The Last Showgirl

As soon as the news came out that Gia Coppola's next film would star Pamela Anderson as a long-time showgirl in a legendary Vegas revue on the eve of its final performance, it was always going to be about Anderson.

For one, despite never stepping back from public life, she's certainly receded into the background. There was a time you couldn't escape her name. In the 90s, she was sex appeal personified, and one of the most famous people on the planet. She dated (and divorced) rock stars, voiced an animated version of herself, and was the subject of a roast on Comedy Central. But slowly, her name transformed into a joke as public disputes flared and memory of why she was famous faded. She became so comfortable making fun of herself and the wackiness of Baywatch that the culture forgot how to take her seriously. Sexism transformed her name into a synonym of every derogatory term for a woman whose only asset was her assets. Soon enough, whether by choice or by necessity, she was only appearing on reality shows (as guest or host), occasionally popping up to understandably denounce yet another new series centered around the sex tape stolen from her and Tommy Lee.

As such, when praise for her performance came pouring out of TIFF, I was surprised. For one, although I hadn't thought about her in over a decade, I'd internalized the sexist idea she'd only ever been her appearance. For her to not only get cast in a proper, starring, dramatic role, never mind receive heaps of praise for it, was very unexpected. Fortunately, with age comes better awareness of the ugliness of your past self, and an improved ability to push those preconceived notions aside to view what's in front of you. And what's in front of me is an incredibly layered and heartfelt portrayal of a woman whose place in the entertainment industry once made her a glamorous star, and now that her showcase is coming to a end must reckon with what that industry has become and what it was all for.

To be clear, I'm talking about Shelly, although I could very well be talking about Anderson herself. Whether the script was written with Anderson in mind I don't know, but as soon as Coppola cast her the story took on metanarrative significance, much like Birdman for Michael Keaton. It's certainly no mistake that Shelly's heyday as the central figure of Le Razzle Dazzle, a revue seemingly modeled on Jubilee!, stretched from the late 80s through the 90s, and that the show has fallen on hard times in recent years, barely making double digit ticket sales. Emphasizing the passage of time are her friendships with Mary-Anne (Brenda Song) and Jodie (Kiernan Shipka), two fellow dancers who are about half as old as her entire career. To them, this is just a job "that pays American dollars", whereas Shelly repeatedly refers to the roots of the showgirl in Paris, the legacy, the ideal. Any time there's the slightest challenge to the importance or prestige of what she does, history is her shield, quickly raising the question of who she's trying to convince.

For Shelly was so taken with the world in which she found herself that she let it define her life, leaving her with a failed marriage, an estranged daughter, and meager savings. So of course she wants to believe it was all worth it. None of us want to entertain the idea that maybe our life's work was all for naught. That we've made decisions and trade-offs that felt right in the moment, and maybe even were right, but have resulted in our current less than ideal circumstances. Granted, we see a handful of moments in which Shelly's self-centered nature comes through in ways which damage her relationships. She's so lost in her own self-pity that she shuts out Jodie in a time of crisis, and so defensive over what she went through to raise Hannah (Billie Lourd) while dancing that she runs away from a chance to rebuild their relationship. For all her desire to move on, to break out of her box, she remains stubbornly stuck within, quickly retreating from every earnest attempt to emerge.

While Shelly's present is centered in the narrative, her experiences are reflected through her friends. Mary-Anne and Jodie both stand-in for entering the Vegas scene as a young woman, the fear of being disowned by your parents, the immediate sexualization which strikes them as "just how it is". Annette (Jamie Lee Curtis) is a former showgirl turned cocktail waitress, bitter and angry and mistrusting, openly maligning Le Razzle Dazzle while clearly clinging to the love of being the center of attention. Which makes it that much sadder to see her dance to "Total Eclipse of the Heart" on the casino floor, for which no one pays her any mind. Eddie (Dave Bautista) is probably in the most stable position as Le Razzle Dazzle's producer, given that he has the opportunity to stay on with the show which is taking over. Yet there's the unmistakable mournfulness in his soul of someone sleepwalking through life but unsure how to wake up, as if financial success has failed to paper over his feeling of personal failure.

Coppola one again works with cinematographer Autumn Durald, and her camera heightens all of these emotions incredibly well. She frequently use a handheld to give us the impression of spontaneity and instability through the drama, as well as to convey the whirlwind that is backstage at the show. There are many tight closeups on a long lens to further isolate her from the world she inhabits. Maybe most unique approach is the insistence on rendering all but the middle chunk of the screen hazy and out of focus, despite how often the characters and action drift that way. It really makes Shelly feel hemmed in, like she has no ability to see past the boundaries of where she is at this very moment, dooming her to cling to the dying light of this relic until it's finally over.

Despite all the good will I have for it, holding this movie back is Kate Gersten's script. The structure and its meandering story are lovely, but the dialog is quite inconsistent, stumbling in the moments it really needs to nail. While it's mostly fine, and even has a few elevated moments, the most achingly dramatic scenes fall flat as it leans on cliches or underdeveloped ideas. Shelly's confrontational conversation with Hannah in her dressing room just doesn't pack the punch it's designed to, nor does Jodie pleading with Shelly for help. But even a few smaller moments come off as completely manufactured rather than a dramatic build, most notably when Annette blows up at Eddie for being the bearer of bad news. These moments sap the momentum, and pull you out of the picture, reminding you that you're watching a movie. Which is a damn shame, given how well the rest of the film casts its spell on you.

The tone and mood of the piece are bound to turn some people off, but they're like catnip for me. The score is a lovely addition, sparkly yet wistful, often evoking another time, real or imagined. And the performances are all magnificent, none more stunning than Anderson, whose dedication landed her a Golden Globe nomination. The culmination is another powerful work which is focused on how the entertainment industry and society as a whole fails to provide opportunities or any sort of support for women over 50, how at every turn they're made to feel less than, and how even the spaces which provide comfort can be easily ripped away.