaker --that's not to say you shouldn't break up if the guy/girl has been a total asshole about it --but's it not simple enough a matter to have a pre-made decision about without any context. Everyone fucks up because everyone's human. But I guess I can only theorise until something actually happens.

Adapt or Die.

Cannot wait to listen to this in the gym and pretend I'm on the run from German skinheads and CIA agents.

So.

Fucking.

Good.

Lessons from Blue Valentine.

1) True love does not exist.

2) Never get married.

3) If Dean and Cindy can't make it work, there is no hope for the rest of us.

4) I am glad my parents are still together. I still don't want to end up like them. Refer back to #2.

Mary Poppers.

Spoonful of sugar?

Let's go fly a kite?

Chalk?

There's no way this film isn't about a secretly alcoholic nanny who sedates the children with pot and hallucinogens right?

Deconstructing Hugh Grant.

I'll admit it -I've had too much Hugh Grant this holiday. The fact that I somehow managed to not watch Bridget Jones with a tub of ice cream is somewhat of a miracle. What is it about this man anyway? He's not that attractive or dreamy. He's kind of insufferable. And he's definitely kind of really poncy. So why do I proudly declare my love for Colin Firth only to find myself guiltily searching up Two Weeks Notice on YouTube?

Watching a Hugh Grant movie is like slipping into an old pair of smelly sneakers with holes in the bottom and maybe some dog shit stains that won't wash out....you know you should throw them out, you know it's embarrassing to be walking around in them, you know you should switch to something more decent, but god they're just so comfortable. That's what Hugh Grant is: smelly, comfortable familiarity. You know exactly what you're going to get. Which is why the guy is all too often labelled as an one-dimensional actor associated only with romantic comedies.

Which is actually not as correct as your instincts might tell you. You think you know Hugh Grant, but think about "fuck/marry/kill." No, that's not the new Hugh Grant movie, much as it would be a perfect one for him. It's like a crasser version of the informal "hot or not" game only you categorise three different people and feel good about judging them and being an asshole. Anyway, my point is that Hugh Grant covers all three bases of fuck/marry/kill with the characters he's played. And these roles are pretty different from one another --but because he becomes the archetype for each one so perfectly, people forget this um, versatility.

Fuck

Obviously this is where all the bad boy Hugh Grants go, the prime example being Daniel Cleaver. There is NO QUESTION that Colin Firth/Darcy is far more superior but someone needs to make room for that trope of Sleeping With Your Sexy Boss (because what else do working women do, right?) and that is how Hugh Grant edges himself into the picture. He is that cocky bastard you shamelessly flirt with/diss/preemptively tell your friends to keep you away from before you get drunk only to find yourself all over him anyway. Anyway, the important thing to remember is that Bridget fucks and chucks him and ends up with Darcy. Instant gratification Hugh Grant means you don't want to deal with him the next morning.

Marry

Only Hugh Grant could make marrying a politician look appealing. Seriously, a Prime Minister who deliberately fucks all diplomatic relations with his country's biggest ally because the US president made a pass on his crush? And then uses state facilities and personnel to track down the girl at her house on Christmas day? Who cares if the country's going to shit, the guy is a total romantic! Also, someone I can have dance and lip-syncing parties with? Yes please.

Kill

Disregarding the fact that I kind of want to kill myself for wasting an hour and a half on any Hugh Grant movie, there are two particular types of Hugh that make it near impossible not to stab the screen.

First, you have the Hugh Grant who is basically the "fuck" version minus any self-awareness or wit and infinitely dumber. In other words, a total man child brat which is what Sandra Bullock and I had to deal with in Two Weeks Notice....god, this film. The worst part is the coupling of the two at the end which although predictable is SO WRONG and absolutely infuriating. Let's not even get into the whole Type A Woman Needs To Not Be So Accomplished And Intimidating So She Can Find A Man deal....

Even further on the murderous spectrum is Chopin Hugh Grant. A distinction needs to be made here between Chopin the composer and pianist whom I love and is brilliant, and Chopin Hugh Grant in Impromptu who is almost a person in his own right due to the levels of ridiculousness and sap achieved. This is Hugh Grant at his most sickly, snivelly and apologetic as a sad romantic musician. He's probably meant to be pathetic in the sense of evoking pathos, especially when pursued by a headstrong, fiery woman but GOD do you want to just push him into a lake and watch him flounder about. Look at him there, sitting next to that damn fine Liszt.

