THE LAST SHOWGIRL. Pamela, come back? [REVIEW]

In the year Coralie Fargeat delivered the fiercely striking “The Substance“, any fully conventional story about aging, generational clashes, and a woman’s fight for a lasting entertainment career is bound to feel lackluster. Indeed, “The Last Showgirl” leaves viewers feeling somewhat unsatisfied, as if it’s skimming the surface of its themes and treading well-worn paths. However, calling it a complete failure would be an overstatement. Gia Coppola’s third feature film might frustrate with its predictability, but its strengths lie in the consistency and sensitivity with which it gives the spotlight to its protagonist.

We meet Shelly (Pamela Anderson) during a casting for an erotic show. She claims to be 36, then corrects herself to 42. In reality, she’s closer to sixty, and despite various desperate efforts, she can’t fool the calendar; no magic shot will bring back her body from the 1980s, when she allegedly had her heyday. Since then, she has performed alongside much younger dancers in the “Le Razzle Dazzle” revue (which, according to her, is the only one that still retains class, unlike the garish and vulgar shows now dominating the Las Vegas stage). For Shelly, this job is not only a livelihood but also a passion, a means of self-expression, and even a central aspect around which she organizes her daily routine. So when the threat of the show ending looms, she is shaken to her core. “What will I do on Christmas?” Shelly asks herself in one scene.

We watch a small apocalypse unfold on screen, the total disintegration of a world where everything (seemingly) used to be in its right place. For anyone with even a hint of foresight, this implosion is inevitable, yet Shelly is shaken by its suddenness. The film’s most intriguing aspect is its portrayal of the shock of colliding with reality; Shelly’s painful awareness of her life’s stage becomes sharply clear. Coppola gradually pierces the bubble around Shelly, confronting her fantasies with undeniable truths. The magic fades, and Shelly realizes she is no longer a star, that her show is subpar, and that her neglected relationship with her daughter, Hanna (played with subtlety by Billie Lourd), should be a greater priority than her shaky career.

Shelly’s tough reckoning with reality gains depth thanks to Anderson’s excellent performance. She infuses the character with a mix of childlike naivety and fighting spirit; Shelly is both fragile and volatile. Anderson brings subtlety to the role, occasionally loud but never brash. She is well-matched by Jamie Lee Curtis and, in a surprising casting choice, Dave Bautista as Eddie, whose relationship with Shelly remains intriguingly ambiguous for much of the film.

The backdrop – or perhaps an additional supporting character – is a Las Vegas that’s a bit different than usual: sleepy and cold. Instead of dazzling neon displays, we see muted, chilly landscapes. The camera rarely lingers on sinful establishments, skimming quickly over casinos and clubs, never allowing itself to get swept up in the party frenzy. The sounds, too, are subdued, contributing to a lyrical mood – notably, the soundtrack’s most memorable moment comes from the melancholic “Total Eclipse of the Heart”, although the prolonged use of the song in one scene feels driven by a desire to let Bonnie Tyler’s hit play in full.

“The Last Showgirl” won’t be remembered for its storyline or its form. Coppola’s film is noteworthy primarily as a spectacular acting comeback for Pamela Anderson. Her performance can almost be read autobiographically: like her character, Anderson entered the public eye not for her acting talents, and time has not been kind to her best-known assets. Her role here is a (rather successful) attempt to prove that she deserves a place in serious films. I have a feeling this may not be her final dance.