An owner of a 1970's London disco gets sexually involved with a shady medallion man who may have dangerous Mafia links.
What a pile of junk this is! But, somehow and some way, I have a soft spot for it. A guilty pleasure that should be whispered lightly and only in limited company. It is so camp that on release it probably drove drag queen rushing towards the exits.
It does - however - capture the 70's disco scene and fashions as well as the faceless hits that pumped out of them. Clear and brainless padding though they are.
This is based on a (Jackie) Collins novel that shows the imagination of a newt: discos, glamour, the mob, diamonds, dancing and guys who think they look better with a thick moustache. If you were given the task of writing a script based on clichés you couldn't do better than this.
Lead Joan Collins, only a few years before so down-on-her-luck that she was signing on the dole, takes her clothes off for about six milliseconds to reveal a pale skinny body that has seen better days, but you still would, wouldn't you?
Everyone hated discos, even the people that went to them every week. Boring places where girls danced around handbags and every girl you spoke to was "waiting for her boyfriend." A plastic imitation of a good time. Not to mention that horrible, insisting, pounding music that made any dance floor conversation impossible. If there is a hell - it must be like a 70's disco.
Yes, you are probably going to hate it. Yes, you won't see what the point it is. But it is like a bad war film about a war that you went through yourself and have the scars to prove it - it keeps you involved even though there is a million other things that you really should be doing.
