★★★               By Ambrose Vok                     November 18, 2089

A plot that is entirely derivative of films whose plots themselves are entirely derivative. Performances that can best be understood as supposing that wild gesticulation and voices croaking in teary outbursts make for riveting drama. Tonal inconsistency to the point that I was not sure in some places if the screening I was attending had somehow cut to commercial. These are the qualities that most define The Beauty in the Boogie. It is a hammy soap opera. It is an incoherent musical. It is a film that falls flat on its face in every conceivable way. Yet despite all this, despite the fact that on every objective measure this is clearly a bad movie, I can’t stop fondly thinking about it. Part of me feels ill for having the reaction I did. I have only held a position at this magazine for several months, and I fear that if I admit in print to having actually enjoyed The Beauty in the Boogie, my superiors will take this as evidence that I clearly lack the taste required for a job in criticism at a respectable publication and send me out on the curb. But good journalism requires honesty, and my honest reaction to this film is that I enjoyed it far more than many of the films which will soon enough be competing for awards. I am well aware of its objective incompetence. It just doesn’t seem to matter.

The Beauty in the Boogie, directed by niche cult hero Wally Fugbutter, is set in the disco capital of the southern United States: Amarillo. Its story is one of forbidden romance: Keith Funkington (Chet Aggrazini), the disco prodigy dubbed as the Grooviest Cat to Ever Saunter Onto the Dance Floor (this is an official title), has been arranged to dance with the coveted Martha Junkinjive (Estelle La Fussin). But his heart lies elsewhere, and instead he yearns to get down and funk it up with the shy outsider Tina Teapot (Angrolostophenemis McDickson), who has just arrived in town all the way from Santa Fe. Their star-crossed relationship threatens to destroy the sacred balance of the boogie and bring chaos to the entire disco world. What follows is a 135-minute collection of gratuitously long and indulgent dance sequences intermixed with poorly-scripted, poorly-acted scenes of stock drama, filled with impassioned declarations of love, even more impassioned fights, and the occasional tone-deaf attempt at humor. It’s an absolute delight.

I need to be clear about something: this is not some Plan 9 from Outer Space or Time Traveling Snakes 3: Slithering Through Hisstory where the film is lovable on account of it being so horrible, where its failures make all on their own a brilliant comedy. No, something far worse has happened with The Beauty in the Boogie. I genuinely like the film. I unironically enjoy it. All of its most dramatic moments land. More due to the nature of gravity bringing things to the ground whether they like it or not than because of any particular acrobatic talent, but they land nonetheless. I care about the characters, buy into their absurd archetypes. I find the dance sequences fun, and the stilted overzealous choreography charming. I shouldn’t. The film is managing a peculiar blend of trying far too hard to seem cool and dramatic while also hardly trying at all to develop any sort of story, style, or vision. Every indicator of a poor movie is present. Dialogue in which characters state exact feelings so directly I’m half-convinced this is some bizarre therapeutic exercise rather than an actual conversation. The apparent conviction that more editing is better editing. Scenes that just sort of happen without any particular beginning or end. This is a paradigm case of trashy shapeless cinematic muck. One and a half stars (give it the extra half for at least having a semblance of humanity behind it). Move on. So why did I like this film so much? Am I demented?

There must be some hidden element in the film that is causing me to feel this way, something that can explain why such a hideous film brings me such glee. Maybe it’s the absurdity of its premise. To have the plot of a Douglas Sirk movie in the world of disco is sort of charming. It’s hard to hear characters say lines like, “Your funk consumes me. I’ll never be able to go boogie and get the stupendous disco vibes without you grooving through my subconscious like a parasitic snail of snazz,” and not chuckle a little. But it’s hardly the idea of the film that interests me; I can barely even understand the sacred tenets and prophecies of the Amarillo disco world, let alone take some enjoyment from them. Maybe it’s the film’s total refusal to tone down any of its neon-colored flair. The idea that disco dancing is anything other than the most sacrosanct practice mankind could ever aspire to participate in is unthinkable to the film and everyone in it. It’s a film that demands that you get on its wavelength, submit yourself to the groove, because any denial of one’s disco destiny is a damnation upon the dearest dogmas of our days and downright disallowed. Perhaps what this film is doing is dragging me against my will into liking it, overpowering by sheer conviction any doubts I may have about it. Yet I let myself be dragged without much resistance. I don’t even try to put up a fight against the film, in fact I follow it eagerly onto the dance floor. So what is it about the film that makes me so willing to look past all the failures I clearly see?

Perhaps the only thing left to do is admit defeat. My job is supposed to be to make sense of films, to make an argument for or against the success of a particular film and back up my judgment. I am supposed to think well about cinema, to provide good, informed reasons for the judgments I make. But I cannot do so with The Beauty in the Boogie. The realm of reasons all point towards this being cinematic refuse, but I love it anyway. Call it a baseless judgment. Call it bad criticism. I will concede that. But I will stand by my judgment all the same. The world is dark enough as it is. We’ve been without moon meth for months. Every headline involving Jupiter could be the one telling us a war has officially started. The NFL just started inserting opportunities for betting into fans’ dreams. Maybe we can just enjoy something without having to defend why. Maybe just experiencing a little joy is reason enough. Maybe, as Keith Funkington puts it in a line he delivers with the charisma of a choking ostrich, we need to get out of our own heads and onto the dance floor, and just groove out.