More embarrassment than an innocent onlooker should have to endure. Granted that a sequel to Saturday Night Fever was in the cards -- but who would envision Tony Manero, weekend disco whiz, achieving Broadway stardom in an all-dancing, no-singing, no-talking extravaganza called Satan's Alley? What sort of comprehension would that indicate of the original? What sort of logical follow-through? One man, apparently, who does think that way, is "Rocky" Stallone, who directed and co-wrote, and who excuses all of Manero's most deplorable character traits as products of an almost imbecilic innocence. The finale alone -- a triumphant opening night of dry ice, colored lights, and impulsive improvisation -- is too much to stand, but there are plenty of other tortures before then: the unremittingly ugly pop songs (many of them written and performed by Stallone's brother Frank), the savagely hacked-up dance numbers, and the countless closeups of the Travolta face, the glistening eyes telling us again and again how deeply he deserves our pity, if not also our love. (1983) — Duncan Shepherd
This movie is not currently in theaters.