Pamela Anderson shines in The Last Showgirl – but the story can’t keep up. By Dr Erin O’Dwyer
Some films have everything going for them: a star making a bold return, a directorial legacy, a subject that taps the cultural moment. The Last Showgirl should have been one of those films.
Directed by Gia Coppola – granddaughter of Francis Ford, niece of Sofia – the film wants to do what Lost in Translation did: tell a quiet story where nothing much happens, and yet by the end nothing is the same. A mood piece. A meditation. A study of what happens when a society obsessed with youth decides you no longer matter, and a woman on the edge of reinvention.
But The Last Showgirl gets lost in its own ambience. There are moments of real beauty – long dreamy shots, gorgeous natural light, and a softly luminous Pamela Anderson who is captivating whether she’s stage-ready in sequins or make-up-free in sweatpants. But despite the aesthetic, the story frays. And when story frays, even charismatic characters unravel with it. (Cf The Substance starring Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley. Released in cinemas at the same time and covering the same themes, The Substance used horror to focus its storytelling and remarkably is the better film, with a much tighter plot.)
A character with nowhere to go
Anderson plays a Las Vegas showgirl facing the end of her career. The cabaret is closing. Her body is ageing. Her purpose is uncertain. The setup is ripe with potential – especially in a moment when women are more empowered than ever in their careers, yet also fighting against systemic inequity. But what’s missing is motivation. Stakes. Simple complication and resolution.
Take her relationship with her daughter. There’s estrangement. Anger. Distance. But why? The tension flickers in and out of scenes, but never deepens. We’re not given enough to fully understand – and so that means we don’t care.
Or the subplot with the show’s grizzled male producer (WWE wrester Dave Bautista), who we later learn fathered her child but never took responsibility. It’s a bombshell – delivered far too late. Worse, we never feel the weight of that betrayal, because the history between them is left blank. When Anderson’s character accepts a date with him, then storms out in fury, the scene falls flat. Yes, she wants to feel desired. But when she decides to go on a ‘feel good’ date with the estranged father of her estranged child and a man who has been her decades-long colleague – apropos of nothing – it makes little sense.
More stairs than stage
And then there’s the dancing – or lack of it. For a film called The Last Showgirl, there is surprisingly little actual show. We see plenty of backstage life: the girls climbing stairs, checking lipstick, adjusting headpieces. Anderson tearing the wings of her costume then having her pay docked in brutal corporate retribution. These are wonderful scenes. But audiences crave payoff. We want to see the dancing, the stage, the music. We want to see the magic these women created for years, before the lights go out.
This was a problem in The Substance, too. Margaret Qualley’s dance sequence is electric, and Demi Moore has a commanding physical presence – but both are rationed. Old Hollywood understood this: dancing sells. Less bathroom scenes, less backstage. If you’re going to tell stories about performers, let them perform.
One exception? Jamie Lee Curtis. In The Last Showgirl, she delivers the film’s best dance scene – a mournful number in a leotard, playing a cocktail waitress whose body can’t quite keep up with the music. It’s raw and real and deeply moving. Curtis has become the face of honest ageing onscreen – just think of her in The Bear, all wrinkles and rage and brilliance. That’s what has always made her work resonate. Whether in her 20s or her 60s, she let us see her. (Perhaps it says something about her vaudevillian upbringing – the show must go on, no matter your age. It’s a lesson we can all remember.)
What storytellers can learn from The Last Showgirl
Here’s the thing. Great characters are not enough. They can’t do the work alone. They need a world. A backstory. A structure that lets us understand what they want, what they fear, and why they make the choices they do.
Otherwise, your audience will be left like the showgirls: walking up and down the stairs, waiting for something to happen.
If you’re telling a story – in film, brand, memoir or leadership – ask yourself:
- Have I built enough story to support the standout characters I’ve created?
- Are my character’s choices motivated – or they just creating a ‘cheap thrill’?
- Is my emotional tension earned – or just suggested?
- If my story is about performance or transformation, am I giving the audience a full view of the stage? (Ditto for any kind of technical prowess or violent underpinnings.)
- Am I being brave enough to let my characters be fully seen?
A soft light can be beautiful. But great storytelling needs more than mood. It needs detail, clarity, and closure.
