Cristal Connors: I’ve had dog food.
Nomi Malone: You have?
Cristal Connors: Mmm-hmmm. Long time ago. Doggy Chow. I used to love Doggy Chow.
Nomi Malone: I used to love Doggy Chow, too!
[Cristal and Nomi touch their chips together]
I admitted today on a message board I frequent to having seen Showgirls — which everyone naturally acknowledges is the greatest movie of all time — at least six times. This prompted another user to demand that I justify my existence. Glad to, monsieur!
You know how it starts. You’re at a party, maybe just a gathering of friends who know each other pretty well, jokes and conversation flowing, along with the cheap beer and screwtop wine, and then the conversation somehow turns to So Bad It’s Good. You’ve been there: maybe there’s some small talk about Plan 9 From Outer Space first and then somebody goes OH HELL NAW and brings up Tommy Wiseau and it’s totally fun, because somebody might put a lampshade on their head at any moment — in a completely ironic kind of way! Except after your ex-roommate suggests playing Dark Side of the Moon while watching the Wizard of Oz, somebody else whispers something about “getting real,” and all of a sudden you’re watching this amazing shit happen on the TV set, and you can’t believe they spent $45 million to make this piece of crap, let alone that Joe Eszterhas farted this out of his brain and some executive picked it up and showed it to a fresh-from-Basic Instinct Paul Verhoeven, who then exclaimed something in Dutch that translated roughly to HOLY FUCK, I MUST FILM THIS RIGHT NOW.
Because it’s dogshit, and it’s without the slightest bit of grace, style or even competence, and every actor in this film gives the worst performance of their life and also appears to be gasping for air in every scene in which they appear, especially Kyle Maclachlan, who seems to be strung out on cough syrup and Little Debbie cakes and/or blackmailed by the Mob. There’s so much pointless hand-waving, crotch-thrusting bullshit going on in this movie that it becomes its own language; the film literally invents its own code, laid out in full within the first 20 minutes and repeated faithfully throughout, and that code slowly types out a message from the people who created Showgirls, over and over and over again: FUCK YOU WE HAVE YOUR MONEY NOW.
It’s positively the worst thing you can do to your eyeballs. It makes eardrums bleed. It destroys brain matter. It’s worse than Gigli, really. Except for one thing: it’s amazing.