YEARS BEFORE SIMON Cowell regularly stole the show from the so-called artists on American Idol – and eons before zillions of stations materialized on the channel changer – Taylor Hackford's 1980 feature debut, The Idolmaker, carved out a place in an increasingly crowded arena of music history nostalgia, detailing the crass yet compelling mechanics of pop stardom, to generally unenthused audiences.

But can you blame them? After Sha Na Na, American Hot Wax, Gary Glitter, the wonderful I Wanna Hold Your Hand, et al., throwback was still an easy out, a dodge in lieu of acknowledging the turmoil of present-day pop in 1980 and a sop to both sentimental oldsters and uninspired youngsters. Still, The Idolmaker stands out in the memories of those who caught it in what seemed like a continuous loop on early cable TV, and many fondly remember it as Hackford's finest, most deeply felt movie in a career filled with romantic flashes (notably Debra Winger putting another notch in ye olde birth control pill case as the vulnerably sexy girlfriend next door, in An Officer and a Gentleman) and the most effective use of pop by subgeniuses like Phil Collins apart from Ridley Scott and Tony Scott. The director's romance with pop goes back this far – no wonder Hackford also made the documentary Chuck Berry Hail! Hail! Rock n' Roll and hankered to shoot Ray for more than a decade (humming "Against All Odds" all the way, I'm sure).

Audiences were less than thrilled as The Idolmaker took its first bow – the film raked in a mere $318,403 during its opening weekend, eclipsed by hits that year like Popeye, which made $6.3 million its first weekend. The Idolmaker was too dark in contrast to the megahit Grease, too sleazy next to 1973's American Graffiti and the hit TV series Happy Days, and probably too gay in the barely subtextual way that title character Vinnie (Ray Sharkey) catches the eye of klutzy busboy Guido/Cesare (Peter Gallagher) and then suddenly sees no one else in the room. Does Vinnie want to make, or make it with, his idols? No matter, the movie made its impact on early HBO with its vivid, sexy little snapshot of a supposedly innocent era of manufactured pop – so far away from the moment's "disco sucks" backlash, arena rock decadence, and resurgent American punk and hip-hop.

Today its camp aspects stand out starkly. Pre-O.C. Gallagher acts by widening his big baby blues and gnashes the scenery like a blank-eyed clown; he looks like a lost member of Spandau Ballet with his wide-load pompadour and floppy sleeves. But although he clearly filters the '50s through an '80s sensibility, Hackford is most winning when he trains his lens on Sharkey as Vinnie, walking the streets of Little Italy looking like a low-rent Tony Manero as a girl group ooh-eees in the background. There Vinnie checks his reflection in a mirror, pulls up his socks, and stumbles over his own Fabian, his first Dion – Tommy Dee (Paul Land), a small-time neighborhoodie who cons money off kids and plays sax with a crotch-grabbing charisma. Vinnie needs that small-time hood – to be his musical surrogate: he has the songwriting talent but thinks he lacks the looks to be a pop star. Vinnie's not cute, the finest compliment teen magazine editor Brenda Roberts (Tovah Feldshuh) can bestow on a new idol. But we, the audience, can glean his charm – he has the limpid, brown puppy-dog eyes of Joe Strummer, the streetwise silver tongue of Bruce Willis, and the hard-edged drive of a junior Donald Trump.

This was the role of a lifetime for Sharkey, and he bit into it as if he was making his own bid for stardom – the best moments of the movie are the performances of his pop protégés, as seen through his eyes, or the instances when Vinnie is outright mirroring them. At one point, when Tommy gives his first lip-synch show at a Rochester school auditorium, the Svengali dances alongside, just offstage, going through each gesture with more loving grace and cool than one might expect from a master manipulator. Watching him watch the "artist" feels more complicated than watching a dead-end contest like American Idol: there's no end to his game, no satisfaction for his hunger – be it for cute boys or for creative fulfillment.

Factor in the female response Vinnie and his idols work so hard for – from the cameo by star-fucker reporter Maureen McCormack, a.k.a. Marcia Brady, to the little girls who understand and cry and moan – and matters get even more complex. When the puppets finally cut their strings to their maker, we're to assume that Vinnie finds his own voice – one that resembles that of Billy Joel more than that of Bobby Darrin. Too bad – we'd rather watch him backstage, eternally projecting his brand of perfect pop through a complicated series of surrogates and scrims.

Kimberly Chun

'An Evening with Taylor Hackford,' including an interview and a screening of The Idolmaker, takes place April 27, 7:30 p.m., Castro.