Time has arguably been kind to Paul Verhoeven’s Showgirls. There are now midnight movie showings a la Rocky Horror Picture Show. An off-Broadway comedy musical based on the movie ran a few years back to warm reviews. Even critical evaluation has changed in retrospect. However, any movie featuring a mostly-naked Jessie Spano Elizabeth Berkley licking stripper poles, defiantly tweaking (and then icing) her nipples, and affecting sapphic yearning for an ever-smoldering Gina Gershon with the white-hot intensity of a thousand hate-fucks was going to flop—probably because of the surprising fact that the movie’s level of deranged, appalling, and downright mystifying sexuality didn’t unbalance the serene stasis of the spacetime continuum and cause the entire thing to collapse in on itself like a bizarrely erotic neutron star.
In other words, this movie is a lot. It revels in nudity and (unintentional) camp in the way Taylor Swift does in lyrics about heartbreaker men, which is to say that, like Taylor Swift, this movie also features heartbreaker men, but less “my virginal teenaged heart will never heal” heartbreaker and more “my cocaine-addled heart will betray my bisexual lover with the ‘talented’ young ingenue (while the ‘talented’ young ingenue is also, of course, simultaneously the subject(?)/object(?) of my bisexual lover’s desire) only to then double-cross and expose said young ingenue as a former sex worker” heartbreaker. If that sounds convoluted, good, because it is. And things don’t get much better from there. Yet, for all this movie’s multiple and unrelenting faults, I argue that over 25 years since its release, we can look at Showgirls for what it truly is: an exercise in poor taste that ends up being a hell of a lot of fun—with one drawback.
Critical reevaluation of the movie has tended to focus on the assertion that Showgirls is a work of satire (or, at least, underappreciated). Journalist Margy Rochlin’s 2008 New York Times article notes that the French New Wave filmmaker Jacques Rivette insists that the movie is a “misunderstood art film about surviving in a coarse, venal world.” Movie blog Films, Deconstructed argues that Showgirls didn’t ever pretend to be anything other than a guilty pleasure (*cough* bullshit—more on this later) and that, among other things, it was “a feminist screed against sexual exploitation at the hands of men” (sidebar: oh, fuck you).
I’m not going to waste my time explaining how the ridiculous implication that this movie is in any way “feminist” is the douchiest thing I have ever heard since the last thing that came out of Ted Cruz’s awkwardly bearded mouth. I might argue that the movie brings up some interesting feminist talking points. I would not, in any conceivable way, claim that this movie has an actual feminist agenda. Hear me now, World: dozens of willingly naked women do not a feminist movie make. Any sort of insinuation that Showgirls makes a “social commentary” is akin to the claim that Twinkies are secretly health food.
Case in point, film commentators have noticed that fact that Showgirls is an All About Eve remake, except with style that’s less Chanel and more Frederick’s of Hollywood. In both movies, a young newcomer arrives and eventually usurps the spotlight from the aging veteran. Gina Gershon’s icy control in her acting makes for a serviceable Margo Channing, while Berkley comes nowhere near the shrewd cunning of Eve Harrington. Arguably, what both films importantly portray (All About Eve, masterfully; Showgirls, poorly) is the oft-neglected reality that a young woman who clearly uses her sexuality to get what she wants all too often falls back into a trap constructed by patriarchy. In other words, both Eve and Nomi get the hard lesson that bedding (or at least attempting to bed) powerful men and backstabbing other women fulfills exactly the kind of stereotypes that men perpetuate about women. What Margo and Cristal understand (that Eve and Nomi respectively don’t) is that a woman’s sexuality in the patriarchal worlds in which they reside ultimately can’t be weaponized. Interestingly, Margo and Cristal ultimately understand that sexuality can, ironically, harm a woman when she’s no longer “desirable.” This kind of explicitly feminist analysis (in the 1950s!) made by All About Eve regarding this thematic material is what made it so damned good. I suppose that, perhaps, Showgirls could have had a feminist agenda in a weird parallel universe. But its “feminist goals” are ultimately impeded by the violently bad dialogue and the reduction of the primary female characters into Verhoeven’s typical one-dimensional caricatures of “strong women.” Thus, that anyone would even dare to suggest that Showgirls might adequately appropriate the themes of one of the greatest films of all time based essentially on the presence of carte blanche tits and ass is so deliriously laughable that I’m surprised Bette Davis herself didn’t take time out of her busy day smoking cigarettes and entertaining guardian angel drag queens in Heaven to stir a fresh martini, permeate the physical/metaphysical barrier, and throw said martini in his face.
