On loving Showgirls.

In which your humble author writes an introduction to a day of Showgirls-related posts as part of the Showgirls blog orgy...

Ten years ago I rented a laser disc copy of Paul Verhoeven's Showgirls for the tits. I'm not going to lie, I was lured in by that shiny new NC-17 rating and its unspoken promise of wall to wall nudity and debauchery of the highest caliber. (In case you were wondering the NC-17 is actually for "nudity and erotic sexuality throughout, and for some graphic language and sexual violence.") Ten years, two home video formats, and dozens of viewings later I'm over the wall-to-wall nudity but I'm not over the film. Here are a couple of reasons why.

For one, it's an enormously entertaining and wicked satire of the star system and Hollywood via Vegas (or Vegas via Hollywood, or Hollywood and/or Vegas, etc.). Yes, bad-to-horrible acting abounds and Joe Ezterhas's script/intentions might just be questionable... But can we get past that? Can we try? If that's possible, I think you might just be able to see it as a prequel of sorts to Mulholland Drive, with Verhoeven opting to tell the story as an oversexed melodrama rather than using the abstract-dream-film idiom that Lynch employs. I think people get wrapped up, uptight, and offended by Showgirls when they take it as some sort of literal docudrama and not as the brash poison valentine that it is.

I also suspect part of Showgirls's longevity (and much of its camp appeal) springs from how committed the people in front of and behind the camera are to the material. When Elizabeth Berkley literally throws herself into her role (Did you see her slam herself into that car? Did you see her attack that ketchup bottle?), I find it next to impossible to resist. And it's my sneaking suspicion that those involved take it so seriously because, well, it's deeply personal and-- fuck it, I'll say it, it's autobiographical.

Consider: the ingenue so hungry for her big break that she's licking poles and risking serious back injury via aquatic sex romps all in the name of some very dubious "art"; the hard-ass director of the project, oblivious to the fact that the material isn't so much erotic as it is crass, announcing "I'm erect, why aren't you erect?"; the reliable older star who knows she's wallowing in big budget shit--hey it's glitzy, but it's still shit--but doing it with charm and a wink; the backer of the show, convinced he's doing something classy, has deluded himself into thinking that Janet Jackson and Paula Abdul (circa 1995) would be willing to take part in it.

Need I go on? I'm not implying that Elizabeth Berkley actually fucked her way to the role of Nomi (er, well, maybe I am) but it's a thin line that separates Berkley '95--fresh off Saved By the Bell and ready to be the next Sharon Stone--and Nomi Malone.* And could there be a better line than "I'm erect, why aren't you erect?" to illustrate the chasm between Verhoeven and the initial audience? And do you doubt that executive producer/writer Joe Ezterhas thought he could get A-list stars (i.e., Janet and Paula) for the project? (Apparently Madonna and Drew Barrymore were the first picks for Cristal and Nomi.) That's a long-winded way of saying I think that the autobiographical connections seep into the film, grounding some of the melodrama and adding an over-the-top ferocity to the rest.

And just as the actors and their roles blur, I think that we, the audience (or at least the appreciative, receptive audience), blur with the Goddess audience. As much as you try to fight it, that tawdry, shitty, profoundly vulgar spectacle sucks you in through sheer will and makes you like it. Yup, that neon is garish and David Stewart's synth-score is all bombast and Cristal emerging from that papier-mâché volcano is silly, but goddam is it effective; Verhoeven and Ezterhas have got their hands all up in your id and they're not letting go.

Leave your inhibitions at the door, the show's about to begin.

*Need more? How 'bout this: "We were filming the scene where Nomi's about to go into her audition at the Stardust and she's saying 'I can't do this.' And suddenly I thought, I can't. I can't do it. I looked up and saw the sign that said CRISTAL CONNORS IS GODDESS, and for a second I saw ELIZABETH BERKLEY STARRING IN SHOWGIRLS, and it was so emotional." (As found in the Taschen Director's volume on Paul Verhoeven.)