Directed by: Mark Christopher
Starring: Ryan Phillippe, Salma Hayek, Mike Meyers
The mystique of Studio 54, once Manhattan's darkest night spot, is dredged into the light of day in Mark Christopher's feature-film debut, 54. Famous for its "anything goes" atmosphere and who-you-know front-door policy, the club, in the late '70s, was the place to be seen, seduced and selected as one of the groovy people. And while the escapades of the rich and famous regulars who cruised the club for sex, drugs and career boosts might have made an interesting feature-length film at the time, it's over now. There's just not much to say in the light of day. The problem facing Mr. Christopher, in recapturing the excitement of the club, is finding a way to reproduce the reckless abandon of not only Studio 54, but of the decade itself. As with Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas -- since most of the perspectives in both were drug-induced -- if you're not high and a part of the times, it's an ambience that's impossible to reproduce. Our hero is a Jersey City 19-year-old, Shane O'Shea (Phillippe), who scores a job as a bartender at the club. Fulfilling his childhood fantasy of mingling with New York's finest, this job is more than just a gig -- it's an opportunity to elevate Shane's social standing. Thoroughly impressed (and stoned most of the time), Shane meets the club's proprietor and chief party animal, Steve Rubell (Meyers) -- a guy who's life purpose is to "throw the best damned party the world has ever seen, and make it last forever." It turns out that Rubell's a late-blooming adolescent who thinks of himself as omnipotent. He goes on television and taunts the IRS by humorously alluding to onsite drug dealing and money-skimming. Here's a guy so oblivious, that when a woman OD's on the floor, he can only bring himself to focus on the fact that Princess Grace is in the club and she needs a cocktail. These are pivotal moments in the film, folks, leading to the downfall of Rubell and Studio 54. The rest of the "action" involves watching the rich and famous snort cocaine, and dance and go home with strangers who might further their careers. Poorly written, poorly acted (other than Meyers, who somehow makes a person out of Steve Rubell), and poorly photographed -- there's really no movie here, just a voyeuristic glimpse at the crash and burn of the drug-addled groovies of the '70s ... people who may once have had a story to tell, but it's all over now.
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