by M. Moscato

I’ve formed a thematic kind of trinity in my mind now: Wes Anderson, Noah Baumbach, and Whit Stillman. The Last Days of Disco, my latest (third) exposure to the Whit Stillman experience. Actually, the trio of Stillman’s feature length films have even been watched in sequence; appropriate considering the rumor that they were intended as some kind of loosely formed or rather thematic trilogy. Simply, though, just a beautiful (crisply and sparklingly beautiful), pensive (ruminating amidst the strobe lights of betrayals, bitchiness, and debutante loss), and riotous film (full of wit and humor). That image of a cocaine-sniffing habit suddenly turned downward to snorkel in a warm cup of coffee lingers still. Most of all is the overwhelming sense that these are some dear friends you never knew, will never know, and likely would never want to know—but you want them to never die, never grow old. Because you will, and you need to visit them time and time again for that “sense of solidarity” to affirm that, yes, they have all been captured permanently in celluloid—perfectly, with all imperfections intact.