I’ve hated “Saturday Night Fever” since the first time I saw it in 1977. It’s the only Hollywood movie that offends me as an Italian-American. Sure, it’s “iconic” — but that debased term is now used for every pizza joint that closed because of a rent hike.

I admit that I love the pulse-pounding opening sequence where John Travolta prances under the 86th Street tracks in Bensonhurst to the beat of the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.” Who doesn’t? But the next 116 minutes make my blood boil.