So there you have it, the fuck-marry-kill trichotomy of Hugh Grant, who is very much a three dimensional actor. Okay, so a resume of three stock characters might not make him a chameleon. But it's kind of extraordinary how the same accent, bedroom eyes and bewildered expressions result in a disparate trinity that at the end of the day, makes him a lot of cash. And while he may not be my favourite actor, he is definitely my favourite 80s has-been pop star. You know those hips don't lie.

P.S. Merry Christmas

Too many levels of brilliance and love.

Well, baste my steaming puddings!

Top Christmas movie lists are all the same, it's really quite dull. Everyone knows It's A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Story are musts, so why repeat what's agreed upon?

Here's some non-generic Christmas cheer featuring a jarringly friendly but still hilarious Blackadder and appearances by Hugh Laurie, Stephen Fry and Miranda Richardson. Imagine a tea-party with Prince George, Melchard, and Queen Liz. Best tea-party ever.

While we're on the subject of the genius that is Rowan Atkinson, his bit part in Love Actually is also absolute gold.

Alan Rickman - Videoclip - Love Actually - MyVideo

"Ready in the flashest of flashes" --that is a total Blackadder moment they must have deliberately referenced. God, who needs Bing Crosby when you've got this guy's wit and charm.

All I want for Christmas.

This is currently my desktop background. Colin Firth gorgeousness aside, Love Actually is actually the best Christmas film. But Colin Firth doesn't hurt. To do: Bridget Jones viewing, which I know I will be hating at the very same time I'm lapping it up. Otherwise known as the continuation of vicariously living through romantic comedy characters to get through a solitary life winter.

Then again, I am a wuss.

It should have been a sign when I was whimpering with my scarf across half my face during "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" that I was not going to be able to handle "Black Swan." But watched and handled it I did, if barely. All this to say that it was absolutely gripping, beautiful, stunning etc. Long story short? Ballet dancer is cast as lead in "Swan Lake," goes crazy and turns into evil Black Swan. Dun-dun-dun.

Things to love?

1) Natalie Portman.

In the lead role of Nina Sayers, Portman legitly confirms in my mind that she is a stellar actor and atones for the second hand embarrassment she gave from the Star Wars movies. People can give her flak for being a privileged snot with a Harvard degree saying dumb things about the recession and eating bagels blah blah.....who the fuck cares. Girl is amazing in this, not only for pulling off the dancing (trained her ass off for a year...at 28, I don't even want to imagine the pain), but working that face on so many levels of looking shit scared without slipping into monotony or camp. In this case, Aronofsky's close ups actually serve a purpose other than gratuitous voyeuristic gazing (looking at you, Angelina Jolie in "The Tourist"). As a character, Nina Sayers is absolutely fascinating and believable, taking the archetype of Perfectionist Ballerina to a whole new level. This isn't just a typical portrait of backstage cattiness, bathroom purging and sexually charged student-teacher, student-student relationships (quick shout out to hot as fuck Vincent Cassel and Mila Kunis here). This is narcissism, insecurity, paranoia, jealousy, sexual repression and awakening all rolled into one clusterfuck of schizo-neurotic-I-don't-know-what.

Basically, any time Nina is alone and there is a mirror in the room (which is probably every 5 minutes), you know weird shit's about to go down.

Dun-dun-dun.

2) The music.

I would have put "soundtrack," except that erroneously gives too much credit to Clint Mansell's "original score." Tchaikovsky is the master here, come on. Don't tell me after listening to the above that you were't imagining yourself standing on a cliff in an angsty Titanic pose with waves crashing up beneath and fire raining down from above. Because you totally were.

Sometimes I wish classical music was still pop music to us the way it must have been to people of its own time. I'll bet Swan Lake would have been topping the charts and playing in all them classy clubs. And instead of dirty grinding people would be drunkenly and dramatically swooning, twirling and arabesquing into each other's arms. Damn, what I'd give to go to a club like that.

3) The pretty.

Rodarte's costume design

Okay, so the whole Manichean imagery and colour schemes were kind of in your face and literal (white=good! black=evil! pink=childhood!) but between the gorgeous dresses and makeup, ghostly lighting and grainy cinematography, you've got something of an aesthetic feast going on. Which really complicated the viewing experience for a wuss like me trying to strategically orient my scarf.

