Its story takes off when two men meet. A floundering artist named Sonny (Michael Beck), works in the record industry painting large replicas of album covers for promotional purposes while he struggles to decide what he really wants to do in life. Though he claims grand artistic designs, he is devoid of ideas, and free of any talent besides aping the style of others. How, exactly, this qualifies him as an "artist" is left vague.

Sonny crosses paths with Danny, whose problems are even worse. Once he toured the world with the Glenn Miller Orchestra, making a living creating music and seeing the world. If that wasn't bad enough now he's a fabulously real estate magnate wealthy, living in a gorgeous mansion, and he is forced to spend all day at the beach playing clarinet. How, exactly, one could deem this life in any way bad is left vague.

Danny, in short, is a spoiled whiner. He meets Sonny by chance, and reveals his lifelong dream: to open a jazz club like the ones he used to play in back in the 1940s. The duo's schemes are spurred on by a mysterious roller-skating beauty named Kira (Olivia Newton-John), who has magical powers of teleportation and stuff. After a “magical” eternity, it is revealed (and if you legitimately care about XANADU spoilers, here's your warning to skip to the end of the review) that Kira is a muse, sent by the Greek god Zeus to inspire Sonny. How exactly, the opening of a roller disco nightclub qualifies as a grand artistic statement worthy of the inspiration of a mystic muse is also left vague.

Kira and Sonny fall in love, but that is against the laws of the tribal council, or the Greek gods or something. Kira explains her situation to Sonny and is infuriated when he will not believe that she is an ageless immortal being from beyond time and space. Sonny, come one man. She roller blades around, disappears in a wink of an eye, and, most incredibly, willfully makes out with you. That should have been the first giveaway! We learn that Kira has inspired Shakespeare's sonnets, Beethoven's music and Michaelangelo's paintings and, now, Sonny's nightclub. One of these sings is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong.

There's nothing wrong with making a movie about the supernatural or a muse (Albert Brooks did it a few years ago). But a muse from a Greek pantheon illuminated solely by boogelicious neon? A muse who falls in love with a waffling slacker forgery artist instead of the greatest artists in the history of modern men? ("Sure Michaelangelo was talented, but Sonny's got really cool hair!") It doesn't work, and neither does the extremely literal deus ex machina of the ending.

The single bright spot in this otherwise uniformly terrible mess -- and I haven't even approached the subject of the terrible music provided by John Farrar and Electric Light Orchestra -- is the soothing performance of Kelly as Danny. Nearly 70 when he was cast, Kelly nevertheless provides the single musical number of interest, a simple but charming dance with Newton-John. The years may have eroded Kelly's physical talent, but they couldn't touch his grace or his incredible smile. Even when surrounded by roller disco stupidity, he provides the picture with a legitimate sense of nostalgia and warmth.