Pamela Anderson delivers a deeply personal and moving performance in Gia Coppola’s visually unsteady yet emotionally resonant film.
By Rebeca Riofrio
We live in an era where obsolescence isn’t just a fear—it’s an inevitability. Whether replaced by younger, shinier versions of ourselves or by artificial intelligence, the unsettling truth is that dedication and experience are no longer the shields they once were. The Last Showgirl taps into this existential anxiety with a quiet, melancholic grace, exploring what happens when a life devoted to a craft—one that the world sees as frivolous—slowly fades into irrelevance.
Pamela Anderson plays Shelly, a veteran showgirl in a fading Las Vegas revue, clinging to a dream that is no longer shared by the world around her. The film mirrors real-life narratives of performers whose identities are intrinsically tied to their art, only to find themselves sidelined when time and circumstance move on without them. Shelly’s story is not just one of professional decline but also personal cost—her relentless pursuit of the stage has left relationships in the shadows, including a strained dynamic with her daughter (played by Billie Lourd). Love, in all its forms, has been secondary to the spotlight.
Anderson embodies the role with a disarming sincerity. There’s a vulnerability to Shelly—somewhere between delusional optimism and stubborn hope—that makes her both frustrating and profoundly relatable. At times, she seems almost childlike in her belief that everything will somehow work out, yet her quiet resignation betrays an awareness of reality she refuses to fully acknowledge. Anderson’s performance is heartfelt, tinged with the bittersweet glow of a star who knows her best days are behind her but refuses to let the curtain fall.
A Film That Understands the Weight of Time
Coppola’s directorial choices bring a documentary-like immediacy to The Last Showgirl, but not without drawbacks. The shaky camerawork, extreme close-ups, and blurred focus create an almost voyeuristic sense of intimacy, yet at times, it borders on unwatchable. While this raw aesthetic lends itself to authenticity—placing us in Shelly’s unsteady world—it also detracts from the film’s elegance. The cinematography might reinforce the film’s themes, but it also left me feeling slightly dizzy.
That said, The Last Showgirl is less about grand cinematic spectacle and more about the weight of passing time, the fragility of identity, and the aching desire to matter. It presents an honest, sometimes painful, look at the way the world discards those who have given everything to a profession deemed frivolous by those outside of it.
A Poignant, If Imperfect, Reflection on the Lives We Choose
The supporting cast—Jamie Lee Curtis as a hardened, cynical best friend and Dave Bautista as the gentle theatre manager with an unspoken history—brings depth and texture to Shelly’s world. However, the film’s true strength lies in its themes: the quiet tragedy of being replaced, the relentless pursuit of passion despite diminishing returns, and the realisation that dreams, once so consuming, often come at an unseen cost.
Is Shelly foolish, or is she brave? The film never fully answers that question, and perhaps that’s the point. We are all chasing something—validation, relevance, love. Some of us catch it, some of us don’t, and some of us simply refuse to stop running.
At its heart, The Last Showgirl is about more than just a fading starlet—it is a story about all of us. About the jobs we give our lives to, only to be cast aside. About the sacrifices we make for dreams that never feel complete. And about the quiet dignity of holding onto something, even when the world tells you to let go.
It may not be a perfect film, but it is a meaningful one. And in a time when everything moves so quickly, sometimes it’s worth pausing to watch the ones who refuse to step off the stage.
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