Even the financial aspect of the movie doesn’t necessarily justify this argument. There was, of course, the cool hundred mil from video rentals. But this was after the theatrical release—originally, it only made $37 million, far short of its original $45 million budget. A 1996 article in Entertainment Weekly written by journalist Jessica Shaw entitled “Party Girls: ‘Showgirls,’ ‘Pride and Prejudice’” notes that director Paul Verhoeven said, “this kind of ritualistic cult popularity isn’t what I intended,” referring to the film’s cult popularity specifically as a bad movie. Further, when the film debuted, screenwriter Joe Eszterhas took out a full-page ad in Variety, in which he described it as a “morality tale.” Clearly, Showgirls was a “high-brow” effort to expose a very sordid, very dangerous, very naked subculture.
For Showgirls to be satire, it would have needed to be approached with the right mindset. In my opinion, effective satirical films follow three distinct rules. Firstly, they know exactly what they want to accomplish. Secondly, they never advertise themselves to be anything other than what they truly are. Finally, and most importantly, they never take themselves too seriously.
Consider, for example, Pink Flamingos. This is a movie that could easily be written off as some sort of disgusting shock comedy a la Jackass. However, the adept yet unpretentious direction of John Waters and the deliciously flamboyant performance of the late Divine plant it firmly in the realm of satire that works—because it follows the above three rules. Cult classics in the vein of Pink Flamingos succeed because they use intentional camp to portray stories. Pink Flamingos and Showgirls arguably have quite a bit in common, including, but not limited to, both movies’ themes of exploitation and their penchant for featuring plus-sized, flamboyantly dressed, foul-mouthed older women in charge of young, browbeaten women. But Showgirls’ camp not only isn’t intentional, it also ultimately fails a satirical reading because it breaks at least two of the above rules. It advertised itself as an impactful, serious drama with nudity that was secondary to the message (read: lolololol). The “acting,” costumes, sets, and overly inflated budget (not to mention Eszterhas’ aforementioned description of “morality”) promised a night of thoughtful contemplation (like The Shawshank Redemption, but without the benefit of quality filmmaking). While good satirical films operate with humility in attacking their subjects, Showgirls fashions a sexual perspective that attempts to merge All About Eve with the erotic danger of David Cronenberg’s Crash (which kind of makes sense considering that Showgirls sexual asthetic certainly mimics the kind of morbid curiosity associated with an especially gruesome traffic accident.)
Other cult classics operate in the “so bad, they’re good” register. These use unintentional camp in their efforts. Notable examples include The Room and Mommie Dearest (especially because the producers of Mommie Dearest tried to capitalize on this after the fact). This also, in part, applies to Showgirls, not the least of which includes its nearly incomprehensible script and atrocious “performances.” (Honestly, though, there are moments in this movie that make me wonder why Elizabeth Berkley didn’t win an Oscar for this riveting performance. The obviously method approach to her decidedly robust portrayal of a sensual, arachnid-like lap dance for Kyle MacLachlan evokes Meryl Streep-esque thespianism.)
But what makes Showgirls good isn’t exactly its campy indulgence: it’s this very breaking of my second and third rules. Again, during promotion, it purported to be some sort of trenchant exposé on the struggles of Vegas showgirls, and it takes itself so seriously during its running time that it’s basically just Ted Cruz discussing election fraud in a G-string. (Yes, my mind came up with that image, so you must suffer, too. And yes, this is my second Ted Cruz reference. I live in Texas. Again, you must suffer, too.) The film desperately wants to highlight the seriousness of human exploitation, but it loses itself in such moments as Nomi declaring herself a dancer in a vehement rebuttal to the accusation that she’s a stripper.
