3.5 stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity, violence and frank sexual content
Available via: Netflix
Wildly operatic, transgender, quasi-farcical cartel telenovela musical mash-ups — in Spanish, of course — don’t come along very often.
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Enraged by the criminal scum she has spent a career representing, Rita (Zoe Saldaña)
vents her fury during the first act's show-stopping production number.
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Depending on one’s open-mindedness, French director/co-writer Jacques Audiard’s dream project is either a wildly imaginative phenomenon — after all, it took the Jury Prize at last year’s Cannes Film Festival — or a ludicrously overcooked mess that repeatedly betrays its characters.I lean toward the former, with some misgivings. Whatever its occasional faults, Emilia Pérez covers strong dramatic territory, and boasts some truly show-stopping production numbers.
The elevator-pitch plot summary: Mexican drug kingpin Juan “Manitas” Del Monte, who for his entire life has wished to escape his cycle of violence and death, embraces gender-affirming surgery and emerges as Emilia Pérez, a stylish, soon-to-be-much-admired advocate for citizens whose friends and relatives have been “disappeared.”
Of course, it isn’t that simple. Emilia soon discovers that a new identity — indeed, an entire transformation — cannot erase one’s heart and soul, not to mention a lifetime of vicious behavior patterns.
But all that comes later. Audiard — aided by co-writers Thomas Bidegain, Léa Mysius and Nicolas Livecchi — begin by introducing the story’s true protagonist: Rita Moro Castro (Zoe Saldaña), a talented but overtaxed 40-year-old defense attorney, who is increasingly sickened by a career spent helping cartel thugs, murderers and wife-killers avoid prison.
Right out of the gate, Saldaña proves that she owns this film.
Rita’s anger and self-loathing are highlighted in the first dazzling production number, “El Alegato,” as she moves among hundreds of folks in a street market, chanting and singing while typing notes and then striding toward court, with everybody around her quickly drawn into the action. It’s an explosive display of cinematographer Paul Guilhaume’s inventive camera placement, Juliette Welfing’s tight editing, and Damien Jalet’s vibrant choreography.
The result is a show-stopper on par with the similarly fantastic “Another Day of Sun” freeway sequence, which opens 2016’s La La Land.
Rita’s professional talent hasn’t gone entirely unnoticed; she’s abruptly brought before Manitas (Karla Sofía Gascón), a terrifying, tattoo-covered figure with gold teeth and a menacing aura that could smother the faint of heart. He makes her the ultimate offer that cannot be refused: Find a surgeon who’ll handle a gender transition, safely relocate his family in the wake of “his” death, and navigate all the tricky legal details ... after which she’ll be paid more money than she ever could have imagined.
But the clock is ticking, since Manitas already has (secretly) begun hormone therapy. “Your predecessor wasted too much time,” he warns.
The subsequent whirlwind montage hits high burlesque with “La Vaginoplastia,” a production number set in a Bangkok transitional surgery clinic, where Rita learns all about the, um, necessary snips, tucks, folds and so forth. (This is likely the moment when puritanical viewers will choose to escape.)
But then Audiard abruptly shifts emotional gears — not for the last time — when Rita finally encounters an Israeli surgeon (Mark Ivanir, as Dr. Wasserman) willing to consider the procedure. During their quiet and surprisingly emotional duet, “Lady,” he warns that he can change the body ... but he cannot change the mind.
Manitas vanishes into surgery and post-operative recovery, with everybody believing him killed and vanished by a narco rival. By this point, we’ve also met his wife, Jessi (Selena Gomez), a self-centered little tart who pays scant attention to their two children; Rita relocates all three to Switzerland.
According to the original plan, that should be the end of it.
But no.
Four years pass. Rita has blossomed into a respected attorney on the proper side of the law. During a fancy dinner laden with movers and shakers, she’s seated next to a striking and impressively dressed woman. It doesn’t take Rita more than a few heartbeats to realize that this charismatic figure — Emilia Pérez (also played by Gascón) — is Manitas’ new identity.
And she wants to be reunited with her children. (Cue the warning bells.)
Rita arranges this; Jessi and the children return to Mexico, and move into the opulent home of “Manitas’ distant cousin,” Emilia. That this charade succeeds is the story’s biggest eyebrow lift, because — honestly — Manitas and Emilia don’t look that different.
The very notion would descend into farce, except that Audiard once again plays against expectation, with the film’s most poignant song: “Papa,” a lament that unfolds as “Auntie Emilia” tucks her young son into bed one night. “You smell like Papa,” the boys says, sleepily curling into her arms; the play of emotions on Gascón’s face is shattering.
Wanting to atone for previous bad behavior, Emilia enlists Rita to help set up a foundation, La Lucecita, devoted to finding the more than 10,000 people missing in this region alone. But the bloom quickly fades from this rose — for Rita — when Emilia is forced to solicit funds, during a fancy charity dinner, from a room laden with corrupt politicians, judges and public figures.
Rita’s wrath at this hypocrisy explodes into the second dazzling production number: “El Mal,” a cheeky, rock-and-rap extravaganza that sends Saldaña striding, writhing and bouncing around the room and onto tables, as Rita — entirely in her imagination — announces and castigates the vile secrets shared by this deplorable ruling elite.
This sequence will, fer shur, earn Saldaña an Oscar nomination.
In terms of storyline, matters subsequently go from bad to worse, building to what obviously will be Shakespearean-style tragedy.
That said, the increasingly grim third act also features several notable musical performances: “Mi Camino,” a vibrant, karaoke-style number sung by Gomez, which highlight’s the story’s themes of love and identity; and “El Amor,” a soft duet between Gascón and Adriana Paz, who enters proceedings as Emilia’s new lover, Epifania.
Even when the primary characters aren’t bursting into song, their dialogue frequently shifts from spoken words to softly chanted ballads with oft-repeated lyrics. Almost all of these narrative-enhancing tunes are written and sometimes performed by French singer/songwriter Camille, working with composer Clément Ducol.
In fairness, viewers who faithfully hang on during this film’s 132 minutes likely will be moved by the finale. Audiard definitely knows how to work one’s emotions.
However...
Gomez is a glaringly weak link; her acting chops simply aren’t up to the script’s demands, and she pales alongside Saldaña and Gascón. (Gomez’s Spanish also has been faulted severely, but I can’t judge that.)
It also should be noted that Mexican viewers are enraged by Audiard’s stereotypical depiction of their culture — he made the entire film in France, on sound stages — and GLAAD has branded the story a “step back” for transgender representation.
Whether this matters will be up to individual viewers, and the film is certain to be quite polarizing. There’s no denying the uniqueness of Audiard’s bold vision, but I’m not sure Emilia Pérez ever will find the audience it deserves.
