Pamela Anderson returns in “The Last Showgirl,” a sublime, timely comeback in a changing world

During the joyous holiday season, I am typically at my most serene and emotionally content. But one night this last December, against the cozy glow of my fake Douglas fir, I found myself acting completely out of character, sitting up to hurl insults at an advertisement on television. It’s worth mentioning that I’m a sucker for Christmas nostalgia, and in recent years I’ve found myself returning to my favorite compilation of holiday ads from the ’70s and ’80s for a little extra comfort. Only a few decades back, holiday advertising was softer and more amiable; commercials were designed to appeal to a customer’s heart, illustrating how everyday products and higher-end gift items could bring people together during the holidays. Yes, these ads were still cleverly capitalist, but they highlighted how we can integrate consumerism into a holiday without losing the harmonious spirit of the season.

So, maybe you can understand why an advert showcasing built-in AI features writing someone’s Christmas card caused me to fling expletives through the air like verbal snowballs. As if the mass normalization of generative AI wasn’t already terrifying, imagine picking up a Christmas card from your dearest friends or family and realizing that the “personalized” message is little more than hollow ChatGPT prose with a few holiday buzzwords thrown into the mix. Have we lost touch with intimacy to such a severe degree that we can’t even muster a few sentences about how our year went without relying on AI? A Christmas card, sent during the most mirthful time of the year, should come from the heart, not a program rapidly depleting our planet’s natural resources. We’re being sold products that covertly encourage us to let elegance and the connections we forge with others through earnest vulnerability fall away. With AI writing something as simple as a holiday greeting, we lose the charm in the occasional grammatical error, the typo and the silly dad joke. There’s worth and warmth in the work. Or, at least there used to be.

Having spent the last year feeling increasingly out of place in a world that devalues art and process over expedience and automation, watching Pamela Anderson’s stunning performance in “The Last Showgirl” felt like looking in a mirror. Though I don’t sport rhinestone bras or ostrich feather headpieces that caress the ceiling like the ones worn by Anderson’s character Shelly in her dying Vegas dance revue, I recognized the horrible sensation of feeling left behind that consumes her. Shelly is a woman who deeply relishes her work. Her sensual cabaret, Le Razzle Dazzle, is a classic, bawdy show on the Las Vegas Strip, the kind that requires work and passion as much as it necessitates the cheeky flash of a nipple. And though Le Razzle Dazzle has some glimpses of nudity, Shelly can see the beauty between the boobs. She takes pride in every stitch in her costumes and step of her feet.

Pamela Anderson in “The Last Showgirl” (Courtesy of Roadside Attractions)

Like her character, Anderson was once a woman jettisoned into space to watch the world spin without her. She was chewed up during her time in Hollywood at the apex of its predatory tabloid era. Despite her commitment to her art, most filmmakers, critics and audiences refused to take Anderson seriously. Her beauty made her a target, and her soft heart all but guaranteed she’d be an easy mark. “The Last Showgirl” director Gia Coppola has spoken at length about her ardent desire to cast Anderson in the lead role, and it’s plain to see why Coppola knew that Anderson would be the right person to play Shelly. Anderson and Shelly have a symbiotic connection, a shared heart that makes for a singular experience for the film’s audience. It’s impossible not to be enchanted by Anderson’s compassionate turn, and her tender work makes it all the more heartbreaking to watch Shelly refuse to go quietly into the night.

If the title “The Last Showgirl” didn’t already imply it, it would still be obvious that Shelly is part of a dying breed. As Shelly and her friends and fellow dancers Jodie (Kiernan Shipka) and Mary-Anne (Brenda Song) prepare backstage for a performance, their intricate costuming is enough to convey how antiquated Le Razzle Dazzle has become. Their corsets are hand-stoned and their wings are finely sewn; a single rip will take days to fix. It’s the kind of show that takes a decent chunk of money to keep it going, if only because each person working behind the scenes and on the stage needs to be properly compensated. In an era where Vegas tourists would rather sit inside a giant sphere to watch a glorified music video play on an LCD screen than pay to see a glittering, choreographed burlesque, Le Razzle Dazzle is hemorrhaging cash. 

