Showgirls
Watching “Showgirls” for the first time in 14 years, I’m not quite sure what to make of it. Paul Verhoeven’s infamous flop has become something of a cult, camp classic since it tanked at the box-office and won a then-record 7 “Razzies,” but is it worthy of such a distinction? Sure– I mean, if “The Room” and “Troll 2” can become “classics,” why not “Showgirls?”
Well, the ridiculously long 131 minute running time, for one thing. I mean really, did this film NEED to be two hours-plus? Of course, since this was their first film after 1992’s “Basic Instinct,” I guess it shouldn’t be surprising coming from Verhoeven and writer Joe Eszterhas. We get ridiculous dialogue, an obvious storyline, copious amounts of female nudity, insane sex scenes, and gratuitous lesbianism, as if that would help titillate viewers. Unlike their earlier film, however, “Showgirls” has a main character that’s not only one-dimensional but devoid of any redeeming quality which okay, shouldn’t need to be the case to like a movie, but when you’re dealing with a rags-to-riches success story movie, it kind of helps.
Playing Nomi Malone, the young woman who goes to Vegas to become a dancer, and ends up in the biggest showgirl production in town, is Elizabeth Berkley. I’d be curious to find out whether the “Saved By the Bell” star thought she’d become a star herself with this role. Berkley plays the character as a self-centered, irredeemable bitch who seems to toss aside anyone who tries to be nice to her when ambition begins to take over– not the type of character you want to follow in this type of movie. Her roommate, Molly (Gina Ravera), is good enough to give her a place to stay after Nomi’s suitcase is stolen, but she starts to worry about Nomi when she appears to have pushed the lead dancer to get the spotlight. When Molly gets brutally raped by one of her favorite celebrities, however, Nomi gets her head on straight, and begins to put her friendship over her career in the most dramatically satisfying scene in the entire movie. It doesn’t make up for the soulless melodrama of the rest of the narrative, but it gave me something to actually praise the film for.
One story arc that also took me by surprise was the one between Nomi and James Smith (Glenn Plummer), a choreographer looking for a woman to perform an original dance he’s created. James works a few menial jobs throughout the film, but his real love is dancing. It’s not surprising, however, that Nomi thinks he’s just looking to get laid when she comes by his place and he shows her his dance; James admits as much, and later we see him continue to play the field, but it’s not something he’s proud of, and in a later scene, we see him perform his dance in public. He’s booed off the stage, but he’s found a life, and love, that shows him there’s more to a good life than stardom. Plummer gives the film’s best performance; yes, he’s saddled with the same overwrought dialogue everyone else is, but he seems to believe in his character more than the other actors, and stand outside of the lunacy of the script with a genuinely strong performance.
Verhoeven isn’t a dumb filmmaker, even if his Hollywood films sometimes left much to be desired. And he clearly has a soft spot for “Showgirls,” or at least enough humility to show up in person to receive his Razzie for Worst Director. But in the end, the film is Hollywood filmmaking at its worst: over-indulgent, exploitative, melodramatic to the point of offensive, with performances that want to be knowingly satirical (like Kyle MacLachlan as the entertainment director Nomi thrashes around like a fish caught in a net with in the notorious “pool” sex scene, and Gina Gershon as the older star who throws Nomi under the bus even when she seems to take her under her wing) but simply come off as smug and rancid. The film made waves as the biggest film to ever be released with the NC-17 rating, but embracing the freedom of the rating the way Verhoeven and Eszterhas do isn’t enough: had they made a serious movie (something along the lines of Stanley Kubrick’s far-superior “Eyes Wide Shut”), rather than just a cheesy, $40 million dollar soft core skin flick like those found on late night cable, maybe this film would have been worth the effort. I’ll admit– with the right group of friends, watching this movie and riffing it into oblivion MIGHT be fun, but I’m not sure it’d be worth my time to find out. Rather than being entertained by the film’s ineptness, I find it all kind of sad, especially since I know so many people involved with the film are capable of much better work.
