One Night Stand.

What does it say about the new Hollywood that a gay character dying of AIDS complications is now a plot device in a movie romance? Yes, Robert Downey Jr. dies so that Wesley Snipes and Nastassja Kinski can meet cute (as screenwriters like to say) in Mike Figgis's One Night Stand. Without Downey and his hospital death chamber, Snipes's and Kinski's paths might never have crossed again after sharing a night of hot, meaningless sex "exactly one year earlier." But meet again they do--very cute, very Neil Simon--at Downey's birthday party in his hospital room. Because he is gay and dying, it's quite a party, and Downey is dressed appropriately in faux leopard robe, huge gold and black sunglasses, and red velvet jester's cap. And Snipes and Kinski find true love, thanks to AIDS. Downey, having served his purpose, promptly dies.

Before he expires with an oxygen mask over his face, Downey does, however, get one of those spectacular movie moments that only happen to actors desperately seeking an Oscar nomination. Waking up from one of his fitful, perspiration-drenched nightmares--his hair carefully matted, his eves badly mascara-ed--Downey spots Snipes and Kinski kissing in the romantic shadows of his hospital room. His eyes grow wide with disbelief. He is dying; they are making out. How could they? And he didn't even know they were friends, much less long-lost fuck buddies!

After Downey dies there's another party, this time at his brother's house, where Snipes and Kinski go at it again, on the kitchen floor (or maybe she just fainted; it's not clear) to the pulsing beat of a Dixieland band. Downey's character may have been a choreographer, but he was a very successful choreographer, having willed his entire fortune for the purpose of holding this fete in his honor, which would rate a 10 in Circuit Noize magazine. What do we have here? Men dancing together among the heterosexuals, joints, lots of booze, a male nurse in a black mesh tank top, Christmas tree lights out of season, you name it. Anyway, someone interrupts Snipes and Kinski on the kitchen floor--there's a pretty big party going on, after all--so they retire to this other house out by the pool, right out of Sabrina, where they screw standing Up, only to be interrupted once again, this time by their respective spouses, who happen to be going at it as well. The point here might be that straights are pigs too. Whatever.

For those who think of Figgis as a foolish romantic, none of these plot machinations should come as much of a surprise. After all, who can forget the equally wonderful, nonsensical conclusion of his 1995 film Leaving Las Vegas: There is Nicolas Cage, dying of acute alcoholism, his liver the consistency of a shredded pear, being straddled by gorgeous hooker Elisabeth Shue, the love of his life, who rides him all the way to this incredible shared orgasm just before he dies a very happy and spent man. Get it? Love and death. Liebestod.

One Night Stand is enjoyably dumb like that. It's the kind of movie Hollywood used to make with Rock Hudson and Doris Day--but at least with those films, they had the good taste to leave out anything socially significant, such as a gay man dying of AIDS complications. It's nice that Snipes frowns whenever another character makes homophobic remarks. He doesn't say much, but you know he disapproves. Figgis might have been better off just concentrating on the polished wood-and-chrome decor, the steamy sex play, and the clothes. Unfortunately, Figgis has failed Snipes in the wardrobe department: He puts him in ascots. Well, one ascot, to be exact, which he wears to two different parties. But since the affairs are on opposite coasts, maybe it's OK. On second thought, why didn't he just ask his good friend Downey to will him that faux leopard robe?