Showgirls

(This review initially ran in the Purchase College Independent on September 20th, 2007, in a slightly different form.)

Now, you may think you’ve seen Showgirls (1995). Perhaps you managed to catch it on VH1 some evening, the sanitized version with huge chunks of footage (and plot) carved out, with Elizabeth Berkley’s naughty words laughably overdubbed for basic cable, with those digitally-added undergarments that make you pause and think: “Hmm, that bra isn’t offering much support. Say, waaaait a minute . . .”

No, you have to see the full two-hour-long NC-17 mess to get the true Showgirls experience. This film has become a cult classic, and rightly so. Much of its infamy derives from the contrast between Berkley’s oft-topless stripper character and her past as a “nice girl” on Saved By the Bell, a show I have only very vague memories of watching at the babysitter’s when I was about seven. Berkley’s character, Nomi Malone, is somehow supposed to be terribly hot, but to these cynical eyes she resembles the end product of a blow-up doll’s insemination by a “gray” alien. And that’s rather fitting, since this movie’s characterizations, and views of what is “sexy,” bear little resemblance to those of actual human beings.

Nearly every woman in Showgirls is a conniving bitch, a naïve bimbo, an emotional wreck, or some other lovely female stereotype. Nomi Malone herself is a virtual cartoon of PMS horrors: at the slightest provocation, she hurls curses at near-strangers, whips out a switchblade, even knees a guy in the sack when he dares to critique her skills on the dancefloor. There’s quite a bit of female cattiness, devolving into actual catfights at times, and of course, being women, they’re making up and even making out a few minutes later.

Misogynist, you say? Not when every male character in the film likewise ends up revealing himself as a royal scumbag. The least-slimy man in it admits to “a problem with pussy” and offers to choreograph dance moves for strippers in order to get them in bed. In a thoroughly tasteless sequence, Nomi’s friend Molly, probably the most sympathetic character despite being something of a pushover, ends up brutally gang-raped by her favorite musician, a Fabio-haired rock balladeer, and his entourage as Nomi and her boyfriend/manager slow-dance to lite jazz.

Showgirls aspires to be a more prurient version of All About Eve, with Nomi rising from the strip club to steal the lead in a “legitimate” resort show from coke-snorting diva Cristal, but it ends up being a sort of glossy, neon caricature of sex. The numerous “sexy” dance routines, whether Nomi is stripping on the pole or performing in the coveted Goddess revue, are so full of sharp, stern-faced jerking motions that you half expect them to start goose-stepping (which is kind of appropriate considering Kyle MacLachlan’s character, Zack, resembles a de-moustached young Hitler). When Nomi and Zack have sex in his pool, Nomi starts flailing so much during climax that she appears to be in the throes of an epileptic fit. There’s also an odd recurring metaphor of “doing one’s nails” as a lesbian innuendo: “Your friend has nice nails. Maybe she can do mine sometime.” So by “nails,” do you really mean “clitoris?” In all its attempts to be “daring,” this film comes off as a 15-year-old making a giggly joke about whipped cream and thinking it’s so terribly kinky.

Recent DVD releases of this film have included such extras as MST3K-style commentary and Showgirls-themed shot glasses. That pretty much sums up the preferred state of mind to be in while watching this movie.