Few sports are as popular in Hollywood as resurrecting myths, not just the undead (although that too). Hollywood, in fact, is only that, myth, and among all mythologies, none is as grateful as that of resurrection. Reviving the glories of a defeated god is ammunition for our two favorite distractions: resentful consolation (time passes for everyone) and deceptive nostalgia (we were better before). In fact, the resource yields such good results that we have been able to turn the decade that did the most damage to the planet and to us (and even to cinema) into the object of the most fervent celebration. We were convinced that the 80s stank with their celebration of excess, inequality, and white-collar shirts until we started to adore sharks again.
The Last Showgirl by Gia Coppola resurrects a 90s myth, not the 80s, that of Pamela Anderson, the Baywatch lifeguard, the Barbwire star, the one from the video with Tommy Lee... But it does so from that strange, warm, and very fragile place that has more to do with fracture than mere commemoration. The true expert in the field is Darren Aronofsky, who in both The Wrestler and later in The Whale made the broken legends of Mickey Rourke and Brendan Fraser his own. The idea is always the same: to build a metaphor in the form of a mirror that reflects not only the life of the person in question but also that of the viewer. It is not just about looking or contemplating a story but about looking at ourselves contemplating that story that once kept us so busy. That is, we not only look at Pamela, Rourke, or Fraser in the present moment, as unknown as strangely familiar, but we also contemplate ourselves when in the past we looked at them young and vibrant (young and vibrant they, and young and vibrant we). And so on.
Let's say that the film's first objective is achieved. Pamela Anderson, who is the one that matters, displays her wounds (not so much those of time but those of the very macho patriarchy) proudly and with a clarity and courage very close to enthusiasm. And, in this way, she travels from the macho myth to the myth with a determination that, if necessary, is enchanting. Yes, she has been resurrected and without whining.
The story is told of the last representative of a declining form of entertainment. We are in Las Vegas and Pamela plays a feathered showgirl from the old days, like Manolita Chen. Suddenly, 30 years on stage mean nothing. The youngest Coppola has been exploring fame's accidents and the carefree life of a famous daughter for years (she did it in Palo Alto and Popular). Now she takes a walk on the other side. And indeed, one of the film's problems may be that, no matter how much effort it devotes to portraying issues like expensive mortgages or simply poverty, it remains a tourist stroll through others' misery very close to imposture.
The Last Showgirl shines in creating the atmosphere, in the delicate and tender way of portraying a crumbling world. The camera moves between crowded dressing rooms and somewhat dirty houses without any hint of exhibitionism. What matters is the feeling of defeat magnificently illuminated and portrayed by Autumn Durald. Pamela Anderson herself playfully imitates herself. And the parody that results, which is also a revelation, is enjoyable. In truth, it is not so much an imitation of anything as a reflection of the image that the viewer may mistakenly hold of her. Let's say that the virtue and grace lie in the contrast between what we imagine and what we see. Brilliant indeed. On the other hand, the extraordinary work (once again) of Jamie Lee Curtis as the protagonist's companion in adversity helps and compensates for all wrongs.
However, the entire film remains stuck in the same feeling, at the same inane dramatic moment. All the starlets (young and old) receive the news that the show is closing, and from that moment until the end, the film remains stuck in a single brilliant moment of amazement. Until the day of the last show, Gia Coppola's proposal proves unable to develop the drama announced between the protagonist and the daughter she had to abandon and now reunites with. Stuck in the contemplation of tragedy, some dramatic intensity, psychological depth, or simply development is lacking. Pity. Nevertheless, Pamela Anderson stands firm and perfect. Good resurrection. Better myth.