On the other hand, occasionally—very occasionally—I'm full of shit. Once such occasion was in May of 1998. I must have just gotten back from sophomore year of college, which had not gone well. My mom wanted to see this:
I did not. I had seen Kids, found it hateful, nihilistic, ignorant fantasia (don't get me started on Harmony Korine, that motherfucker can choke on barnacle dick) that had the side effect of convincing me that Chloe Sevigny was some smacked-out trollop. I did not want to see her in anything, especially not when I was worried about flunking out of college and trying to scrape my last two functioning brain cells together to make sparks. Mom, as she does, informed me that I was being a shithead and that I was going to the movie. Grumble, grumble . . .
What little else I knew about The Last Days of Disco didn't stir enthusiasm. I had a slightly less negative impression of Whit Stillman than I did of Chloe Sevigny (which still ain't saying much). I'd seen part of Barcelona on cable, I think, and as best as I could figure it was about two yuppies drawling to each other about chicks with pretty background scenery (note: a subsequent viewing confirmed that this was, indeed, true although the movie's pretty good). I had not seen Metropolitan, nor have I yet.
So the movie starts. Kate Beckinsale and Chloe Sevigny yammered about chick stuff for a little while, as I stewed about my all-consuming 19 year old existential crises. Then, suddenly, Chris Eigeman is in this conversation with Jennifer Beals, telling her that the reason he's breaking up with her is that he's gay. And something clicked: “Hey, this guy's full of shit . . . heh heh, that kind of rules, actually, claiming to be gay to dump a girl. Carry on, sir.” And I spent the next hour-forty-five or whatever totally on board.
Let's, in the interests of science, take a look at what it was I was totally on board with. A movie about a bunch of yuppies who go to a nightclub (based on Studio 54 but never referred to by name), fall in and out of love with each other, go back to the nightclub, and talk urgently about themselves. Uh. Really? Yes. Really. That's all it's about. “So, oh noble arbiter of all that is testicular, what you're saying is nowadays you think this movie is gay and you only liked it because you were so fucked up your sophomore year that you were still high two weeks later when your mom dragged you to it, right?” Nope. I still love the shit out of this movie. And I don't use the word “gay” as a synonym for “lame” unless I'm being ironic, so shame on you for including that in your impression of me.
Although I really like The Last Days of Disco, I still sometimes wonder why I like it, for the following reasons:
It's about yuppies
Having grown up in Park Slope in the 80s when all the yuppies were infecting the fucking place with their baselessly entitled Lord of the Flies children, obnoxious dogs, and stupid overpriced restaurants, I do not like yuppies. They can kind of blow me. On the other hand, the onset of maturity and attainment of sharper perspective on the human condition has taught me that there is a difference between a young, successful person who lives in the city and has a lot of money and a douchebag yuppie spawn of Satan.
The Last Days of Disco does an elegant little tap dance around this issue by making its main characters a bunch of dudes who went to Harvard and two chicks who went to Hampshire. This is an exemption yuppies are granted: if the reason why they walk around acting like they fart Chanel No 5 is because they actually are part of the elite power structure, they paradoxically are not (always) douchebags. This ties into the whole thing about people who come from old money being potentially kind of all right, but nouveaux riches should be dropped down an elevator shaft with sticks of sweaty dynamite shoved up their ass. The reason Park Slope yuppies were so insufferable is because they were the ones who weren't even good enough at being yuppies to live in Manhattan. Kind of like how the Africans and Indians hate Englishmen so much because the fuckos the English were trying to get rid of were sent out to the colonies. You know what I'm saying.
It's about disco
It should come as no shock to careful readers of this blog that the author has just as much to say about music as he does movies (he just knows a little less about music . . .) People are constantly mistaking me for a rock classicist/purist because I passionately advocate British lads with guitars (you name 'em, I probably dig 'em, except post-Cream Clapton—yes, everything post-Cream, although everything Cream and before is great—Jeff Beck after he left the Yardbirds, and everything Pete Townshend did after Tommy with the exception of “Eminence Front”) But I have my quirks, like the fact that about ninety percent of all metal ever recorded makes me spit blood—I believe jerking off is something to be done with one's dick, not one's guitar—and I have a deep fondness for hip hop, coming as I do from its birthplace (by which I mean New York, since I'm not from the Bronx, where it's really from).
