Xanadu 1980
I have a secret that threatens to destroy my credibility among my serious-theater friends: I cannot get enough of Xanadu. I’m not talking about the decently-reviewed Broadway incarnation: I am a full-fledged fanatic when it comes to the original horribly-directed/acted/written glitter-and-sequins film original. Xanadu is one of those rare movies that is beyond stupefying yet, somehow, totally addictive. Nevermind the random plot about a bronzed and feather-haired muse (Olivia Newton-John) who comes down to earth to inspire a struggling artist (Michael Beck, possibly the worst actor ever) to open a roller disco. The wacky song and dance numbers involving mannequins come-to-life, drag queens and dress-up sequences make me giddy. With Gene Kelly appearing eternally graceful at the age of 68 and a killer ELO soundtrack, the campy flick almost gains a shred of respectability. So, while my peers debate the superiority of the film adaptations of Chicago vs. A Streetcar Named Desire, I am going to throw on my roller skates and leg warmers and revel in Xanadu’s irresistible kitsch.
