The tale of a vicious cartel boss who undergoes gender-affirming surgery, Emilia Pérez places women front and center in a traditionally male-led gangster genre. But rather than subverting its visual and tonal hallmarks, French filmmaker Jacques Audiard compliments them with a liberating sense of expression through song and dance.

The Spanish-language Cannes title not only won Audiard the Jury Prize — the festival’s third most prestigious accolade — but it was also awarded the Best Actress trophy to not one but four of its central performances, each of which brings a unique thoughtfulness and passion to the screen. Part throwback musical and part modern cartel saga, the Dheepan director’s audacious blend is about the transgender experience in thorny ways, but it finds a deft balance between energetic filmmaking and intimate drama.

What is Emilia Pérez about?

Dreamlike landscape shots of a nebulous Mexican city — the film was largely shot in France — fade and overlap as we’re slowly lowered onto streets overrun with violent crime. Rita (Zoe Saldaña), an overworked, underappreciated corporate defense attorney, is part of the problem. She’s a cynical cog in a brutal machine, and her job is getting killers off the hook. It’s a premise she introduces to us firsthand via a snappy dance number in the tight confines of a public market, where she’s promptly joined by extras.

Soon, Rita is presented a deal with a devil: the vicious wanted criminal Juan “Manitas” Del Monte (transgender telenovela star Karla Sofía Gascón), who, midway through the movie, changes her name to Emilia Pérez and adopts a whole new identity. Emilia wants Rita to help her evade authorities by researching an expensive and secretive gender-affirming surgery, and by recruiting discreet international experts. The procedure, however, is no mere excuse or easy escape hatch from her life of crime. Rather, it’s been her deep desire for many years — Emilia has also covertly begun hormone replacement therapy — and it just so happens to align with her need to leave her life of crime in her rearview.

When she was living as Manitas, Emilia was perceived to be a tough-as-nails cartel boss who built an empire on blood. Its foundations, which she relays to the audience by singing in despondent whispers, involved leaning into society’s violent masculine expectations for the sake of survival. Now, upon undergoing a series of simultaneous surgeries — which receive their own informative musical number, courtesy of some excitable Thai surgeons — her plan also includes faking her own death in the eyes of the law. In order to fully shed her past, she wants to “kill” Manitas, and have Rita evacuate her wife, Jessi (Selena Gomez), and their two adolescent kids to Switzerland, where they’ll be safe and none the wiser about Emilia’s new life and identity.

All’s well that ends well… That is, until Emilia — having fully transitioned — resurfaces several years down the line in the hopes of reuniting with her family. For this mission to bring Jessi and her kids to Mexico, Emilia once again conscripts the resourceful Rita, though both women have since turned over new leaves, making their return to Mexico (and to the thick of cartel activity, where Manitas is still wanted) a challenging conundrum. What follows is a complicated and often amusing plot in which Emilia reintroduces herself to her kids as their long-lost aunt, while also embarking on a pilgrimage of rigorous social work alongside Rita to clean up Mexico’s top-down corruption, if only so that both women can atone for their sins.

These acts of repentance come wrapped in wildly energetic musical numbers that leap off the screen, as the camera jostles and swerves to keep pace. All the while, the film asks intriguing philosophical questions about the mind, body, and soul, as they pertain to its genre lens.

Emilia Pérez is a charged transgender tale of remorse.

Until she undergoes her affirming procedures, nearly every character in the film (including her surgeon, and even Emilia herself) refers to her with male pronouns, as though Manitas were a distinct entity whose life ends when Emilia’s begins. While trans people generally use pronouns that align with their gender regardless of their desire for (or access to) gender-affirming care, perhaps the movie’s 72-year-old cisgender director, and its numerous cis writers and producers, aren’t up to date on the terminology, though Emilia hints at having experienced dysphoria as a child. However, her being older and more isolated from trans issues and communities also means she lacks the necessary language to define her deep-seated feelings and experiences. So, this imaginary dividing line between Manitas and Emilia becomes a vital dramatic question.

Conversations between Rita and the doctors she interviews are rife with differing perspectives about physical transformation representing metaphysical good, and about the ways in which gender dysphoria can be relieved through physical means. If the film, as a political entity, ought to be judged on its approach to trans people irrespective of its language, then it’s ostensibly in the right, and only introduces these dueling questions as a means to channel Emilia’s spiritual dilemma.

While gender-affirming surgery is something she wants, in order to escape, and needs, in order to survive as her true self, it’s also something she hopes will relieve her of her ethical burdens as a ruthless killer — as though Manitas were some uncomfortable temporary skin she could simply shed. Gascón even embodies this idea when she first appears as the gruff and grizzled Manitas onscreen. The actress’s prosthetic nose (i.e. the character’s “real” nose, pre-rhinoplasty) sits uncomfortably on her face, while the contours of her beard and unkempt, mane-like wig are visible to the naked eye. It’s as though we were seeing Emilia the way she sees herself: performing maleness, and being forced to pretend in order to survive.