Folgeschäden

tariq and maya

one dark one blonde

saw the other in a mirror

saw the other in naked light

felt the other in secret shadows

tariq and maya; one dark one deutsch

now you see him now you don't

do you doubt when he shouts?

do you doubt when he leaves?

do you doubt when he refuses to speak?

and what about when he breathes

deep into you chest to breast?

now you know him now you don't

tariq and maya

one dark one light

what devil sleeps between you at night

tariq and maya

one dark one blind

one turned on the other with a poisoned mind

Just focus on the pretty stuff.

This film doesn't have a release date in North America yet, but here in Hong Kong it was our pick two nights ago for a family movie night. While it was enjoyable enough to pass some 2 hours, the more I think about it the more I begin to feel ambivalent.

Set in WW2 Shanghai right before the Pearl Harbour bombing, the plot revolves around American agent Paul Soames (John Cusack) investigating the murder of his friend Connor (Jeffrey Dean Morgan). While navigating the webs of alliances and corruption between the Chinese and Japanese, he falls in love and finds himself taking sides in an escalating war that could cost him his life. I guess you would classify the film as a mystery drama or thriller, but although suspense is maintained, the audience is very much walked through the story and there aren't any ingenious twists to keep you on your toes. Let's just say that when all is revealed, it's nothing jaw-dropping.

Can we talk about this badass cast? Well, except maybe John Cusack, who will always be that jerk guy from High Fidelity to me. Although he did carry the film better than I thought he would, I'm not sure if I've seen a sadder slimeball of a spy. Ken Watanabe plays Japanese Captain Tanako who has a shady alliance with Chinese mafia leader Anthony Lanting, played by Chow Yun-fat. The last film I saw Chow in was the atrocity of Dragonball, where he gave me enough second-hand embarrassment to vanquish all my childhood traumas, so it was good to see him back in a dignified role. Finally, Gong Li (flawless, perfect, doesn't age, goddess) takes on a femme fatale inspired role as Langting's wife Anna, who is secretly part of the Chinese resistance unbeknownst to her husband.

Although all three Asian leads give strong performances, the fact remains that they were cast for star power more than anything else, and what's more, typecast in roles that honestly could have been played by anyone who looked good in uniform, a trench coat, or a cheung sam. I really wish Hollywood would start giving more cred to Chinese and Japanese actors who are capable of so much more than lending an "authentic" aesthetic or delivering moral maxims and mysterious or sinister smiles. It's not that these characters were stereotypes or strictly one-dimensional, but their ~inner-conflicts and secretz~ were just as unoriginal and predictable as the classic trope of White Man Falling in Love With Married Asian Beauty.

Can it even really be called a spoiler to say that sexual tension brews between Soames and Anna from the very moment they sit opposite each other at a casino table? While there's nothing inherently wrong with Anna's sensual charm and Soame's understandable attraction to her, what bothers me is the way she eventually reciprocates these feelings. There's a really uncomfortable scene when Soames confronts her about using everyone in her life for the cause of the resistance, which according to him is really a personal vendetta for her father's death. It's not that he's yelling in her face and literally shaking her by the head --there's nothing wrong with an intense, angst-filled face-off between a man and a woman. It's the fact that it's immediately after this violent outburst that Anna "crumbles" and throws herself into his arms with tears streaking down her face. OMG ANGRY PASSIONATE MAKE OUT TIME, DID NOT SEE THAT COMING.

I know I shouldn't be surprised by such a gratuitous hook-up --I was basically waiting for it to come and go so I could get over the awkwardness of sitting between my dad and brother --but I have a real problem with scenes that show a woman's favourable response to displays of aggression. In this case, it's made worse by the inconsistency of Anna's character, who a) does love her husband and b) is very much her own woman who takes charge of her own operations, so you can't even argue that her submission is in keeping with the gender roles of the time period. Speaking of gender roles, I guess I also shouldn't be surprised that the betraying nature of a woman is a recurring theme throughout the film. But I can still be annoyed.

