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Well, just take a look at 54, the film tribute to the ultimate disco mecca, Studio 54, the infamous Manhattan nightspot where Beautiful People gathered to boogie, copulate and snort their way through the late 70s and early 80s. The film suffers from a distinct lack of strong plot lines, but who cares? The movie sets out to capture an era and its inevitable end, and 54 does just that, the flashing lights and throbbing music, the dizzying twirl of dancers stoned on various illicit and easily available substances. Hundreds lined up nightly to get inside, but only the most golden people were chosen from the line. Mike Myers, in a decidedly un-Mike Myers performance, stars as club owner Steve Rubell, who died of AIDS in 1989 after serving time for skimming profits from the club. Myers is smarmy and naughty as Rubell, whose taste for the decadent side of life apparently led him to allow just about anything to go on at Studio 54. Canadian-born Myers, who usually plays strictly comedic roles, should gain a lot more respect for his role in this movie. He never breaks character for a moment and, while still funny, he portrays Rubell as a lonely man who surrounds himself with the famous and the gorgeous to make up for his own inadequacies. Ryan Phillippe, a relative newcomer, is somewhat pretty to look at as the neophyte busboy and club toy boy, but his role is pretty flat, with few demands. Salma Hayek does a fine job as the ambitious coat check girl, who will do whatever it takes to launch her singing career. Neve Campbell is a boring extra as the poor Jersey girl-turned-soap-star clawing her way to the top of the glittery social scene being acted out at 54. Perhaps the most interesting part of the movie happens as the credits are rolling at the end. Photos of the real Studio 54 flash on the screen, famous patrons captured schmoozing with each other and with Steve Rubell. Brooke Shields, Sylvester Stallone, Andy Warhol, Liza Minelli and Arnold Schwarzenegger were just a few of the faces seen whooping it up among the club groupies. 54 is not a deep, thought-provoking film. What it is is a flashy, decadent ride through a brief moment in time when sex, drugs, and body glitter paved the way to a kind of shallow, delirious joy. The fact that the characters in the film are cardboard-flat barely matters. If nothing else, it is worth the price of admission to witness the disco remake of Canadian folk icon Gordon Lightfoot's song, If You Could Read My Mind.
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