If anything, the outdated idea that she “was a man” and “is now a woman” (according to some characters) is something she wishes were true, if only to rationalize her life as having a distinct “before” and “after” point — for her spirit, as represented by her body — between Manitas and Emilia. The more modern way we understand gender and identity, wherein Emilia has been the same person all along, is not something she herself can sit with, even though she claims to have recognized this about herself from an early age. Her transformation may be life-affirming, and even life-saving, but it cannot possibly provide her with the absolution she desires. This, in turn, portends the aforementioned tale of Emilia and Rita trying to confront their sins by exposing the metaphorical and literal skeletons they once helped bury.

Transgender opinions on the film are unlikely to be monolithic, but emphasis on the surgical aspect of the trans experience tends to be a reductive, retrograde cisgender fixation more often than not. However, in Emilia Pérez, these anxieties around the nitty-gritties of physical transformation become a key emotional focal point, over which Gascón pores in every scene and every quiet musical number. Her novel sense of gender euphoria remains shackled by a kind of moral dysphoria, having committed atrocities under a façade to which she can no longer relate, if she was ever able to in the first place. And yet, Manitas’ actions are a part of her too, even if they belong to a false version of herself.

While Emilia may be guilty from a legal standpoint, the ethics of her guilt, as imagined by Audiard’s drama, become infinitely more complicated. It’s as though her corrective physical metamorphosis had fallen tragically short of helping her purge herself of her misdeeds. However, on the other side of her social transition, she also finds renewed romance with a headstrong local woman on the run from her husband, Epifania (Adriana Paz) — a committed, loving performance that rounds out the quartet of Cannes winners — but the very idea of happiness becomes corrupted too, so long as Emilia’s past remains unconfronted. For instance, Jessi, who believes herself to be a widow, moves on romantically as well, leading to sparks of envy that anchor Emilia to her ugliest emotional tendencies.

But while all these ideas are all somewhat interesting, it’s the way in which Audiard assembles them — in the vein of a mid-2000s Hollywood thriller, imbued with raucous musical energy — that truly makes them sing.

Emilia Pérez is a stylistic triumph.

Credit: Cannes Film Festival

To liken crime movies and musicals to strictly “masculine” and “feminine” forms of cinema might sound reductive, but this traditional genre binary is key to Audiard’s artistic approach. These respective modes, each repressive and expressive in their own right, inform the ways his actors move through space, and the way he captures them doing so.

For one thing, Emilia Pérez resembles the highly saturated war-on-drugs/war-on-terror studio films produced in America at the turn of the century. Its intimate, shaky camerawork and high-contrast shadows create a sickly feel akin to Steven Soderbergh’s Traffic or Tony Scott’s Déjà Vu, hi-octane thrillers in which you can practically smell the gasoline radiating off people’s skin, thanks to their  overblown visual highlights (including on Black skin; something Déjà Vu and Emilia Pérez have in common). These are the kinds of films where it feels like the light source is everywhere, all at once, reflecting off people’s bodies at all times — if not emanating from them in the first place.

Audiard and cinematographer Paul Guilhaume take full advantage of these familiar textures and conventions as soon as they begin blending the aforementioned approach — an ostensibly more “realistic” one — with the theatrical expressionism of dance. The harsh highlights become spotlights, as the film’s luminous characters begin to control the fabric of the frame. Their movements determine whether people around them are still or in motion. Routine activities take on musical rhythms. Personal confrontations in public settings determine whether or not other characters are lit at all. These are women fighting for agency in harsh environments, and their aesthetic control over the space around them ends up a particularly fitting depiction of this idea.

While the film has lengthy stretches without musical numbers, and features a few laments with rusty delivery that it could’ve probably done without, there are just as many songs that are exciting and emotionally rousing. (Some tracks are mercifully rapped, rather than sung, by actors with less vocal training.) One in particular, a rock opera ballad which unfolds just as Rita begins turning over a new leaf, sees Saldaña dancing across a series of expensive banquet tables. While she’s invisible to its lavish guests — corrupt politicians and police personnel she now hopes to take down — her pulsating movements practically force them to move and convulse to the beat as well. Others finally have no choice but to dance to her tune. It’s one of the most fist-pumping cinematic moments this year.  

However, no matter who’s on screen, Emilia remains the focal point around whom everyone’s story pivots — whether it heads toward catharsis, tragedy, or both. She represents, in microcosm, the transformative nature of fictional characters at large, and ends up embodying a novel narrative tension through her transgender experience: between physical and emotional metamorphosis, a dramatic disconnect that becomes the catalyst for nearly every scene and song.

Above all else, the film’s four leading ladies are perfectly attuned to Audiard’s volatile mixture of operatic emotion and naturalistic cinematic influence. The result is a dazzling, dramatic high-wire act that’s always fun to watch, and is frequently invigorating, too. While its combination of styles and subject matter could’ve been picked out of a hat, Emilia Pérez sees Audiard sorting through a fog of risky, seemingly immiscible ideas to deliver a queer Molotov cocktail.

Emilia Pérez was reviewed out of the Cannes Film Festival.