Essentially, this film is "Boogie Nights" minus the big penis.
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.
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