After panning over New York City, swooping from bridge to train, the camera drops to calf-level, looking out from a shoe store shop display. On the sidewalk, a man pauses, raising a leg to try on the pair in the window. The leg is bare, tan, and toned, not poured into jeans; the shoes aren’t black leather, they’re blizzard-white trainers. It’s not “Stayin’ Alive” throbbing but a Gibbsian falsetto droning, “Get on down.”
The "Saturday Night Fever" homage continues, the man strutting into a Brooklyn home. He flicks through a closet's rainbow of tank tops, picks out a halo of tawny curls, and enters a nightclub (Brooklyn Disco) to a chorus of “how you doin’s.”
