Next to Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance and Halina Reijn’s Babygirl, late career big-swings by the bombshells of decades past that also provide some metacommentary on their own careers seem to be a trend for this year in film. Whether that be Demi Moore’s grotesque transformation into Monstro Elisasue, or Nicole Kidman’s CEO who pursues a sadomasochist relationship with a much younger intern, these films intend to transgress the idea of what is acceptable for older women. Seeing their naked bodies, expressing sexual desire, simply existing as an older woman is a “brave” and newsworthy event. In breaking these traditional roles, they also reify them, as if it is shocking that women their age still are able to portray themselves as desirable and beautiful (even if the characters themselves state otherwise – self-hatred is the topic du jour).
The Last Showgirl (dir. Gia Coppola) is not nearly as provocative, instead providing an empathetic and grounded portrait of a different kind of artist late in her career. Shelly (Pamela Anderson), perhaps one of the few people left in Las Vegas who remembers the glory days, is consigned to take stock of her life when The Razzle Dazzle revue is finally shut down. Though the younger showgirls see the revue as another chintzy tourist trap, and most revues have been replaced by “tasteless” (Shelly’s words) softcore dance shows, she waxes poetic about the days she’d be sent to China and Europe for photoshoots and travel ads, treated as a true ambassador for Las Vegas worldwide. To her, the showgirl is representative of a more romantic era of live entertainment, inspired by theater and France, with a cohort of worldly and respected women. Shelly sees her dance as art, even when her fellow performers see themselves as workmen.
Despite the death of the showgirl, statues and lights and posters made in her image are still scattered around Vegas. “Iconic” does not equate to job security. “Iconic” means that you’re trapped in amber, a nostalgic symbol rather than a living history. “Iconic” is only reserved for those who’ve made a name for themselves, not the ones in the back row of history. Shelly’s confidence in herself teeters between naive bluster and a coping mechanism, in a turn by Anderson that adds a melancholic texture to a character that could become merely a bitter hag in the hands of another. As the people in Shelly’s life bristle against her, it becomes clear that, at her age, there is no out. Her rejection of marriage and motherhood in the name of her art may have been vogue for the time, but this freewheeling lifestyle has consequences for her older self. Now that the revue is closed, she has no health insurance (turns out, the guy who does lights has more job security than her) and is only beginning her relationship with Hannah, her estranged daughter (Billie Lourd) who is also pursuing an artistic trade.
Despite Hannah’s resentment for Shelly, they have a strange understanding of each other because of this distance. Hannah’s adoptive family wants her to quit studying photography for something more utilitarian, but Shelly encourages her to keep at it, “doing the job that you don’t really love, that’s hard.” Soon, the generational perceptions of work and art begin to rear their heads, and Hannah’s pursuit of photography seems even more untenable than Shelly’s dance. If Shelly’s life is beginning to unravel now, what will it be like for the future generation of artists in a decaying city like Las Vegas?
We don’t see The Razzle Dazzle until the very end of the film, when Shelly performs as a showgirl for the last time. Even then, it is portrayed to us as a glittery dreamlike trance from a bygone time. The Last Showgirl doesn’t provide a conclusive ending for the characters, and for all we know they could still be flailing in the winds of change. For these minor artists, often regarded as background noise, the happy ending of fame and fortune is a flash in the pan. We are left to piece together what about the revue was so important to Shelly. Her daughter is not impressed, berating the show as kitschy garbage, insulted that Shelly would ignore her child for it. The showgirls themselves don’t have much affection for it either. And yet, the bond between the performers transcends whatever the actual quality of the show was. Our glimpses into their backstage life, from searching for their next gig to helping each other get in and out of costume, portray a familiarity that only the stage brings. To Shelly, feeling seen and loved every night was all that mattered.
