Emilia Pérez, nominated for 13 Oscars, has been relentlessly incendiary. Netflix’s film, about a Mexican drug lord who transitions into a woman, may become the most consequential film of our era—challenging casting practices, the use of artificial intelligence and even the idea of the auteur.
The musical drama, which was probably seen as a safe prospect in Hollywood, has been entangled in a media storm. Its star, Karla Sofía Gascón, was revealed to have written anti-Muslim, anti-Catholic and anti-diversity tweets, and called George Floyd a “drug addict and a swindler”. Jacques Audiard, the film’s director, has broken ties with Gascón; and, just weeks before the Oscars, Netflix took her off the poster.
The outcry over Gascón, the first openly transgender woman nominated for Best Actress, is not the only controversy. Simultaneously, the film is under fire for its presentation and representation of Mexico.
Mexico is where Emilia Pérez is set, but not where it was predominantly shot. Audiard had planned to film on location, but instead chose a French studio where he could “produce more form” and have “more freedom for the parts that are sung and choreographed”. For Emilia Pérez’s critics, especially in Mexico, it is emblematic of Audiard’s disrespect that his film, which profits from Mexico’s drug-fuelled violence, doesn’t even use a Mexican studio.
The casting process has been even more contentious. Most of the parts, including the films’ three principal roles, are all played by non-Mexicans. Gascón, the protagonist, is Spanish; Zoe Saldaña, who plays Emilia’s fixer, is Dominican-American; and Selena Gomez, who plays Emilia’s ex-wife Jessi, is American with Mexican ancestry. The actors’ nationalities shouldn’t matter, provided their performances are convincing.
Therein lies part of the problem. What’s curious is that, on some level, the production anticipated the charge of inauthenticity. Audiard (who does not speak Spanish) had originally imagined that Jessi and Rita would both be Mexican, but his casting director raised concerns about Saldaña’s and Gomez’s local pronunciation. In fact, Gomez, who lost her Spanish skills while still a child, had to relearn the language. A Mexican friend of mine described her accent as being “as real as a three-peso bill”.
To get around the issue, Audiard inserted perfunctory lines that turned Jessi Mexican-American and made Rita born in the Dominican Republic. However, no such dispensation was made for minor characters such as Rita’s one-time colleague or Jessi’s boyfriend. Or the protagonist. Emilia’s Mexican background wasn’t changed, leaving Gascón—whose accent is unreliable—without an alibi. The result is that although the film tries to look Mexican, it doesn’t sound it.
The real reason for the casting decisions is almost certainly commercial. Gascón may not have had a significant international reputation before Emilia Pérez, but Saldaña has had major roles in the top-three grossing films of all time and Selena Gomez is Selena Gomez. Even when the trio act well, the dialogue always has something ersatz. It is hard to escape the conclusion that this is a film about Mexicans but made by non-Mexicans for non-Mexicans.
It all adds up to a piercing foreign gaze, a charge all the more flammable because of the delicate context—the northbound trafficking of narcotics that has cost 400,000 Mexican lives and counting. Audiard, an auteur, has admitted to not doing much research because: “I already understood a bit about what I needed to know.”
Audiard can try to mount a defence based on freedom of creation and the array of human possibility, except authenticity is not just a political (or ethical) issue but an artistic one. Of Emilia’s character, Audiard has said that Gascón helped “to a great extent in terms of the psychological component”. However, several trans commentators have argued that he reproduces the trans villain cliché and depicts Emilia’s transition from a cis imagination. In addition to accusations of transphobia, the implication is that the filmmaker does not properly inhabit his protagonist.
Audiard insists that Emilia Pérez is not a realist film but a stylised one with an operatic vision. “Opera has psychological limitations,” he said in a recent interview, and argued that he was “being attacked in the court of realism”. The film’s musical elements may remove some expectation for verisimilitude, but the majority of Emilia Pérez is not sung. Ironically, the film is at its best when Gascón’s pathos and menace seem utterly realistic. Audiard also films imprisoned gang members in a way that resembles documentary.
Audiard’s operatic vision need not limit psychology (for a case in point, see Verdi’s Macbeth). The songs in a musical are a readymade breach of the fourth wall and, rather like Shakespeare’s soliloquies, they’re ideal for self-examination. Instead, Audiard has Gascón sing lyrics that are largely bland or banal: “I want another face, I want another skin. May the depths of my soul fly like honey.”
I say Gascón sings these words, but we don’t really know to what extent. If matters of cast behaviour, representation and authenticity weren’t enough, Emilia Pérez also provokes another issue—the use of AI voice-cloning techniques. Gascón’s vocal range was increased during post-production and blended with that of French pop star Camille, who co-wrote the score. Post-production has long “touched up” video and audio quality, but how can viewers (or awards judges) appraise an actor so enhanced by AI? Seeing as Emilia Pérez is a musical, an essential part of assessing Gascón’s performance is her voice. How well does she sing? We have no idea.
Audiard is right in one respect—that Emilia Pérez’s controversies have eclipsed the discussion about its merits. The response from Hollywood, it should be said, has been very positive. In addition to those 13 Oscar nominations (a record for a film not in English), Emilia Pérez won four Golden Globes and three Critics’ Choice awards. And despite vast criticism in Mexico, some of the country’s cultural luminaries have been very complimentary. Issa López, the director and multiple Emmy nominee, called Emilia Pérez a “masterpiece”. Guillermo del Toro, an admirer of Audiard’s work, said that it was “so beautiful to see a movie that is cinema”.
There is, lurking within Emilia Pérez, the kernel of a good film. The production is formally ambitious, visually striking and often well-acted. It is excellently paced, and each scene has tension. All it needs to do is remove the trans stereotypes, the foreign gaze, the dodgy accents and almost all of the songs.
The saga has exposed latent questions about the idea of the auteur. What, if any, are an auteur’s responsibilities? Is the idea of the auteur—a person with extraordinary control over cast and crew, production and post-production—suitable for complex stories? And, as in the case of Emilia Pérez, is it broad-minded or hubristic of the auteur to make a film in a language they don’t understand? On the evidence of this film, and many before it, the auteur may be obsolete.
Audiard didn’t mean to be disrespectful. If anything, with his predominantly female cast and trans protagonist, he probably intended to be woke. Instead, Emilia Pérez has become a cause célèbre; and from 13 Oscar nominations, it will probably win just two. Rather than an innovative musical, it will be remembered as a cautionary tale in the history of film.
