Perhaps I went in with unreasonable expectations, but I expected to be dazzled by Vincente Minnelli’s An American in Paris – especially considering how much I loved Meet Me in St. Louis. But there’s a clumsy and ham-fisted awkwardness to the entire endeavor. The music isn’t particularly memorable – the best songs were all given better renditions in other films – and key plot points are either hurriedly rushed or laboriously rehashed. Of greater concern is the film’s underlying sexism – from Gene Kelly’s stalking and pushiness with Leslie Caron to the film’s disdain towards independent women who know what they want. The dream ballet is certainly a spectacular feat of filmmaking that would make an extraordinary short film of its own, but its placement here blunts the film’s emotional trajectory, leaving the resolution completely unsatisfying for any of our characters. There are a handful of really charming and delightful moments, but they can’t overcome the film’s significant weaknesses.