In the long line of historical decadence and self-indulgence, after Rome’s downfall and The Great Gatsby’s green light, there existed a place called Studio 54. For 33 incandescent months, this New York City nightclub became a glittering vortex of excess, hedonism, and people who didn’t need to be told twice about the merits of a good party. If Studio 54 was a church, then its founders, Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager, were its high priests, officiating a nightly mass of disco, decadence, and dubious decision-making.