When "54" got released, many critics claimed that it was just another attempt to get into the '70s nostalgia that had swept the country. It's more than that. The movie shows New York's Studio 54, an unusual club where young people danced to disco and could meet celebrities, as seen through the eyes of employee Shane O'Shea (Ryan Phillippe). At the end, he talks about, how after the government closed the place down, a corporation took it over and did what corporations always do: make the place safe and sterile. Steve Rubell (Mike Myers) built it up into a most unique hangout, and the corporation drained the life out of it.So don't trust the critics. This was a really good movie.
This is "Goodfellas" meets "Valley of the Dolls", a deliciously trashy example of the dark side of night life that is legendary even today. Oh, the many ghosts I've felt walking through the doors of the former disco, now a legitimate Broadway theater that transitioned from nightclub to stage with the classic German expression of decadence, "Cabaret". Nightclubs still have a strict door policy like this, but 54 made it famous, even if it wasn't the first. This thrives on the disco beat of the late '70s/early '80s, tossing in obvious corruption from behind the scenes from a manager who was ingenious in many ways but idiotic and careless in a ton of others. "I've been to a marvelous party", Noel Coward wrote, but as his muse, Elaine Stritch, admitted, some of those marvelous parties really weren't so marvelous.It's a fantasy land that makes reality tedious, and for bar-back turned successful bartender Ryan Phillipe, that marvelous party turns out to be the key to the door to his possible destruction, turning him from a basically decent kid from Jersey City to an absolute phony. As for Michael Meyers' Steve Rubell, well, I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but he was as sleazy as they come, never realizing the self destruction his doomed success has him headed towards.I have to call this a guilty pleasure, a fun bad movie, and a reminder of my own party days which in many respects, as a whole, were not really marvelous. Ellen Albertini Dow, one of the cutest of little old ladies, is unforgettably lovable as Disco Dotty, a fictionalized version of a real character, and all she's missing is the cat and the birdcage to be a dancin' granny with a Tweety bird. The narration by Philippe gives this a pedestrian feel, with a feeling of nostalgia that lasts as long as the club stays open, but the feeling of sleaze has the same impact as a Sunday morning hangover. I may not be able to read minds, but I do know the difference between classic art and a framed poster that ends up in the trash after its owner realizes its true value. But for those of us who were there for lights and beat, this is a nice memory that soon is as forgotten as one of those cheap book store posters.
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