Given that I’m slowing dying faster than a Medieval peasant after sticking his hand in a rat den, I had the opportunity to re-watch Studio 54 this morning. It was the only alternative to morning talk show drivel, not to mention it features Selma Hayek’s jugs. It is one of those movies, much like Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, where upon seeing it for the first time when it came out, I thought it was a brilliant piece of cinema. Then when I see it 10 years later I realize it was a steaming pile of shit with asymmetrical corn in it. Ryan Phillipe is lucky he’s hot. If he looked like Steve Buschemi his next job offer after this movie would have been as spokesman for an auto glass factory. That being said, my real point is that this movie was only rated R. I feel this really slipped under the movie ratings radar. At minimum it should have been NC/17, if not Rated X. And here’s why:
There is a scene approximately 2/3 of the way through the film where Steve Rubell, the character played by Mike Myers, coerces Greg Randazzo, played by Breckin Meyer, into his bed chamber under the guise of being too drug and alcohol addled to get there himself. What transpired thereafter has left me emotionally shaken for the rest of my life. As Randazzo tries to determine what ulterior motives Rubell has for bringing him into his lair, Rubell cuts right to the chase. I cannot do this scene justice in written word, but I will die trying. Rubell looks at Randazzo and says, after sleazily stuttering through several attempts at starting his oratory, “…I wanna suck your cock”. Once again, this format fails to capture the utter horror of not only the look on his face, but the annunciation of the word “cock”. It was similar to, yet worse than, “The Crying Game”. As my friend Aaron from college very astutely opined, “It was the ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ of our generation”. Thankfully the writers chose to have Randazzo’s character retreat in fear so as to save us the misery of watching him agonize through a homosexual blowjob which was forced upon him. Had they not, well, the movie “Road Trip” never happens as Breckin Meyer would have been the modern era’s version of Ned Beatty. It was such a virtuoso performance by Myers that the debate amongst my friends still rages: Did Myers deserve an Oscar for so believably delivering this most horrendous of lines? Or should he have been forced, in his real life, to register as a sex offender and go door-to-door warning his would-be neighbors? Given that I can only surmise what Myers had to do in real-life to prepare for this role, I’m leaning towards the latter. I contracted hepatitis from merely watching that scene. No amount of Hayek’s tits splattered across the screen like a slasher film could ever erase that scene from our collective consciousness.