If there were ever a high-water mark of hedonism, it would have to have been located at some New York or L.A. disco in the late '70s. In this pre-AIDS, post-Pill era of guilt-free sex, drug use was widespread and largely tolerated, gay culture was coming out of the closet and sexual mores were loosening up to include all sorts of delicious possibilities, most of which seemed at the time like good ideas. The discos were ground zero of this explosion of debauchery, their intoxicating sound and sweaty flesh both absorbing and increasing these new appetites.

What brought about this carnal moment in time, what did it mean and why has it faded into memory? Was this hedonism the pinnacle of absolute freedom, or absolute irresponsibility? Did the discos represent a democratic glamour, where celebrity was available to anyone who could dance, dress, deal or diddle their way into the club? Or were they bastions of fashion fascism, where looks and money could sneer and strut in their palaces of narcissism, safe from the lumpen?

These are all questions worth addressing, but they're mostly ignored by "54," director Mark Christopher's ode to the notoriously decadent disco of '70s Manhattan. Imagine "Boogie Nights" without the humor or insight, or "Saturday Night Fever" without the dance moves and soundtrack, and you'd be getting close to this blown opportunity. Christopher gives us nothing more than superficial fashion nostalgia, wedded to a predictable rise-and-fall story arc that is as mind-numbing as the mountains of coke being spooned up the disco denizens' noses.