Review of Saturday Night Fever (1977) by Adam R — 05 Jun 2011

As Martin Scorsese said in "Mean Streets," "you don't make up for your sins in church; you do it in the street." While "Saturday Night Fever's" Tony Manero (John Travolta) might not be looking for absolution, he's certainly looking for a way out that both of the local options available to him -- the priesthood or the life of a wage slave -- cannot offer.

The best musicals build their numbers around climax, an almost orgasmic release of emotions that palpably moves through the characters and entices the audience through every show-stopping number. While not a musical per se, it's hard to think of a movie where the soundtrack is more integral to the story and characters than this one.

Whenever Tony hits the dance floor, no matter what the circumstances, he feels free, elevated above his problems; that Travolta's performance -- a career-best, "Pulp Fiction" included -- is effortlessly realistic and infectiously energetic only adds to the cathartic feeling of shaking one's bonds through rhythmic swaying of hips and pumping of arms. Confronted with his own church vs. streets dilemma in the person of his older brother Frank (Martin Shakar), a disillusioned Catholic priest, and the latter option in the shape of his loud-mouthed, peer-pressuring, immature friends, Tony has few options except succumb to the beat -- usually alone, even when he has a partner.

Self-important youths of today love to talk about punk rock as though it actually saved them from jumping from a cliff (and they're usually talking about some shitty post-Black Flag band like Bad Religion) and pompous critics love to look back on disco with their noses held perpendicular to the ground. However, "Fever," as well as being a peerless coming-of-age story, is also the perfect time capsule, a reminder of just what a vital force this music was and how it truly did have its place as an actual artform before mosh pits, pseudo-rebellion and looking at impoverished outwardly as you are inwardly became the norm for 30-plus miserable, classless years.