The Last Showgirl

The Vegas of the movies is usually a playground for heists, bachelor parties, or high-stakes tragedy, but Gia Coppola isn't interested in the fountains at the Bellagio. In The Last Showgirl, she takes us into the windowless dressing rooms and the employee smoking areas—places where the carpet is a little too thin and the fluorescent lights are a little too bright. It’s here that we find Shelly, played by a transcendent Pamela Anderson, a woman who has spent thirty years as the centerpiece of a traditional showgirl revue. When the show's manager, Eddie (Dave Bautista), announces the production is shuttering in two weeks, Shelly’s entire identity threatens to evaporate along with the stage fog.

I watched this on a Tuesday morning while my neighbor was relentlessly power-washing his driveway; the constant, distant drone of the water felt strangely like the hum of a casino floor, pinning me into Shelly’s world of rhythmic, fading glamour.

The Pamelaissance is Real

There is a specific kind of magic that happens when a director looks past a celebrity's public "costume" to find the person underneath. We saw it with Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler, and we’re seeing it here. Pamela Anderson gives the kind of performance that makes you want to mail a handwritten apology to her for the 1990s. She isn't just playing a showgirl; she’s playing a woman who realized too late that she traded her youth for a spotlight that was always destined to burn out.

Anderson’s Shelly is heartbreakingly optimistic, clinging to her feathers and sequins as if they’re biological extensions of her body. There’s a scene where she’s teaching a younger dancer how to walk, and you realize she isn't just teaching a technique—she’s passing on a religion that no longer has any followers. It’s a quiet, internal performance that avoids the "de-glam" cliches often seen in Oscar-bait. She doesn't look "bad"; she looks like a woman who has lived, which is apparently a radical thing to show on screen in 2024.

The Neon Afterglow

While Shelly is the heart, the ensemble provides the necessary grit to keep the film from becoming too sentimental. Jamie Lee Curtis plays Annette, a weary cocktail waitress and Shelly’s best friend. Fresh off her Oscar win for Everything Everywhere All At Once, Jamie Lee Curtis reminds us why she’s a legend, playing a woman who has seen the "New Vegas" swallow the "Old Vegas" and has the scar tissue to prove it. Her chemistry with Anderson feels lived-in and authentic, like two soldiers sharing a foxhole in a war that ended years ago.

Then there’s Dave Bautista. In an era where many action stars are content to coast on franchise checks, Dave Bautista continues to be the most interesting "big man" in Hollywood. As Eddie, he’s not a villain for closing the show; he’s a pragmatist who is just as heartbroken as the girls, even if he has to be the one to turn the key in the lock. His performance is a reminder that in contemporary cinema, the most "masculine" roles are often the ones where the character is allowed to be quietly devastated.

Indie Grit on a Vegas Strip

Director Gia Coppola (who previously gave us the moody Palo Alto) and cinematographer Autumn Durald Arkapaw managed to make this film look like a million bucks on a $2 million budget. That is essentially the catering budget for a Marvel movie, yet the film feels rich and immersive. They shot the whole thing in just 18 days, often using real Vegas showgirls as extras and filming in actual back-of-house locations.

This is where the indie spirit really shines. Instead of building massive sets, the production leaned into the reality of the setting. The way the camera lingers on the frayed edges of Shelly’s costumes or the smudge of lipstick on a coffee cup tells you more about the "end of an era" than a five-minute monologue ever could. It’s a film that understands the current cultural moment—our obsession with looking back at the women the media mistreated—and gives its protagonist the dignity she was denied for decades.

The film does occasionally stumble into some "estranged daughter" subplots with Billie Lourd that feel a bit like indie-drama-by-numbers, but even those scenes are anchored by Anderson’s raw vulnerability. Kiernan Shipka and Brenda Song also pop up as younger dancers, providing a sharp contrast to Shelly’s old-school devotion. They see the show as a job; Shelly sees it as a calling. That generational gap is where the film finds its sharpest teeth.

The Last Showgirl is a beautifully observed character study that proves Pamela Anderson is a formidable dramatic force. It’s a film about the transition from being "the girl" to being "the woman who used to be the girl," handled with incredible grace and zero cynicism. In an age of franchise fatigue and $200 million spectacles that feel hollow, this $2 million gem reminds me why I fell in love with movies in the first place: sometimes, all you need is a great face, a good script, and a few thousand sequins. Don't let this one slip under your radar—it’s a performance you’ll be talking about for years.