Berkley herself clearly took her part in earnest, as evidenced by her interviews promoting the film. In a 2012 Vulture article, Kyle MacLachlan, who portrayed Nomi’s love interest/backstabber Zack Carey, alleges that he (and the rest of the cast) thought the movie would be “hard-hitting.” To be fair, this sounds somewhat legit, especially considering the Paul Verhoeven/Joe Eszterhas directing/writing combo gave us the gem that is Basic Instinct—another movie that’s so far up its own ass its gastroenterologist deemed its next annual colonoscopy unnecessary. Yet Showgirls falls completely short of its promise, much like a Whopper from Burger King, or marriage. Consequently, I can only imagine how Verhoeven’s particular form of self-indulgent asshattery “direction” would convey to his actors that they were making a Serious Film™. It takes all of two minutes into the movie, however, to realize that this Serious Film™ was made possible by The Nicholas Cage Masterclass in Overacting®.
Of course, Berkley chose to do this film because she wanted to shed her teen superstar image and show her range as an actress. This is a legitimate (and even wise) career move. But picking the right film to do this is crucial. For example, to escape the tiara image from the Princess Diaries franchise, Anne Hathaway also went topless—but she did it in the multi-Oscar winning epic Brokeback Mountain, a movie so painfully good that just thinking about it makes me tearfully scream “I WISH I COULD QUIT YEW” to my dog while she’s curled up in her bed, at which she just looks at me and sighs with the kind of exasperation reserved for Southern Baptist grandmothers who sigh about their grandchildren’s absence from church. Berkley’s casting in Showgirls instead meant she went full-on Miley Cyrus, turning the desire to transition into more mature roles into a swarm of indecipherable comments about “liberation,” misplaced tongues, and penchants for corporeal movement that, by the laws of physics, shouldn’t theoretically be possible.
On the one hand, it might have been one thing to indulge Berkley’s decision to Miley Cyrus her way to stardom and expect her to carry a movie supposedly about exploitation. But on the other, the risks this film takes (e.g., it was the first wide-release movie with an NC-17 rating) were an enormous amount of pressure. Allowing Berkley, a film newcomer, to prominently promote what was allegedly an expensive, thought-provoking art flick with the goal of shedding her wholesome image crafted through a light-hearted teen comedy TV series approaches unethical: even if the movie were good to begin with. The fact that the movie sucked harder than WASPy Midwestern newlyweds with freshly cracked crab legs during a “fine dining” experience at Red Lobster was just further proof of this. And let’s be honest, nobody would’ve really been the right fit for this role. (Hilariously, Charlize Theron was slated to play Nomi but dropped out before filming—can we say “deus ex machina?”) Consequently, there’s Miley Cyrus-ing, and then there’s Elizabeth Berkley-ing; both are wildly ill-advised, but (for some godforsaken reason), people still talk about Miley Cyrus.
The ethics of tanking Berkley’s career aside, seeing Nomi flail like an electrocuted dolphin while humping Kyle MacLachlan’s navel having sex with Zack Carey in a pool and experiencing the palpable lesbian subtext between Nomi and Cristal were, surprisingly, precisely what I needed in my exceptionally homosexual life. But still, Nomi isn’t the best thing about this movie. That honor would fall on the especially luminous and now-iconic sex symbol Gina Gershon, whose character Cristal Conners exudes sensuous carnality in the way a Big Mac does cholesterol (which is to say that both will get any red-blooded heterosexual man up in ways that will most certainly affect his cardiovascular system).
Up until this point, Gershon was probably best known for her recurring role on Melrose Place. The argument could be made that, in contrast to Berkley’s, the movie helped Gershon’s career, probably because Gershon’s sumptuous, femme fatale turn as Cristal Conners possibly could have worked if it were featured in literally any other movie with these themes. Additionally, for her entire career, Gershon has had an effortless sex appeal that she’s consistently used to her advantage. She fit the role beautifully. Berkley, however, was very green—and it was embarrassingly obvious.
