BLAIR WOYNARSKI
Arts Writer

My ongoing journey into the world of poorly received movies could not hope to gain credibility until I stopped by this gem.

Showgirls: 4.1/10 on the Internet Movie Database, 16 per cent on Metacritic, 12 per cent on Rotten Tomatoes and a name that still raises eyebrows and elicits sneers whenever it is mentioned. Indeed, very few films can match its legacy for critical evisceration. With that reputation as my starting point, it was difficult to know how to prepare myself.

In the end, I was left perplexed because I could not really decide just how bad it was. There is some good material at its core: a perverse sort of Cinderella story and an unflinching look at the hypocrisy of “show business,” yet it feels like it was penned by someone who spent a couple minutes inside a strip club and just guessed how they were operated.

If there was one word I would use to describe this movie, it would be “inexplicable.” Nothing on screen seems to have any logical basis for happening. Early on, we see our protagonist arrive in Las Vegas, pump a slot machine twice before winning the jackpot, immediately spend all her winnings, get mistaken for a hooker, discover her suitcase is missing, and then suddenly finds herself living in another woman’s trailer.

The story — if you need a refresher — begins with Elizabeth Berkley as Nomi Malone hitch-hiking to Las Vegas, but who has her suitcase stolen by the good Samaritan who gives her a lift. Stranded, she meets Molly, who invites Nomi to stay with her. Nomi gets a job stripping at a grungy club called The Cheetah, but is taken by the glitz of the topless cabaret at the Stardust Hotel.

Nomi happens to catch the eye of the Stardust’s leading lady Cristal Connors (a slightly terrifying Gina Gershon) and entertainment director Zach Carey (Kyle MacLachlan), and she finds herself competing for a spot in the Stardust’s “Goddess” show in a Kafkan audition sequence that leaves us with the impression that Broadway is populated by those who couldn’t cut it as Vegas showgirls.

Predictably, Nomi becomes more ruthless as she attempts to claw her way up the showbiz ladder.

A little less than halfway through the movie, there is a scene with the showgirls getting in costume before their show, when suddenly a group of monkeys intrude upon the change room. The monkeys are eventually rounded up and never have any significance. I find that this scene sums up the whole movie quite well.

One of the most infamous elements of this movie is the nudity. There is a lot of it. Elizabeth Berkley spends a large portion of her screen-time in various states of undress. Given the subject matter, it makes sense, but what is curious is that while a lot of the film is nude, very little of it is actually sexual.

The ostentatious showcase of the performers’ bodies mostly comes off as hollow and vapid. An early scene of a nude lapdance is not at all sexually charged, like it reasonably should be, but characterized by bitterness and voyeurism.

The now-notorious pool sex scene is one of the most hilarious and least erotic instances of any sexual interaction in film history: it consists of Elizabeth Berkley frantically flopping backwards on the water with her legs wrapped around Kyle MacLachlan who, unless he is the most well-endowed man in the world, is quite obviously not even close to making genital contact.

But all things considered, it works. The movie isn’t sexy and it isn’t glamourous, and there is no reason it should be. It strips off the veneer of this tawdry Vegas show business and reveals something dirty and ruthless. This is reinforced by the utter vacuousness of the stripping. But I may be giving the film too much credit.

The premise works, but there is a pervasive ineptitude. Performances are outlandish and lacking in logical consistency.

Elizabeth Berkley can only seem to express emotion through a staccato flailing of her limbs. She spends the first half of the movie storming off angrily and the second half looking cold and bitchy. Gina Gershon has a very unnerving sexuality underneath her and demonstrates fiery attraction to Nomi, though we are never sure why. Gina Ravera as Nomi’s friend Molly plays a genuine mix of innocence and attitude and spends most of her screen-time pretending she’s in a better movie.

Characters come and go without accomplishing anything, including one potential-but-not-quite love interest who appears to work every job in Las Vegas. Plot points show up out of nowhere and are very hastily resolved. Plus, the script gets hooked on odd obsessions, like the fact that showgirls eat brown rice and vegetables, or how Nomi mispronounces Versace (a genuinely good joke until it got pounded into the ground).

In the end, it falls somewhere between “so bad it’s good” indie cheese and big-budget self-indulgent flops. Is it a bad movie?  Yes. But despite its copious flaws, it is legitimately entertaining. You get invested in Nomi’s struggle, while periodically stopping to laugh at the absurdity of what is happening on screen, and are left with a very pessimistic image of Vegas in particular and show-biz in general, which I can only assume is the point. But then the cute and contrived ending reminds you why you started laughing in the first place.