In theatre, it can be a backhanded compliment to say that the "production value" of the play was amazing when everything else was a shit show. While Shanghai is far from being a drag and will at least have you going with the motions, what I liked best about about it was probably the cinematography and throwback to film noir with some great compositions of light, shadow and rain. I'm also a sucker for that period look of the 1940s, and the grit and glamour setting of Shanghai was especially visually delicious due to the multiple national sectors the city was divided into at the time. Interesting fact to note is that filming took place in Thailand due to the sensitive subject matter, which led to the original filming permit in China being taken away. Chinese government: 1 Weinstein Company: 0. At least the two-block set that was built in Bangkok looks pretty amazing. Add to that the suits, fedoras and umbrellas and you just might forget the other inadequacies.

This stunning queen thanks you for your time.

"And as we sat there listening to the carolers, I wanted to tell Brian it was over now and everything would be okay. But that was a a lie, plus I couldn't speak anyway. I wished there was some way for us to go back and undo the past. But there wasn't. There was nothing we could do. So I just stayed silent, trying to telepathically communicate how sorry I was about what had happened. And I thought of all the grief and sadness and fucked up suffering in the world and it made me want to escape. I wished with all my heart that we could just leave this world behind. Rise like two angels in the night and magically disappear."

- Neil McCormick, Mysterious Skin

Project Old Hollywood: The Harder They Fall

I am light years behind on my classic movie viewing and reviewing due to laziness and having found an unpaid position of literary research and archiving for a writer. I am under a confidentiality agreement not to reveal anything but suffice it to say the English nerd in me is busy drooling over Important Writers. As a side note, one of the volunteers looks uncannily like my mother even though we're the same age -I mean ridiculously so, from physical appearance to the way she sits, walks, her mannerisms, her general aura. It's really psyching me out. But I digress.

I must have seen The Harder They Fall practically three weeks ago so it's not fresh in my mind anymore but I'll do my best. This was my first Humphrey Bogart film and his last before he died. I don't know whether to call that ironic or not but it's a neat parallel no?

Summary: The basic story of this film noir revolves around corruption in boxing. Bogart plays a sports journalist who tries to revive his career by working with a bunch of crooks to promote a new boxer from Argentina called Toro Moreno, whose enormous physical size is completely offset by his utter lack of skill. Shady fights, manly angst and moral dilemmaz ensue. When recounting my experience of this film I seem to naturally gravitate towards my gripes -not to say that I didn't like it, but it wasn't mind-blowing or anything.

Gripe #1: Poor acting and awkward scripting

This mostly applies to Mike Lane, who plays Toro. As far as I can tell, he was cast purely for his appearance and size, so I guess you can't blame the poor guy for delivering his lines like Tommy Wiseau. My friend defended his wooden portrayal on the grounds that that was how his character was meant to be -thick and bovine. Toro. Get it? But to borrow some wisdom from Tropic Thunder, you don't go "full retarded." And like Mark Waters noted about it taking a nice girl to play a mean one, it takes someone intelligent to play someone dumb. That's why it's called acting.

Gripe #2: Bogart and Sterling

I get that in this "manly" film it would be foolish of me to expect a strong female role, but my main problem with Jan Sterling's character Beth Willis, even as an undeveloped side-dish, is the utter lack of chemistry between her and Bogart's Eddie Willis. They are completely unconvincing as a couple, let alone supposedly loving husband and wife, which makes all the drama surrounding their relationship hard to get into. I'll give her credit for sassing out the head crook Nick Benko (played by Rod Steiger) in one scene though. Which leads to the one thing I consistently enjoyed:

Rod Steiger

Okay, so he may have had it easy playing Asshole-In-Charge Nick Benko, but he got some darn good ranty and oh-snap lines and delivered them at lightning screwball-comedy speed, and was in general a fabulous Angry and Stressed Man archetype that kept me entertained. Besides him, the one other thing you should watch this film for is the Toro Bus which I can't find a picture of but just know that it's amazingly camp.

Coming next: Bonnie and Clyde

Allow me to pop a jaunty little bonnet on your purview and ram it up your shitter with a lubricated horse cock

I'm on a post-midnight movie binge these days, in addition to and as a counterbalance to my trips through the past with the classics. I think I deliberately wait until a ridiculous hour to justify selecting a mainstream blockbuster that I can veg out to in bed. I don't even mean that in a snotty way, because all the movies so far -Inglourious Basterds,The Frog Princess -have been darn excellent. I'm just catching up on the buzz from months ago, that's all. I'll admit that my mouse has maneuvered towards and away from clicking Valentine's Day several times, but I do have some standards, still.

