FILM OF THE WEEK: The Last Showgirl - by Roe McDermott

The Last Showgirl, Gia Coppola’s third feature, has all the ingredients for a poignant, reflective drama: a once-glamorous Las Vegas revue on its last legs, a performer struggling to stay relevant, and a city that’s moved on without her. Yet, despite its melancholy sweetness and occasional flashes of insight, the film never quite comes together.

Pamela Anderson stars as Shelly, the oldest showgirl at Le Razzle Dazzle, a fading French-themed revue in Vegas. She’s been at it for 30 years, fiercely proud of a show that feels like a relic from another era, even as she watches the world around her change to embrace Cirque du Soleil and neon-soaked neo-burlesque. She knows exactly where her craft fits into history, passionately telling indifferent younger dancers, “It’s a descendant of Parisian Lido culture!” Yet, the tragedy lies in the fact that no one else seems to care.

This disconnect eats at Shelly, whose entire identity is wrapped up in the traditions she upholds. Watching The Red Shoes alone in her apartment, she dances by herself, lost in nostalgia for a golden age she just missed. When Le Razzle Dazzle announces its impending closure, Shelly spirals into panic. Without the show, who will she be? What will she do? And more hauntingly, was any of it worth it? Anderson plays Shelly with heartbreaking sincerity, capturing the complex mix of pride, fear, and existential dread that comes with realizing the world no longer has a place for you.

It’s a poignant premise, especially for Anderson, whose career has been similarly defined by her status as a sex symbol by an industry that commodified her image while dismissing her talent. It’s a quietly subversive role, challenging audiences to see beyond the persona to the woman underneath. In The Last Showgirl, Anderson confronts her own legacy, reclaiming her narrative even as Shelly struggles to do the same.

But while her casting is inspired, the performance itself is uneven. Anderson’s portrayal is at its most compelling when Shelly’s armour of beauty and charm begins to crack. She brings a raw vulnerability to the character, especially in quiet moments when Shelly dances alone or contemplates her future. Yet, there’s a stiltedness to other scenes which sometimes distances her from the character’s emotional core, making Shelly feel more like an echo than a fully realised person.

Part of this dissonance stems from the way Anderson plays Shelly’s demeanour - a high, almost girlish voice, an incessant smile, and a people-pleasing energy that feels performative. It’s an authentic choice in some respects, reflecting how women whose livelihoods depend on desirability can cling to the mannerisms of youth. Shelly’s exaggerated femininity feels like a protective mechanism, a way of deflecting the world’s harshness. But Anderson leans so heavily into these tics that Shelly sometimes seems more like a caricature than a character, obscuring the complexities beneath her bright façade.

The film’s most potent scenes come when Shelly confronts her past, especially in her fraught relationship with her estranged daughter, Hannah (Billie Lourd). Shelly’s choice to prioritise her career over motherhood is met with palpable resentment, and Anderson plays these scenes with a heartbreaking mix of optimism and desperation. She tries too hard to reconnect, her relentless cheerfulness only deepening the chasm between them. It’s in these moments of forced brightness that Anderson truly shines, revealing the cracks beneath Shelly’s glittering exterior.

Yet, The Last Showgirl falters in fully exploring its thematic potential. There are hints at larger cultural critiques - about the disposability of women in entertainment, the fine line between empowerment and exploitation, and the relentless march of time - but they remain underdeveloped. There is a broader conversation to be had about how we frame “older” actresses’ comeback roles, and how much they rely on grappling with their own objectification and aging, also seen this year in The Substance. While male actors have also played self-referential roles about aging, like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler, stories about women always feel deeply gendered and focused on their desirability which may be partly perpetuating the issue.

The supporting cast brings vibrancy to the film’s world. Kiernan Shipka and Brenda Song are charming as Shelly’s protégés, embodying a new generation of dancers who view their jobs as temporary gigs rather than lifelong callings. Dave Bautista surprises as Eddie, the stage manager and Shelly’s former flame, delivering a quietly soulful performance that grounds the story’s more melodramatic moments.

But it’s Jamie Lee Curtis who nearly steals the film as Annette, a former showgirl turned cocktail waitress whose brash humour masks deep loneliness. Curtis fully inhabits Annette, teetering on the edge of caricature but never falling over. Her friendship with Shelly is the film’s emotional anchor, a portrayal of women supporting each other even as they face their own reckonings.

Visually, Coppola captures the faded glamour of Las Vegas with painterly precision. Cinematographer Autumn Durald Arkapaw bathes the cityscape in pinks and magentas, emphasizing the surreal artificiality of a place built on illusion and embracing a wistful, dreamlike aesthetic. This choice enhances the film’s elegiac tone but occasionally contributes to a sense of detachment, as if we’re watching Shelly’s life through a haze of memory rather than experiencing it alongside her. Scenes shot inside can feel static and claustrophobic, often stuck in close-ups, though the brown and musty tones of Shelly's home do effectively evoke the idea that behind the glitz and glamour, life is grubby and rough.

Ultimately, The Last Showgirl is a haunting meditation on the cost of living in the spotlight, the fragility of identity, and the bittersweet beauty of dreams that fade but never quite die. It’s a flawed but affecting portrait of a woman who has spent her life dazzling others, now faced with the terrifying question of who she is when the lights go out.

• In cinemas now. Watch the trailer below: