Despite its accolades, Emilia Pérez has also amassed a stunning swell of controversy. Members of the trans community have stated the film is not an accurate depiction of their lives. Similarly, Mexicans have expressed frustration at what they feel is a stereotypical and one-dimensional portrayal of their country. To further complicate matters, controversial tweets have resurfaced from star Karla Sofía Gascón, in which she denigrates everything from Black Lives Matter to the Islamic religion. Understandably, all that scandal has greatly hobbled the hype around the film itself.
From my perspective, most of those topics fall outside my socio-cultural paygrade. While I support every group listed in the above paragraph, I also have no personal stake nor genuine expertise when it comes to the issues they face. The best I can offer is an analysis of this film’s cinematic merit, and leave its external impact to those more qualified to discuss it. TL;DR: Take this review with a grain of salt. (Come to think of it, you should probably do that for every review you read from anybody, on any subject.)
Now that I’ve said my piece, here goes: Emilia Pérez is an engrossing, exhilarating experience. It’s beautifully made and defiantly indefinable, a bravura barn-burner that stands above and apart from everything in recent cinematic memory. Emilia might polarize audiences, but there’s no denying the audacious ambition and fearlessness that flows through it like a live wire.
For all the social complexity in an around it, Emilia‘s story is fairly straightforward: In Mexico City, defense attorney Rita (Zoe Saldaña) finds herself at a professional and spiritual impasse. She ekes out a living, arguing scumbags out of lengthy prison sentences. Meanwhile, Rita is lonely and miserable, sacrificing personal happiness for a job she hates.
At her lowest point, an offer arrives she can’t refuse. Minatas (Gascón), a powerful cartel kingpin, makes a startling proposition: He would like to undergo gender-affirming surgery and begin a new life somewhere across the world. Rita could act as a facilitator and use her professional savvy to keep the entire transition covert. In exchange, Minatas can offer a raft of cash–more than Rita could make in a lifetime at her current job.
Rita finds herself in an emotional tangle: On one hand, there are the ethical ramifications of helping a nefarious killer elude prosecution. All her newfound wealth would be tainted with cartel violence. At the same time, aiding Manitas could relieve her personal struggles and present the means to do good elsewhere. Adding to the difficulty, Manitas is married to Jessi (Selena Gomez) and has two young sons.
Ultimately, Rita accepts the offer and seeks a surgeon who will perform the procedure in spite of the dangers around it. She finds Dr. Wasserman (Mark Ivanir), an Israeli doctor, who finds himself moved by Manitas’ confession that he has always identified as female. The surgery takes place, and Manitas begins a new life as Emilia Pérez.
That probably sounds like an entire movie’s worth of plot, but Pérez is just getting started. Director Jacques Audiard (who co-writes with Thomas Bidegain, Lea Mysius, and Nicolas Livechhi) twists and bends his story in ways that are both surprising and organic. The result is a story that stays doggedly unpredictable, but never rings false. I won’t spoil anything, as part of the thrill of Pérez is letting its refreshing blast of newness wash all around you.
That brings me to this film’s boldest quirk: Emilia Pérez is a musical. This intense, searing story pulsates with vibrant and beautifully crafted songs. On the surface, this might feel like a pretentious gimmick meant to attract critical favor. And usually, it probably would be. Here, the music energizes the drama and heightens the emotional tension beneath it. Neither Saldaña or Gascon are professional singers, but that actually underscores the raw realism of their parts. Give it time, and you’ll probably vibe into Pérez‘s unique approach to this material.
Of course, nothing about this gamble would work without the ferocious performances of the leads. As Rita, Saldaña is the film’s moral and ethical center of gravity. She’s resourceful and ambitious, but also warm and relatable. Rita spends the film in a spiritual quandary, and we feel every bit of her plight. Meanwhile, Gascon takes on one of the biggest acting challenges–the dreaded dual role. As Matinas, she brings muted ruthlessness and deep-seated heartbreak. When she becomes Emilia, Gascon plays her as much more relaxed and self-assured. Finally, props also must go to Gomez, who finds the right balance of stricken grief and billowing rage to her wounded widow. All three actresses do revelatory work, and it greatly elevates the entire film.
Beyond the performances, Audiard delivers a visually impressive movie. Every shot feels alive, whether it’s the glow of neon or the warmth of sunlight. Cinematographer Paul Guilhaume was nominated for a well-deserved Oscar. That goes ditto for editor Juliette Welfling, who keeps Pérez‘s dense presentation coherent and exciting. For 132 minutes, this is a feast for the eyes and ears.
All this adds up to a film of near-greatness. Yes, it’s not quite perfect. That ending feels a bit abrupt, especially for such a richly-packed story. I needed a just little more epilogue. Still, Emilia Pérez is a vital, compelling work of pure cinema. And in a crowded field of Oscar nominees, I’ll guarantee one thing: You won’t see anything else remotely like it.
132 min. R. Netflix