My latest late night viewing was In The Loop, which is somewhat an anomaly considering I'd only heard of it once on the gossip forum I frequent (what? at least it's not Perez) and it didn't generate any buzz here in North America, though it was nominated for an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay.

The political satire on the behind-the-scenes madness between the British and US government's fangled negotiations, miscommunications and decisions over starting a war in the Middle East contains everything I love about British comedy a la The Office -deglamourised docu-drama with a healthy dose (i.e. excessive) of swearing in amazing accents and deliveries, and most of all, as evidenced in the trailer, CHOICE, GOLDEN QUOTES. By that I don't mean dialogue that's all look-at-me-I'm-soooo-clever-and-trippy (I'm looking at you, Diablo Cody), but lines that are actually convincing and hilarious.

See what I mean? Tom Hollander (Mr. Collins in the film version of Pride and Prejudice!) is almost reminiscent of Ricky Gervais in The Office, and Peter Capaldi (Sid's dad in Skins!) is my anti-hero of all losery bully anti-heros and second favourite Scotsman after Craig Ferguson (suck it, Gerald Butler).

This is a government department, not some fucking Jane Austen novel.

Seriously, IR nerd or not, do yourself a favour and get on this. Then check out the TV show it's based on, The Thick of It, which I am searching up this very moment. And on that note I'll have to say, "Fuckity-bye-bye, then."

Still on my detour: Micmacs à tire-l'arigot

I promise I will get back to those old Hollywoods (I started Roman Holiday) but continuing my French streak, I went to an advanced screening of Jean-Pierre Jeunet's new film at the Varsity a few days ago. Having seen and loved his quintessential Amelie and darker creation Delicatessen, I was understandably excited about Micmacs à tire-l'arigot, which translates into "madness all around."

Dany Boon plays protagonist Bazil, an unremarkable video store worker who memorises entire scenes of dialogue from movies. Caught as collateral damage in a freak shoot-out one night, he ends up losing his home and job and finds himself on the streets scraping by. When he discovers that the landmine that killed his father and the bullet lodged in his own head are respectively manufactured by rival arms companies, he plots revenge on both with a group of zany comrades who also lie on the margins of society. Think Ocean's Eleven, circus-style (there's even a contortionist). But instead of slick suits, high-tech gadgets and Clooney coolness, these ragamuffins get by on street-smarts and creative inventions made of scrap. Most importantly, they have the time of their life doing it, and their childlike glee is infectious.

The best thing to be said about Micmacs is that it is a funny, funny film -a rare compliment for most summer flicks that are blatantly marketed as "comedy." The mischievous ensemble cast are absolutely delightful and the overarching satire on arms trade and procurement is more refreshingly portrayed than Iron Man 2's run of the mill "oh noes evil privatised weapon manufacturers appropriating the army" spiel. Although there are some awkwardly placed moralising moments towards the end of the film, these are largely eclipsed by the master prank of epic proportions which leaves the credits rolling on a high note. It's not even a spoiler to say there's a happy ending by the way, because it is exactly Jeunet's world of dusty palettes and carnival music where you know shit's gonna go down for the bad guys and everything works out for the good ones.

And now for something different: La Règle du jeu

So I ended up going on a tangent from Project Old Hollywood. But some of the more interesting things in life you stumble upon by mistake. In this case I was searching for "The Rules of Engagement" on YouTube out of boredom, and found "The Rules of the Game." When I realised it was a French film that had nothing to do with Neil Strauss, that sealed the deal. I've been meaning to brush up on my listening skills before leaving for Tours in July (cannot wait, by the way).

"La Règle du jeu" (1939) is directed by Jean Renoir, who is indeed the son of impressionist painter Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

Look familiar? Le Moulin de la Galette (1876)

The film depicts and satirises the personal, absurd and trivial dramas and conventions of the French upper-class before WW2. In the insulated world of high society, everyone is having an affair that everyone else knows about. Ready? Aviator Andre Juriex is in love with Christine who may or may not return those feelings but is married to Robert de la Chesnaye, who knows about his wife's affair and has a mistress himself called Genvieve, of whom Christine is also aware of. And then there's the triangle between Christine's maid Lisette, her husband Schumacher, and Marceau the new servant. Oh, and Renoir himself plays Octave, who tries to mediate Christine and Jurieux's relationship whilst dealing with his own possible affections for the madame.

