"From penis to vagina!"
Emilia Perez is an interesting, failed, but potentially worthwhile experiment, full of clashing tones and ideas. In other words, it doesn’t add up to anything more than the sum of its parts, but some of the parts I fucked with. Additionally, to have the impolite gall to combine these specific topics with this level of camp is something I can’t help but respect.
Intense formalism like this will always be polarizing, whereby the film loudly announces at every turn, “I am an artificially crafted movie!” The gauche tones too are undoubtedly an acquired and often bitter taste, evoking the melodrama of telenovelas and other international palates.
Your appreciation of Emilia Perez ultimately rests on what you’re looking to get from it. I was surprised to see that it offers little in the way of moralizing, preciousness, or inclusivity, as much as it seemed like it would. It’s this year’s Saltburn, both being far more strangely entertaining than intentionally cohesive or affecting, and both only able to be made by cheeky nepo-babies. My dad wisely compared it to The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a movie I haven’t seen but can imagine how useful it would be to compare the two in defining what sort of mood one should be in for Emilia Perez.
One of the early musical sequences takes place in a gender transition clinic, where a chorus of patients sing, “From penis to vagina!” Later, Zoe Saldana lustfully gyrates atop tables and patrons at a charity gala for victims of Mexican cartel violence. I could list several other moments that are equally as weird to describe, and the culmination of this bizarre meld is a finale of grave consequence and seriousness, yet I couldn’t help but shout, “One more song! One more song!”
Not since Everything Everywhere All At Once has there been a Best Picture nominee with such phallic concerns. That was only two years ago, but still.
"From penis to vagina!"
Emilia Perez is an interesting, failed, but potentially worthwhile experiment, full of clashing tones and ideas. In other words, it doesn’t add up to anything more than the sum of its parts, but some of the parts I fucked with. Additionally, to have the impolite gall to combine these specific topics with this level of camp is something I can’t help but respect.
Intense formalism like this will always be polarizing, whereby the film loudly announces at every turn, “I am an artificially crafted movie!” The gauche tones too are undoubtedly an acquired and often bitter taste, evoking the melodrama of telenovelas and other international palates.
Your appreciation of Emilia Perez ultimately rests on what you’re looking to get from it. I was surprised to see that it offers little in the way of moralizing, preciousness, or inclusivity, as much as it seemed like it would. It’s this year’s Saltburn, both being far more strangely entertaining than intentionally cohesive or affecting, and both only able to be made by cheeky nepo-babies. My dad wisely compared it to The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a movie I haven’t seen but can imagine how useful it would be to compare the two in defining what sort of mood one should be in for Emilia Perez.
One of the early musical sequences takes place in a gender transition clinic, where a chorus of patients sing, “From penis to vagina!” Later, Zoe Saldana lustfully gyrates atop tables and patrons at a charity gala for victims of Mexican cartel violence. I could list several other moments that are equally as weird to describe, and the culmination of this bizarre meld is a finale of grave consequence and seriousness, yet I couldn’t help but shout, “One more song! One more song!”
Not since Everything Everywhere All At Once has there been a Best Picture nominee with such phallic concerns. That was only two years ago, but still.
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