“Pamela Anderson Dazzles in *The Last Showgirl*: A Moving Story of a Mature Burlesque Performer”


Gia Coppola’s *The Last Showgirl* is a captivating investigation into aging, rich with texture and emotional resonance. This heartfelt Vegas narrative revolves around Shelly, a burlesque performer in her fifties grappling with the end of her career. Portrayed by ’90s star Pamela Anderson in what feels like a triumphant revival of her acting journey, the film utilizes its self-aware casting to build an ensemble that grounds its visual richness in profoundly human narratives.

With a runtime of just 85 minutes, the film proceeds rapidly, yet its effects remain long after the final credits appear. It encapsulates the bittersweet nature of reflecting on a life and pondering the passage of time. Filled with regret, it also serves as a contemplation on the unavoidable nature of mistakes, particularly within an artist’s path, and how those errors define us.

### What is *The Last Showgirl* about?

The film begins with Shelly (Anderson) getting ready for an audition. Adorned with a sparkling police hat, she lies about her age, asserting she is 36. The camera captures her uncertain expression, spotlighted against the emptiness of a vacant stage. This moment feels detached from time and space, as though Shelly is facing not just an anonymous director but also the heavy burden of existence. This fleeting scene acts as an entry point into her mind — a mix of self-doubt and determination — before the film transitions into her everyday experiences.

The universe of *The Last Showgirl* explodes onto the screen with the kitschy glamour of Las Vegas. Shelly performs at *Le Razzle Dazzle*, a budget-friendly revue where she and her younger colleagues scramble through costume changes in a shared dressing area. The backstage frenzy is captured through an extended, energetic take that reflects the mechanical cadence of their routines. Shelly commands these moments with her chatter, oscillating between grievances, wistful reflections, and meandering stories. Her younger peers admire her but also bear her eccentricities with saintly grace. To them, she embodies a maternal figure, a seasoned professional with insights but perhaps an inflated view of her art’s importance — a conviction she upholds to rationalize her sacrifices.

Away from the spotlight, Shelly spends her time with friends like Annette (Jamie Lee Curtis), a former burlesque performer who now waits tables at a casino. During one of their get-togethers, they are joined by two younger showgirls, Mary-Anne (Brenda Song) and Jodie (Kiernan Shipka), as well as Eddie (Dave Bautista), the blunt stage manager of *Le Razzle Dazzle*. Eddie brings bleak news regarding the revue’s precarious future, triggering a chain reaction that compels each individual to face their past and future.

For Shelly, this signifies reconnecting with her estranged daughter, Hannah (Billie Lourd). Their bond is strained, and every interaction seems to widen the gap between them. As the show’s closure approaches, the characters are forced to confront what their lives could resemble without this delicate refuge. The film’s storyline may appear stagnant in written form, but its emotional depths are significant, conveyed through Coppola’s stunning visuals and her compassionate depiction of women at critical junctures in their lives.

### *The Last Showgirl* is a visual marvel.

Following her inconsistent debut *Palo Alto* and the blunder of *Mainstream*, Gia Coppola has hit her stride with *The Last Showgirl*. The film is a visual delight, largely due to cinematographer Autumn Durald Arkapaw (*Loki*), a frequent collaborator of Coppola. Filmed on 16mm, the movie’s grainy texture lends it a tactile feel, particularly in shadowy interiors and amidst the neon radiance of Vegas. The quirks in the film stock appear less as defects and more as treasures, akin to the sparkling embellishments on the showgirls’ outfits. This visual style allows the characters to feel less like distant subjects and more like essential parts of the frame itself.

Coppola makes the daring decision to withhold the characters’ complete dance performances for a significant portion of the film. By doing this, she sidesteps inviting judgments on their art until the narrative has thoroughly examined what *Le Razzle Dazzle* signifies for each performer. Is it merely a stepping stone, a fleeting thrill, or an authentic art form steeped in Parisian heritage? The answers differ based on whom you ask, but when the revue is ultimately showcased, its importance extends beyond these labels. It becomes a mirror of the dancers’ identities and dreams.

The camera mimics the characters’ motions, swaying and gliding through cramped backstage passages and intimate rehearsals. Coppola utilizes anamorphic lenses, which blur the frame’s edges to create a surreal quality reminiscent of Roger Deakins’ work in *The