Getting to “Nomi”: Is “Showgirls” Really That Bad?

Is Nomi Malone (Elizabeth Berkley) bipolar? Or does she just like poles?

After binging on three overseas “slow-burns” from Netflix — Broadchurch, Hinterland, and Bordertown — addictive, complex looks into child abuse, corporate corruption, fried corpses, more child abuse, troubled priests, and a woman held underwater for three days until her skin starts dissolving, it’s certainly nice to be confronted again by American-made sleaziness.

Jeffrey McHale’s supremely entertaining documentary, You Don’t Nomi, is a no-holds-barred celebration and vivisection of the seamy underbelly of what’s been enshrined as the worst film of the ’90s, Showgirls. That flop of flops was a $40-million follow-up of sorts for director Paul Verhoeven and screenwriter Joe Eszterhas who had paired up previously for the lesbian icepick-killer thriller Basic Instinct (1992). The duo thought they could do no wrong after their history of separate and paired successes (e.g. RoboCop (1987); Flashdance (1983)). Ah, well.

“It’s All About Eve in a G-string,” noted one critic on Showgirls.