What The Last Showgirl says about facing painful truths

I recently watched The Last Showgirl, directed by Gia Coppola and starring Pamela Anderson. The film presents a poignant portrayal of a woman grappling with truths she has evaded throughout her life. It resonated with me long after the credits, as this theme frequently appears in my work as a psychodynamic psychotherapist. 

Pamela Anderson’s character, Shelly, has constructed her life around a fantasy. For 38 years, she has performed in the same Las Vegas show, once celebrated as the embodiment of the classic showgirl, a symbol of glamour. Now, this show is the last of its kind on the Strip, facing dwindling audiences.  

Shelly stubbornly clings to the notion of its uniqueness and sophistication, advocating for its artistic merit while others regard it as outdated, even tacky and exploitative. The sets show their age, and the dancers complain about damaged costumes and missing rhinestones. Her relationship with her daughter is distant and strained. We discover that her daughter was left backstage with a Game Boy while Shelly performed and spent most of her childhood with relatives. Now an adult, her daughter keeps her distance.  

Shelly is not entirely in touch with reality. She nostalgically reminisces about brief encounters with out-of-town boyfriends she cooks for, although these men are more a fantasy than genuine intimacy. When others attempt to puncture her illusions by pointing out her limitations or criticising the show, she reacts with anger and denial. Her grasp on reality is fragile, and those around her avoid confronting it. She surrounds herself with younger showgirls, possibly as unconscious substitutes for the daughter she neglected. Her closest friend is similarly avoidant, numbing herself through alcohol and gambling. Together, they form a fragile family system, with each member playing a role in preserving the illusion.

This situation evokes the concept of a psychic retreat identified by psychoanalyst John Steiner (1993). The show keeps Shelly in a frozen state, a carefully maintained fantasy that shields her from annihilatory and depressive anxieties. Remaining in the show allows her to avoid the overwhelming reality of coping alone in a world that has moved on without her. The show’s costumes, routines, and backstage rituals act as a shield, protecting her from collapse.  

Simultaneously, it protects her from the pain of acknowledging the choices she has made, particularly the abandonment of her daughter, and the realisation that her youth and career are behind her. Thus, the show operates like Steiner’s psychic retreat. It creates an internally sustained defensive system, shielding her from psychic disintegration and unbearable grief, even as it keeps her stagnant and emotionally frozen in time.  

Maintaining this retreat comes with its price. Shelly is threatened by the unseen theatre owners who impose deductions on her wages for damages and ultimately cancel the show. Although they remain off-screen, their psychological influence looms large, functioning like a gang within her mind. They symbolise both the authority that enabled her dream and the threat that ultimately endangers it. In psychoanalytical terms, the theatre owners resemble the internal persecutory gang described by Steiner - dominant internal figures that make reality too frightening to confront. Their control keeps Shelly compliant and attached to her fantasy at the expense of growth. The show becomes more than just a job; it is the defensive structure that sustains her entire psychic world.  

Yet reality crashes in when the show is cancelled. With its collapse, the illusion of safety also disintegrates, compelling her to confront painful truths. The losses she has evaded become unavoidable. A heart-wrenching audition scene starkly illustrates how out of touch Shelly has become with the world. Clearly nervous and unfamiliar with modern auditioning, she is bluntly told by the director that she lacks dancing talent, having been hired for her youth and looks, which have now faded. This moment is devastating, not just for its humiliation, but for stripping away her final defence. She is forced to confront what she has spent her life avoiding – the reality of who she is.  

The film provides no neat resolutions. There are no new jobs, redemptive romances, or cathartic reconciliations. Yet amid the suffering, there is a glimmer of hope. In this moment of collapse, something genuine begins to surface. She relinquishes the illusion and, at last, becomes real. This reflects the journey many clients undertake in therapy. Our defences protect us and keep us safe, yet they can also confine us. Letting them go may feel like disintegration, but it can also signal the onset of something new – something more honest, more vibrant. It may be messy and imperfect, but it is rooted in truth. From this foundation, change becomes feasible.  

Does this resonate with your own experiences? Perhaps it evokes similar feelings of being stuck or a sense that something is being overlooked or unattended? Therapy can provide a reflective space to begin to face the difficult truths about ourselves.