Anora (2024) - Sean Baker’s Palme d’or is a worthy winner
Credit: allocine.fr
It only takes Anora’s first shot to be fully sucked in – a pan across a row of strippers gyrating on men’s laps in a club, coming to a halt on Mikey Madison’s face as she runs her hands through her hair to the sound of Take That’s ‘Greatest Day’. The two-and-a-bit hours that follow are a whirlwind of sights and sounds, flashing lights, female rage, male rage, disappointment, pain, love and heartbreak, razzle dazzle and hardship. Never has cinema been so enjoyable.
It's nighttime in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, and Anora – or Ani, as she prefers to be called – is summoned by her boss to take care of a client, who has requested a Russian speaking stripper. Anora is outspoken and garishly frank – when her boss approaches her, she retorts by demanding for better working conditions, chomping on a homemade Tupperware dinner. As Ani, she is smooth, provocative and sensual, and her Russian client Ivan, or ‘Vanya’ (Mark Eydelshteyn), takes an immediate liking to her, hiring her again after their first night together. Son of a Russian oligarch, Vanya is deeply immature, supposedly studying in America but preferring to party and play video games in his socks on his parents’ dime. Nevertheless, the two embark on a whirlwind romance, culminating in Vanya proposing to Ani, who accepts and quits her job to “chill in her mansion or whatever”. What starts out as a honeymoon though quickly becomes a nightmare – Vanya has responsibilities back in Russia, and his family a status to uphold. When his parents find out that he is married, and to a prostitute at that, they send his godfather Toros (Karren Karagulian) and henchmen Garnick (Vache Tovmasyan) and Igor (Yura Borisov) to sort out their childish son’s mess.
As Anora, Madison lets loose, so much so that past roles in Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood and Scream feel like a distant memory. She is magnetic, her brash femininity holding itself to Toros & co, who flail around at a loss with what to do with her. A good dose of slapstick humour follows – Vanya’s ridiculous, childish jokes earn a laugh or two in the first act, but it is only when Garnick slips on ice and cracks his back at the onset of ‘henchmen vs. newlyweds’ that Anora tips into its second, stronger act. The twenty-five minute mansion altercation that ensues is a scene for the history books to be sure – Madison’s mostly ad-libbed insults, Karagulian’s ability to play comically uncontrollable rage, Tovmasyan and Borisov’s quickly waning confidence, and Drew Daniels’ cinematography, quick and chaotic all at once, synergise to create something truly spellbinding.
With Anora, Sean Baker delivers yet another tale of life on the outskirts, this time marrying (quite literally) the fiercely disfavoured with those in the lap of luxury. Neither one understands the other, and the unpredictable wild goose chase that follows is all the better for it. What is striking, however, is how Anora comes to find herself with those she is searching with – in many ways, Toros, Garrick and Igor become allies of sorts, despite the profanities they holler at each other throughout. But here lies the true beauty of Anora, as is the case with so many other films – the unlikely pairing of characters so utterly different to one another that one cannot help but marvel at the way in which they are still able to function as a team. This is not to be mistaken with a Little Miss Sunshine type of road trip, in which people connect despite their jarring differences – Anora is too ruthless to play happy families. Nevertheless, it makes all hints of mutual understanding or of care that little bit more powerful, especially as Anora’s relationship with the quieter henchman, Igor, develops.
Anora is a story of miscommunications and words left unsaid. It is why it’s so funny, with instances of Karagulian repeatedly yelling the same thing, despite Anora’s steadfast rejection of his claims the marriage will be annulled, taking the cake. But it is also, inevitably, where all of the tragedy of Anora lies – both for the film, and for the character, who screams at the top of her lungs but never manages to convince anyone.