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Coppola’s film is largely set in the span of the show’s final performances, as Shelly and her cohorts contend with the end of an era and figure out what to do next. For Mary-Anne and Jodie, who are in the prime of their youth, the question of what will follow Le Razzle Dazzle isn’t so intimidating. There are options, albeit less elegant ones. But the closing of her beloved revue is coming at the worst possible moment for Shelly as she stares down the end of her fifties. To her faithful producer Eddie (Dave Bautista), Shelly is an old soul, but to those who cast Vegas’ remaining live dance shows, she’s just old. Suddenly, the once-shining Sin City looks a lot more dull, and Shelly can see the cracks in everything. Even her dear friend Annette (Jamie Lee Curtis) is being slowly pushed out of her job as a casino floor cocktail waitress — a gig where you used to be able to work until you kicked the bucket amid all the jackpots and coin slots. Maybe that’s not the most dignified way to go, but for Annette and others like her, it’s better than croaking in the heat of the desert sun. 

Screenwriter Kate Gersten’s script is its sharpest when it’s focused on Shelly and Annette, whose bond feels heartwarming and utterly real. The film is less tight when it spotlights its younger characters, especially Shelly’s estranged daughter, Hannah (Billie Lourd). Gersten beautifully expounds on the complicated dynamics of young motherhood and how it felt for Shelly to be a working Vegas showgirl while trying to care for her daughter. But Hannah herself is relatively one-dimensional, and Lourd is unsuited to her paper-thin character. 

Pamela Anderson in “The Last Showgirl” (Courtesy of Roadside Attractions)While some might find the inconsistent character writing detrimental to the film, those disparities only further spotlight Anderson’s impeccable performance. Among all the blinding lights that bookend Vegas’ Strip, she shines the very brightest. Shelly is magnetic and magnanimous, compelling in the ways she extends so much kindness to others (or, at least, wants to) while working through the throes of personal crises. Coppola’s enthusiasm for her star pays off in droves throughout the film, as she frames Anderson in lush pastel pinks and baby blues to emphasize Shelly’s gentle soul and Anderson’s unique presence. 

For as long as Anderson has been absent from our screens, which is far, far too long, she stomps back triumphantly, showcasing candor and affection for both this specific material and her craft. Considering all the years she spent being misunderstood by the public and the industry, it’s nothing short of miraculous to see her sparkle on the silver screen once more. Shelly is intensely fond of her art, prattling on to anyone who will listen about the show’s style originating from Parisian dance troupes, and practicing her choreography and technique from old movement videos she projects onto the wall in her living room. Her graceful motions are beautifully complemented by Andrew Wyatt’s score, which floats in and out of the film like a dream. Shelly exists in that hazy romance, the same kind that Anderson lives in, the one that was so apparent in 2023’s “Pamela, A Love Story,” which documented Anderson’s long journey to this moment and stressed her appreciation for all of the life — good, bad and ugly — that led to it. 

“The Last Showgirl” isn’t wonderful because Anderson plays a version of herself, but rather because Anderson fundamentally understands her character, empathizing with Shelly’s desperation to hold onto modern life’s fleeting romance. When Shelly readies herself for a dinner date who eventually cancels on her, she shrugs it off and prepares the fish she was planning to make for her friends instead. It would be a shame to waste such a great cut of fish, and the lemons for the recipe were so expensive, she says. Things didn’t used to be this way. The lemons were cheap and the guys weren’t trying to score something on the side in their marriages. The phone rang with friends calling just to say hello. People were encouraged to pursue their dreams, not abandon them. Shelly can’t see life any other way. When Hannah tells her mother that others have told her to give up photography to get a job that makes money, Shelly scoffs. “That’s the dumbest thing anyone ever told anybody with a dream,” she replies. 

Those words are especially pertinent to Anderson, who once believed her time in the movies was finished. With her marvelous return to the screen in “The Last Showgirl,” Anderson declares that good, honest work is timeless. Craft and process are things that are worth defending, and the effort it takes to create something is part of what makes the finished work so special. The kicks are high because the dancers stretched. The costumes are shining because the seamstress stoned them. The showgirls are smiling because they worked for years to get to that stage. Automation might create the illusion of ease, but it will never replicate the radiant joy of watching people who love what they do.