Capsule Reviews: 'Babygirl,' 'The Last Showgirl' & 'Nightbitch'

by Philip Price

Babygirl

Photo: A24

Considering “Babygirl” comes from the same filmmaker as “Bodies Bodies Bodies” the most surprising (and disappointing) thing about writer/director Halina Reijn's latest is its lack of decisiveness in tone. Neither as cheeky as it needs to be nor as edgy as it believes itself to be, this film about a female CEO balancing the traditional expectations of the wife role with the attitude of someone who has broken the glass ceiling focuses explicitly (wink, wink) on the dissatisfaction of her sexual experiences more so than how this cloying frustration correlates to the gray area between ambition and morality and how this conflict coats more than one area of Nicole Kidman's character's life. All of this culminates, somewhat ironically, in not so much a satisfactory climax but more in a confused, impossibly unserious position where no one involved seems to be on the same page.
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I did enjoy how Reijn incorporated the word “e-mail” multiple times; each time, it is used as an urgent excuse in its corporate setting despite the mood with which it's spoken, indicating little more than superfluous excuses. This, along with an immaculate George Michael needle drop and an unhinged Harris Dickinson performance (who is unfortunately in a different film than the one Reijn landed on), give “Babygirl” enough to recommend further to those who might already be interested but having watched this with my wife - someone who watches several films a year, but who I would fully classify as an "average movie-goer" and whose reaction certainly shaded my reception of the film - concluded our screening by stating, “Well, I’m so happy after 19 years he figured out how to finger his wife.” The nuance is acknowledged, but this reaction highlighted the broader miscalculation of tone resulting from going for something more abstract instead of embracing the natural silliness that comes with sensuality.

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The Last Showgirl

Photo: Roadside Attractions

“The Last Showgirl” is a movie that allows its players to have those abstract yet encapsulate conversations we always imagine we'll have with the crucial people in our lives, conversations we no doubt need to have and need to hear but are rarely afforded the opportunity because of how life often works out - which is to say, not like we imagine. It's also a question of timing as such moments feel like they must be saved for the right one, which is difficult to recognize in the day-to-day doldrums of making life functional. Gia Coppola and Kate Gersten, through their crafting of this film, give us the opportunity, if not to have these conversations ourselves, to at least witness a very bittersweet version of one, epitomizing something philosophical in such a concise manner that it's difficult to not both cheer for as well as feel deeply moved by it.
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Pamela Anderson is an elemental being. Embodying the idea of a Vegas showgirl, the likes of which are trotted out by the hundreds in any given performance of this ilk yet unrivaled in her singularity. The inclusion of Kiernan Shipka's storyline and the baggage Billie Lourd brings to this is crucial without the presence of either of them, resulting in conclusions that undermine the point of the film. Dave Bautista is the perfect ethos bridge between the logic and emotion the film reaches for. Jamie Lee Curtis should have won her supporting actress statue for this. Jason Schwartzman shows up in an all-time clutch appearance.

“The Last Showgirl” is one for the ages.

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Nightbitch

Photo: Searchlight Pictures

This is Amy Adams' most fascinating film performance in nearly a decade while being Scoot McNairy's second performance this year as the biggest cuck on the planet.

​There’s a single, one-second shot in “Nightbitch” that - if it isn’t meme’d for all eternity - both me and probably Adams, as well, will be greatly disappointed.

I also appreciate the sprinkling of ideas around the silliness and self-absorption of being an artist and the surprising relief of letting go of your past dreams and ambitions (despite knowing they will always gnaw at you). This is nicely punctuated by a Weird Al Yankovic needle drop, to which Adams actively sings along in what is absolutely the most forced part of a performance in which she literally transforms into a canine.

Ultimately, of course, this is about the vitality of striking a balance between giving your life over to your children and retaining your own sense of identity and how much one's own sanity depends on maintaining said balance. There is nothing necessarily novel about the message itself, yet how it is conveyed, unfortunately, only bumps up against some interesting portrayals rather than fully devolving into feral territory.