Those of us who survived the disco era swore that if we ever awoke to aday where disco was viewed as a source for pointless nostalgia we'd
strip naked, cover ourselves in our fecal matter, and run around in the
nearest interstate screaming K.C. and the Sunshine Band tunes at the top
of our lungs until we were shot dead by highway patrol snipers. My friends, that day
has arrived.
This is the story of Studio 54 at the end of the 1970s and how it was
the center of the zeitgeist. Obvious first-time writer/director Mark
Christopher begins with his main character, Shane (Ryan Phillippe),
narrating, offering bits of wisdom like, "It was a place where all
labels were left behind." Shane lives in New Jersey and knows that
"the real action was in New York." This kind of insight made me wonder
whether Christopher had graduated from the Robert James Waller school of
remedial creative writing.
With these pearls of wisdom rocketing from his brain like pus from an
exploding zit, Shane manages to get into Studio 54 where he becomes a
busboy for owner Steve Rubell (Mike Meyers), who's essentially a cross between
Andy Warhol and Donald Trump. There Shane meets Greg (Breckin Meyer) and
Anita (Salma Hayek), who both work at the club. Incidentally, the fact
that Salma does not attempt to clean Shane's face by applying soap to
her breasts and rubbing them on him in slow motion is a major, major
fault of this film.
Essentially, this film is "Boogie Nights" minus the big penis. In his
effort to make us like Shane, Christopher
classifies him as a good guy because Shane refuses the offer of Julie
Black (Neve Campbell) to have three-way sex. This sets Shane apart. He's
a class act, man. He's got principles. He's also a blooming fucking idiot.
Incidentally, the fact that Neve
Campbell does not attempt to clean Shane's face by applying soap to her
breasts and rubbing them on him in slow-motion is a major, major fault
of this film.
