What makes for Best Picture material? The Oscars have come in for a lot of stick for rewarding overblown spectacles that have aged poorly, and ignoring the "auteurs" who would be deified in decades to come. It wasn't because Hollywood was against art or creativity. The Academy Awards are the selections made by the industry itself, and that is why, at least in the classic era, they tended to reward the greatest collaborations, the most sensational meetings of creative minds.
The Arthur Freed unit at MGM had been bound for Oscar-winning glory for several years by this point; it was only a matter of time before Freed, aided by his strongest director Vincente Minnelli and some the finest musical stars in the business, would land a Best Picture. Freed had arguably done more to raise the status of the musical than anyone else, crafting pictures which wove story and song together without losing the dynamic spectacle of the 30s musicals. The point about Freed musicals, is that the lyrics of the songs, unlike those of Hammerstein or Lerner, don't have to tell or even relate to the stories. What's important is that the tone of the song and the way it is presented fit into the structure of the film.
An American in Paris was the first of three Freed musicals (the other two being Singin' in the Rain and The Band Wagon) which took existing classic numbers out of their original context and made them work in a completely unrelated story. The words don't fit the plot, but the routines fit the show. So, when Gene Kelly sings I Got Rhythm, he hasn't even got a girl yet, but the way it's done with the French kids joining in is a great bit of characterisation, and the upbeat tune and dance gives the movie the little lift it needs at this point. An American in Paris also uses the rule-breaking allowed in the genre to add little unconventional flights of fancy to tell the story, such as the series of dances which accompany the description of Leslie Caron's character.
And what better director for this project than Minnelli, himself a painter and a pianist? At this time there wasn't really anyone who had a better feel for Technicolor. While some directors would saturate each scene in one colour or fill the screen with clashing shades, Minnelli's colour schemes are tightly controlled but never look forced. In the opening scenes the tones are fairly muted, but not drab, and in particular there is an absence of red. During Oscar Levant and Georges Guetary's meeting in the café, a few more vibrant shades are introduced. Then, during the first musical number, "By Strauss" Minnelli gradually brings in splashes of red a table cloth, a bunch of roses until it eventually dominates, as if the song has awoken the picture's colour scheme. For most of the songs, the colours are choreographed as intricately as the people. However, in some numbers, such as "Tra-la-la" he keeps the shades the same and instead opens out the space as the song swells up and the characters become more animated.
The Achilles' heel of An American in Paris is its story. I personally find the romantic angle particularly unpalatable, playing as it does like a last hurrah for the misogynistic love stories that reigned supreme in the 30s; the headstrong, independent woman gets rejected while the meek, delicate girl is harassed into loving the hero. Even if you don't mind that, it is difficult to connect emotionally with the story because it is constantly overshadowed by the songs and dances. Compare this to Singin' in the Rain, which doesn't really have as many great routines or memorable set-pieces as An American in Paris, but it has a winning storyline. Singin' in the Rain was overlooked at the 1952 Oscars, yet it is regarded as a classic of the genre today. But I think people sometimes forget that cinema is an all-encompassing form of visual entertainment, not just a means of telling a story. An American in Paris is not deep or engaging or tear-jerking but, like a certain DeMille picture that won the top award the following year, it certainly is a great show.