What's all this mean, you ask? Get to the fucking point, you implore? People are constantly assuming that I hate disco because they look at the beard and listen to some random snippets of diatribes centering around the secular godhood of Keith Richards or Marc Bolan and come to the conclusion that I'm one of those Rock Doodz. Little do y'all know, when I was a much shorter version of the loquacious badass you know and love, my two favorite TV shows were Solid Gold and Soul Train, back when what they played was disco. I knew Taco's cover of “Puttin' on the Ritz” before I knew Fred Astaire's (boy did that drive my dad up the wall . . .) and I was getting' down to disco sounds at such a young age that, hey, I guess it stuck with me.
If I'd been old enough to hang out with music nerds in the late 70s and early 80s, I probably wouldn't have gravitated, as I did in the 90s, to the Rock Doodz, because 70s Rock Doodz all liked Aerosmith, who I can't stand. The punks would have taken one look at me and started growling until I carefully backed away. It would have been me, the gays, and a couple chubby girls who smiled a lot down at the disco. And I'd have had fun, and probably hooked up with all of them at some point.
So, yeah, when Matt Keeslar delivers his manifestos about the importance of disco in the movie, I raise a fist and say, “Preach on, brother. And don't take those meds. Chloe Sevigny will still love you anyway.”
Whit Stillman is a very arch, highly literary writer
I generally roll my eyes at arch, highly literary writers when they're writing novels. When they start invading my precious cinema I can get cranky. Wes Anderson, for instance: can't get on board, sir. You like John Irving too much. (I haven't seen The Fantastic Mr. Fox yet, but intend to, and I should also mention I adore Rushmore). Whit Stillman is the kind of writer-director I always expect to despise, because he writes about characters who exist on a much higher socioeconomic level than me. His godfather invented the term WASP. Now, I am technically half WASP, but only technically: real WASPs have money. Stillman is much closer to the kinds who have money than I am. But he's really, really talented, so his characters are compelling despite their sympathy handicap.
The thing about Stillman being such a good writer is that in a movie where nothing really happens at all except Kate Beckinsale possibly faking a pregnancy as an act of attention whoring, it's still compelling because the characters are all so articulate and interesting. Chloe Sevigny is very passive, but unlike most passive characters, you don't want to smack her, because occasionally she musters some courage and does something funny or cool (like seducing Robert Sean Leonard with the immortal line: “I think there's something . . . sexy . . . about Uncle Scrooge” or doing the occasional subtle sniping at Kate Beckinsale). And, given a script from someone who can actually write, Chloe Sevigny shows . . . whaddaya know . . . some talent. Holy shit. Maybe sucking Vincent Gallo's dick wasn't the smartest career move, but she did at least have a fairly respectable career to throw away by that point.
The Last Days of Disco is, in the end, not a major work of cinema by any stretch. What it is—and what we can use as much of as we can get in cinema—is an intelligent, handsomely produced entertainment. With a really kickin' soundtrack. The cast is excellent. I had no idea Kate Beckinsale was English until years later; she does upper crust East Coast American twit perfectly. Chloe Sevigny not only managed to reverse a teenager's absolute certitude in her worthlessness but managed to make said teenager a fan by the end of the first reel. The men run the risk of being interchangeable, and lesser actors would blur into one collective of Harvard Dudes, but Robert Sean Leonard, Mackenzie Astin, and Matt Keeslar all delineate well, and you never forget who's who. Most notably, Chris Eigeman fucking brings it in this movie. He's got the showiest part, as the least successful of the bunch of them, the guy who works at the club where they all chill. He does too much blow, goes a bit chick crazy, and never shuts the fuck up, but everything he says is gold. Yes, he's a bit of a douchebag, but he's a douchebag with charisma. He and Kate Beckinsale share a moment at the end of the movie where you get the distinct impression that the 80s belong to them: the shallow, pretty, glib hedonists. Oh, look at what happened in the 80s. Fancy that.
As good as it is at being what it is, I still ask myself more about The Last Days of Disco: why the hell do I like this movie? If I start picking nits, after not all that long I end up lying to myself, convincing myself that these little flaws bother me when they don't. But, taking a step back, shushing the questioner within, and getting down to the essential truth behind the thing, I realize this: not only the form and content but the subject of The Last Days of Disco are aesthetically united. It's a movie version of a disco song, which is to say pretty to look at/listen to, infectiously optimistic, and something that leaves you smiling at the end. Indefensible? But why does it need defending? Don't fight it. Just get on the Love Train.
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