More Than a Movie to Me

In the prime of my pubescence, I found myself walled off from the fairer sex, cloistered in an all boys' school.

The only respite from my monkish existence was the monthly dance. Our school would distribute flyers to the dwindling number of all girls' schools in the area, deck the gymnasium out in streamers, hang a mirror ball on the ceiling, hire an AM radio shock jock wannabe to DJ the affair, dim the lights a little and open the doors to our raging hormones.

Under the watchful eyes of the chaperones, we'd predictably divide: the cool kids in the center, dancing, while the loser girls and loser guys eyed each other from different sides of the gym. We losers were the majority, but we derived no comfort from that.

Never having danced before, alone or with a girl, I had no idea what to do. Possessing a lower-than-average degree of self-confidence and a higher-than-average degree of self-consciousness, I just stood there in perpetual vapor lock, afraid of what I'd do if I did anything.

It was during this uncomfortable period that I was blown away by Saturday Night Fever.

Where to begin? On the screen, I saw everything our dances were supposed to be but weren't. The movie's music was real dance music, unlike the hard rock/soft rock combo they played at the gym. The people in the movie danced, they danced well, and they enjoyed themselves. The dance floor even lit up.

I had never heard music integrated so seamlessly into a movie before. This was a musical, but no one sang. The music seemed to just float in and out, never far from the action. This is now common in the MTV-era, but back then it was something fresh.

And then there was Travolta. As the primal Tony Manero, his dance moves were certainly impressive but it was his mastery of the mood that most moved me. He was at ease during a casual line dance, he was the assertive alpha male during the famous King of the Dance Floor routine and he was the smooth lothario during the dance contest number. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and how he would portray it, and then he went out and did it.

For such a simple guy, he was complex. Young and old, dumb and wise, repellant and attractive all at the same time. On the dance floor, though, he transcended his limitations. Watching him, I would just sit there wishing I had 10% of whatever it was he had up there.

I'd like to say that after watching Saturday Night Fever, I took charge of the dance floor at our next dance and did a Manero-esque routine. But I didn't even try. Watching the movie hammered home how far my reality was from my dreams.

We tell our kids you can be anything you want to be if you work hard enough at it, but that isn't true. To achieve Manero-like mastery in anything, you have to have abundant talent, ambition and interest. Most of us have some combination of talent, ambition and interest in many things, but in very few of these thing do we ever achieve the holy blend of all three. I've been lucky enough to have all three intersect once or twice in my life, so I don't begrudge the fact that my meager talent for dancing never matched my huge ambition and interest in it.

These thoughts occurred to me the other night after watching Saturday Night Fever for the first time in over twenty years. The movie itself is free of the ironic detachment we traffic in so freely these days, and while watching it I too shed my detachment and allowed myself to succumb to it again. It also rekindled my love of early disco music -- after its post-SNF popularity surge, disco became so reviled, so kitschy, such a joke, that I'd forgotten how much I'd enjoyed my first encounter with it.

This remains a great movie. Comparing it to the other 1977 megahit -- Star Wars -- it's no question in my mind which holds up better today. Ask yourself which of these would be improved, and which would be ruined, by a modern Hollywood remake.

My one quibble with the movie is the suggestion, at the end, that the dance contest was fixed in Tony's favor. Tony won fair and square. The other contestants might have thrown more athleticism into their dances, but Tony, with an admirable economy of movement, did exactly what he needed to do to get Stephanie to melt in his arms. And why else do we dance?

By the way, watching one of the extras included on the DVD, I learned that Saturday Night Fever was the late critic Gene Siskel's favorite movie. Roger Ebert, trying to explain this, suggested that the movie provided Gene with something he never got while a teenager. I'm guessing it gave him what it gave me -- a momentary but intoxicating dream of possessing a talent for dancing that matched my ambition and interest, which would then have allowed me to partake in what those lucky few with that potent combination enjoyed during those monthly dances at my all boys' school in the prime of my pubescence.

Comments

[Mrs. Peperium]

Excellent post. SNF was a milestone in my teenage years. Disco and Animal House were in full throttle by senior year of high school. While much of Tony was distasteful off the dance floor, on the dance floor he captured my imagination. As did the music.

[Enoch Soames]

For dancing, might I suggest Mr. Astaire...He was always much better dressed than Mr. Revolta, I mean Travolta. I would sleep better tonight if I could only bring myself to believe this whole post was some sort of sick parody.

[Mrs.Peperium]

Mr. Soames, unfortunately an american sixteen year-old in the 20th century rarely had good taste. I count myself fortunate that I had enough good sense back then to have never owned a pair of "platform shoes".
Gene Siskel however, as a grown man purchased the white suit John Revolta wore in SNF. It was sold at auction shortly after his death.

[Blimpish]

Do sixteen year olds anywhere, anytime, have good taste?

[The Misspent Life]

Hmm. Interesting post. I must admit that I find myself in a rather different position when it comes to dancing. I am a dancing fool, you see. I suppose I dance just fine, but I dance to hard and wild that nary a woman will want to come near me. Do I care? No, because I am a DANCING FOOL! Mwah ha ha!

Oh, also. We know about how a remake of Star Wars would turn out. Lucas insists on doing it every time he releases his crap. Oh, and what about SNF's sequel? Didn't it suck monkeys?

[The Misspent Life]

Blimpy, when I was sixteen I didn't own a single popular music CD. Of course I had a Debbie Gibson, Mariah Carey, Michael Bolton (don't ask), and Bette Midler (don't ask again) tape while in junior high. In high school I did not listen to popular music.

Of course, now I am a Jessica Simpson and Justin Timberlake fanatic.

[Mrs. Peperium]

When I was 16 I owned Steely Dan, Billy Joel and REO Speedwagon. I did not attend any concerts until after college because everytime my friends went, one of them would end up being vommited on.

[Blimpish]

Can I make an embarrassing revelation?

When I was 16 I spent my time listening to the form of 'music' known as, ahem (brace yourselves for this)... Gangsta Rap.

Yes folks, N.W.A.? Snoop Dogg? Wu-tang Clan? Not only did I listen to them - I still have the CDs to show for it.

(hangs head in shame)

[Outer Life]

Jeez, people, relax. If you like gangsta rap, or disco, or both, so what? Just as liking Bach doesn't make you a better person, so liking NWA doesn't make you a worse person. Can't one enjoy both for what they are? It's not as if having an NWA CD in your collection prevents you from enjoying the Bach CDs there as well.

I used to think I was repressed. Now I sense a heavier strain of cultural repression running through my readers. Sounds like I need to address this....

[The Misspent Life]

Blimpy, you're off my blog roll. I don't think I'm musically repressed in any way, but I draw the line at this.