Pamela Anderson adds flash to inane ‘Showgirl’
Pamela Anderson proves, at age 57, it’s never too late for reinvention with “The Last Showgirl.” It’s an inane, pointless movie, incompetently directed by Gia Coppola, but darned if Anderson doesn’t impress as its bedazzled leading lady, Shelly Gardner.
As a 38-year veteran of Le Razzle Dazzle, a Moulin Rouge-inspired chorus line at a nameless Las Vegas casino, Shelly has dedicated her entire adult life to being “an ambassador for style and grace,” and sacrificing a great deal in the process. Now, it’s all coming to a bitter end, as the gambling spot’s new owners declare her and her topless sisters relics of a bygone era.
It’s no coincidence that Anderson has reached the same crossroads as Shelly, a faded, breathy-voiced sex symbol fighting a losing battle against age in a realm where youth and vitality are everything. In interviews, the former “Baywatch” bombshell has eagerly declared an affinity for Shelly’s need to find herself while forging a new, uncertain career path. The key is whether it’s better to burn out than to fade away.
Coppola says she envisioned a Marilyn Monroe-type atop the marquee and Anderson assuredly evokes a Norma Jean vibe. She’s nowhere near Monroe’s equal as an actress but she does capture how the icon’s blend of strength, brains and naivete can easily disarm naysayers who dare underestimate her. Anderson takes that cue and runs with it, picking up a Best Actress nomination from the Hollywood Foreign Press and the Screen Actors Guild for her pleasantly surprising achievement. Could Oscar be next?
The source of all the awards talk is the naturalness of her performance. Yes, she’s playing a version of herself. Still, there’s much more to it, a warmth and sincerity that enables you to buy into Shelly’s status as a mother figure to the younger dancers like Brenda Song’s Mary-Anne and Kiernan Shipka’s Jodie. They look up to her to varying degrees, but they draw the line at Shelly’s grandiose assessment of the showgirl’s importance in the Vegas hierarchy. “We give them breasts, rhinestones and joy,” she says with absolute conviction.
Her fellow dancers merely roll their eyes. Like Shelly’s semi-estranged daughter, Hannah (Billie Lourd, daughter of Carrie Fisher), they see the revue for what it is, “A stupid nudie show.” And like Hannah, they are perplexed by what compelled Shelly to sacrifice so much to be in it. “You put this lame trash above me?” asks a bitter, angry Hannah of the mother who neglected her as a child, and now farms her off to a family in Tucson, where the aspiring photographer attends university. She might as well have said Jesus never existed, that’s how heartbroken Shelly is over her daughter’s vicious insult.
Anderson makes you feel the depth of that hurt beyond what a clunky, cliched dressing down like that might otherwise elicit. And it won’t be the only time the script by Coppola’s cousin-in-law, Kate Gersten, undermines Anderson’s herculean effort. Gersten consistently resorts to stock phrases and quick resolutions to complex problems regarding family, friendship and self-respect. Coppola is fully aware of its deficiencies, evidenced by a plethora of musical montages intended to stretch an already thin movie to 89 minutes.
What saves the enterprise from crapping out completely are the dedicated accomplishments of Anderson and her two primary co-stars, Jamie Lee Curtis and Dave Bautista. Like Anderson, the former has earned a SAG nomination for her offbeat turn as Annette, a bevertainer whose garish makeup and severe gambling problem can’t disguise a best pal with a heart of gold. She and Shelly are thick as thieves, and a deeper exploration of their relationship would have been preferable to all the backstage intrigue overseen by Bautista’s Eddie, the show’s longtime kinda boorish, kinda sweet stage manager who has a history with Shelly.
The movie flirts with them, forging a romance you wouldn’t mind seeing develop, given how charming Bautista can be when awkwardly attempting to make small talk with Shelly on an eventful dinner date. It’s not going out on a limb to say that both he and Anderson are at their zenith. But it’s Curtis’ performance that is most memorable, largely for the weirdly seductive dance number she executes on a casino tabletop to Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” You’re both in awe and embarrassed for Annette, especially when we realize no one is paying her a lick of attention.
It’s a scene that perfectly underscores the film’s theme of former beauties becoming invisible once they reach a certain age. But Shelly manages to slip in the biggest dig when she becomes fed up with a crude, belligerent casting director (Jason Schwartzman) who flatly tells her she’s too old and too passe for his show. Mad at herself for attempting to pass for 42, she turns to him and – with great defiance – declares with pride and dignity, “I’m 57, and I’m beautiful.” As if we needed reminding. After all, she’s Pamela “effing” Anderson. Enough said.
Movie review
The Last Showgirl
Rated: R for language and nudity
Cast: Pamela Anderson, Brenda Song, Jamie Lee Curtis, Kiernan Skipta, Dave Bautista and Billie Lourd
Director: Gia Coppola
Writer: Kate Gersten
Runtime: 89 minutes
Where: In theaters Jan. 10
Grade: C
