Thinly conceived and thoroughly shallow, writer-director Wayne Price's mockumentary chronicles the rise and fall of celebrity doorman Trevor W (co-writer Lucas Akoskin).
Handsome, stylish and charmingly exotic – what is that accent? – Trevor has perfected the art of the door. He's not a bouncer – he conceives of himself as something more like a DJ who mixes club-going crowds to Saturday night perfection. In what passes for humor, the preternaturally poised Trevor is a klutz in yoga class and eats like a famished wolverine, all the while declaring that he knows everyone and, more important, everyone knows him. His unrequited arrogance is no doubt why so many "friends" are quick to gloat when he falls on hard times after failing to recognize Nicolas Cage and exiling the Oscar-winning hyphenate to velvet-rope Siberia. But Trevor blithely maintains his façade of fabulousness, receiving the film crew in a swank apartment that clearly isn't his and insisting that he's still working at the club (they must have come by at the one moment he stepped away from his post), shushing his "adoptive grandmother" when she accuses him of ignoring her, dodging questions about his sexuality and trying to reinvent himself as a pop star and an actor, at one point combing his hair into a ridiculous parody of a gangster pompadour and attempting to talk Peter Bogdanovich into getting him an audition for The Sopranos.
Price peppers the film with B-list celebrities and real-life New York scene-makers, including club owner Amy Sacco, publicist Kelly Cutrone, model agent Jan Planit and boxing guru Michael Olajide. But Trevor himself is a miscalculated creation, a buffoon whose scenes have the exaggerated quality of acting-class exercises. With such an unconvincing center, all the air-kissing and second-hand glamour in the world can't make the film's mock-doc conceit hold. leave a comment --Maitland McDonagh