Berkley’s cringe-worthy performance as a social ladder-climbing starlet against Gershon’s comparatively understated embodiment of an aging topless dancer is a powerful reminder that all acting performances require precision. However, there’s a special kind of precision required to pull off these kinds of characters. Gershon’s performance certainly approached excessive, and it was campy—but it was so in a very measured way. Perhaps directing Berkley (and, really, most of the movie’s primary characters) in the manner of the exactitude of Gershon’s performance might have somewhat saved this movie (or, at least, Berkley’s career).
Cristal’s status as the best part of this movie is evidenced in the film’s overall ironic, unintentional metaphor. She is easily able to make the comparison between the “prostitution” required by her job that exposes the results of (literally) naked capitalism. In a bizarre exchange with Nomi involving liking doggy chow, Cristal steamily croons this reality: “you are a whore, darlin’. We all are. We take the cash, we cash the check, we show 'em what they wanna see.” But Nomi refuses to see the connection and balks at being called a “whore.” Thus, in a way, Nomi represents what this movie wants to be, while Cristal represents what it is. It’s almost as if Gershon were let in on the whole joke of the movie (if there were one in the first place.) Further, Cristal’s exceptionality is hidden in her ability to decipher the harsh truth—which is punctuated in her Southern lilt with a scrumptiously shady “darlin’.”
However, there’s a big weakness in this overindulgence. A scene featuring the gang rape of Nomi’s best friend Molly by skeezy-looking pop star Andrew Carver and his bodyguards potentially spoils the fun. Now, I was all set here to provide an extensive discussion of my thoughts about the portrayal of sexual assault in film because it is an important conversation. As Molly is black, I can’t dismiss the fact that the scene in question is exceedingly problematic in terms of misogynoir. Nor am I ignoring that the movie didn’t need the scene in the first place. Verhoeven has already shown his true colors regarding the treatment of women; indeed, Drunk Monkeys film writer Sean Woodard notes in an episode of the podcast KTFC: Scene Selections that Verhoeven frequently features women’s sexuality juxtaposed with violence. However, both Verhoeven and Eszterhas have since lamented including the scene. Of course, this doesn’t absolve them. But it does suggest that filmmakers can listen to criticism about content. Might there actually be a market for a cut of the film without the scene?
I suggest that, especially because of the movie creators’ remorseful commentary, it is possible to like a movie while still holding filmmakers accountable—particularly because this kind of problem isn’t unique to Showgirls or even Verhoeven himself. With the benefit of hindsight, we can understand that filmmakers of probably all (or close to all) our favorite bad (and good!) movies make questionable decisions. This doesn’t mean that we should throw caution to the wind regarding problematic content, but it does mean that we can like films like Showgirls while simultaneously discussing dubious cinematic decisions.
But in the end, it’s this kind of responsibility as a viewer that allows the audience to fully bask in the gloriousness that is Nomi’s vindicatory battle cry. Nomi learns what’s happened to Molly, and, unable to bring Andrew Carver to justice, she takes matters into her own hands. After meticulously painting her nails (oh, right, she’s an amateur nail artist) she seduces her way into Carver’s hotel room. Of course, this being the movie it is, no trite revenge plot can occur while clothed. So, she takes off her halter top, revealing inexplicably dark red nipples. (Yes, they’re painted. I have absolutely no idea why.) She then proceeds to pulverize his greasy face with her vampy stiletto heels. While he lies unconscious, she histrionically screams: “FUCKER! FUCK OFF!”
Talk about a feminist statement.
Jonathan Sanford will graduate with his M.A. in English from the University of Texas at Arlington in May 2022. His work has been published in Drunk Monkeys and in the literary journal Jonathan from Sibling Rivalry Press. He lives in Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan, with his dogs Lily and Thor. Follow him on Instagram and Twitter @jonathansanf0rd.