REVIEW: The Last Showgirl (2024)
Review By Liam Herschall — NewsTime News
The Last Showgirl, directed by Gia Coppola, is a shimmering, poignant exploration of ambition, identity, and the inevitability of time’s cruel march forward. Anchored by a show-stopping performance from Pamela Anderson as Shelly Gardner, a legendary Las Vegas revue dancer facing the end of her glittering career, the film pulls back the curtain on the glitzy world of Sin City. And that’s exactly the problem. It pulled too far behind the curtain. I don’t know how else to put this, but after watching The Last Showgirl, I feel like I’m no longer allowed to go have fun in my favorite American city, Las Vegas.
However, objectively, this is an excellent film. Coppola’s direction is a masterclass in tone and atmosphere, capturing the neon-soaked nostalgia of the Vegas strip while contrasting it with the empty vastness of the surrounding desert. Autumn Durald Arkapaw’s cinematography is breathtaking, painting Las Vegas as both a dazzling wonderland and a lonely, decaying mirage. But now every time I see a showgirl costume, all I’ll think about is Shelly Gardner, disassembling her feathered headdresses in her tiny apartment while reflecting on the void in her life. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to enjoy a Cirque du Soleil show now that I know this? I just want to cheer for all my great acrobats and buy a big, fun, novelty cocktail, but now I feel like I’m complicit in someone’s existential crisis. Thanks a lot, Gia Coppola.
Pamela Anderson’s performance is, without a doubt, career-defining. She portrays Shelly with a blend of grit, vulnerability, and fierce determination, making her one of the most compelling protagonists of the year. The supporting cast is stellar too, with Jamie Lee Curtis stealing scenes as Shelly’s best friend Annette, and Dave Bautista playing Eddie, a sleazy producer with a surprisingly tender side. Billie Lourd’s portrayal of Shelly’s estranged daughter adds layers of emotional complexity to the story. But let me tell you, now every time I walk down Fremont Street and see a cool Elvis impersonator or an awesome street magician, I’m going to wonder if they have unresolved issues with their kids. What kind of monster watches The Last Showgirl and then goes on to order bottle service at The Bellagio without feeling like they’re morally bankrupt? Not me, no sir, Las Vegas is officially ruined for me forever.
The film’s thematic exploration of reinvention and loss is unflinchingly honest. It dares to ask: What happens when the thing that defines you no longer exists? How do you find meaning when the spotlight dims? These are weighty, resonant questions that linger long after the credits roll. But The Last Showgirl also made me grapple with whether or not enjoying my favorite city Vegas is now inherently exploitative. Like if I laugh too hard at a stand-up comedian or throw down $20 on a blackjack table, I’m stomping on someone else’s dreams. Like if I just do the gambiling stuff and go see The Beatles show is that ok? No, because then I’m supporting the system that discarded Shelly. I didn’t ask to carry this emotional baggage, yet here I am, weighing the ethical implications of ordering a buffet pass.
Even the soundtrack betrayed me. With its haunting ballads and showstopping numbers, it perfectly captures the highs and lows of Shelly’s life. But now every time I hear a jazzy brass intro, I won’t think of Vegas glitz; I’ll think of Shelly sobbing in her car in a casino parking lot. This movie took my happy-go-lucky Vegas fantasies and turned them into a guilt-ridden odyssey. How am I supposed to enjoy a novelty daiquiri in a blinking yardstick now, knowing Shelly Gardner might be crying into her diner coffee somewhere across town? I guess I may as well just forget about going to look at that little Eiffel Tower on my birthday.
The Last Showgirl is undoubtedly one of the best films of the year—moving, masterfully made, and unapologetically honest. But for me, it also functioned as a giant “fun tax” on my favorite city. Thanks to Coppola, my next trip to Vegas will probably involve solemn contemplation instead of poolside margaritas. Bravo to everyone involved in the film, truly. But also, shame on them. Shame on them for ruining Las Vegas for me forever.