Complicated? Personally I enjoy a film that demands your attention and kind of forces you to keep tabs on everything. The web of he-loves-she-loves relationships culminates in a big hunting party at La Colinière -la Chesnaye's country estate -in which all kinds of confrontations take place (and lots of dead rabbits). Suffice it to say that chaos ensues and approaches farcical heights. One of my favourite lines is when la Chesnaye, mid-fistfight with Juriex, stops and says "Yes a revolver just went off, what do you expect?"

I would compare this film to Shakespeare's problem plays in that you don't really root for anyone and are left with a kind of uneasy, "ick" feeling at the end. It's hard to feel sympathetic towards any of the characters not because they're scheming liars, but more because they're bad at it -or equally good. They're either kind of pathetic or kind of slimy. There is no master manipulator or villain -cheating and lying are almost normalised to the point of convention so that the intrigue of plotting, self-interest or bad intentions is lost. Those who are kicked out of the house are therefore exposed not for their infidelities, but for their lack of etiquette and proper conduct. Renoir essentially cheapens the art of backstabbing in a way that leads you to dryly conclude, "poor little rich people."

Project Old Hollywood: Singin' in the Rain

Having blazed through season 4 of Ugly Betty in 3 days and now catching up on House episodes, the couch potato in me wants to work my way through old Hollywood as well because, to borrow a cliche, they don't make 'em like that anymore. Besides, it's classy.

My housemate Emma and I finished "Singin' in the Rain" (1952) last night and adored it. Here's why:

1) The dancing. You know how people say how much fun life would be as a musical? Unfortunately musicals like this...

...would only make life an endless cycle of embarrassment. Now if my life was an extended tap dance sequence, that I would be more than happy with.

Wikifact: Debbie Reynolds' feet were bleeding after filming this sequence. She had no previous training in dance but had a gymnast background. Also, Gene Kelly insulted her lack of dance experience and was a dick to her in general. Fred Astaire found her crying under a piano and volunteered to teach her how to move like pro.

Gene: -10 for being a dick

Fred: +15 for being a gentleman

Debbie: +20 for sticking it to the bully

Speaking of points, the one who wins the most in my opinion is

2) Donald O'Connor. Yes yes, I know Gene Kelly is a total dreamboat...but see above for the jerk factor. Also, did you know he wore a toupee? That's a wig for those of you who don't know French. Not so dreamy now eh? Eh?

But back to the actual movie...O'Connor plays funny man Cosmo Brown, who totally stole my heart as the often neglected but much more intelligent and less douchey sidekick of film star Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly). As lovely as the eponymous song is with the lamppost and umbrella and a sexy drenched douchebag (har-har), Gene just doesn't.... make you laugh. Watch and learn buddy:

Donald O'Connor: +100 for pioneering Lady Gaga's piano quirks and running up the wall like a ninja

3) The metafilmajigness. In addition to being a delightful movie musical, "Singin' in the Rain" is also a really interesting and hilarious look at a seminal period in the history of film: the decline of silent movies and birth of talking pictures, or "talkies." This transition is nicely framed in the context of the successful The Jazz Singer (1927), the first ever motion picture that featured synchronised dialogue sequences (and a film worth watching in itself). In the face of this new technology and competition, John Lockwood and his unfortunately tinny co-star Lina Lamont (played by the beautiful Jean Hagen) try to follow suit in The Dueling Cavalier, a film-within-the-film that comically reveals all the problems of synchronising sound and image (see link since YouTube is a bitch and won't let me embed).

Up for more meta-trickery? Okay, so in the film Lina Lamont's voice is so terrible when it comes to making The Dueling Cavalier that Kathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds) has to dub all her lines and songs. In actuality however, they simply used Hagen's normal voice and Reynolds herself was dubbed for two of her songs. Gotta love it when Hollywood mindfucks with you like that.

At the risk of giving you some second-hand embarrassment, I leave you with this to rest my case that "Singin' in the Rain" is too cool for even Usher to emulate. Good job bro, but it just aint the same without a toupee.