Emilia Perez as an Opera
Knowing what art is and its relationship with reality implies a reflection and a discussion that stands as a judge to determine whether a certain work can be considered art, dilettantism, an act of vanity, or simply trash. Emilia Perez, by director Jacques Audiard, is currently subjected to that judgment.
According to the author, the film is an opera or at least contains elements of one. An opera is usually a musicalized farce, an ontological scratch on reality that constructs a world where comedy and tragedy are bizarrely set to music. Under this nuance, even the most sinister human pettiness can become opera, as it is suspended in an acritical, ethically aseptic world—incapacitated and absolved from answering for the unfolding of events.
Opera has always been, at the very least, adventurous in its interpretation of mythological and historical motifs. The myth of Orpheus, for instance, has been freely reinterpreted in baroque opera, and Handel wrote numerous librettos whose stories would unsettle even the most discerning of rhapsodes. Romantic opera, on the other hand, often turned to the exotic Orient in its narratives. Thus, Puccini’s Turandot is a loose adaptation of a Persian poem, while Madama Butterfly is inspired both by a book and by possible real events that took place in Japan at the end of the 19th century.
As can be seen, the success of opera, although not exclusively, depended on otherness, especially during the Belle Époque. Europe reinterpreted exotic motifs; foreign places, not bathed in the light of Western civilization, were brought to the stage as farce for the delight of an audience eager to travel and learn about other cultures. This type of operatic theme, therefore, represents an appropriation of otherness in a colonial sense.
Now, let’s examine the status of opera today and how alive the motifs of the past remain. Let’s assume that Emilia Perez is one: the film represents, on the one hand, a reality that, from the French worldview, is exotic—the violence related to drug trafficking in Mexico. And on the other, it embraces myth—the figure of the “Narco,“ romanticized in many audiovisual productions. Seen in this way, any artist, anywhere, can reinterpret reality as they please. The public will ultimately decide its commercial value, but as a work of art, it is presented to the audience as a finished product, and any life it takes on afterward, however random, ceases to be the artist’s responsibility… in principle.
The question here is what relationship a work of art should have with the reality it represents. Is art for art’s sake, or does it bear an ethical responsibility? Let’s be clear on two points: the artist is free to appropriate any subject, and this appropriation is entirely unrestricted. Thus, many a tormented adolescent has written an anarchist novel—scandalous in its solitude and destined to become moth food. However, I believe that the ethical responsibility of art is what truly completes it—its genuine exteriorization.
The Disproportion of the Film
The situation of violence in Mexico and forced disappearances is a delicate issue that generates quite a lot of attention in the region. Drug trafficking, its relationship with the United States and the interference in local governments, is another delicate subject open to the most romantic speculations. The public is perverse, especially the one shaped by Hollywood. In its films, evil always comes from outside, and Mexico, being a border nation, is the favorite object of this extrojection of evil. Thus, the nation is seen as a great yellow filter, a country of dust and poverty, which corrodes the good American customs with its mass of emigrants.
The latter becomes even more relevant today when the current presidency has built its enemy on the figure of the emigrant. Trump’s attitude: “the rest of the world needs us, not the other way around”, crystallizes an ignorant and deluded narrative already planted in the unconscious of the moviegoer. Mexico is and will be, for Hollywood, what the south and the neocolonial east continue to be: an exotic savagery existing to reactivate in public its relationship with the primitive exotic who longs to be civilized.
Any product that reinforces its prejudices and stereotypes will gain the approval of Hollywood, as well as a Europe nostalgic for its colonial past, which now sees its fulfillment in American imperialism. Hence the 13 Oscar nominations and the standing ovation at Cannes—the audience has been presented with something that validates their preconceptions. Worse still, with the final canonization of Emilia Perez, the “Narco” problem in Mexico has been solved! proclaims the colonial and uncritical public as they head home, satisfied with having “solved” yet another global issue, all while making foolish comments on social media.
But what if the roles were reversed? What if Mexico created a caricatured and irresponsible version of France—a Paris filled with homelessness and garbage? No need, it’s already been done. Mexican influencer Camila D. Aurora presents Johanne Sacreblu, a tribute to Emilia Perez—a Parisian love story set among baguettes, rats, and bad body odor. The humorous short film has been repeatedly censored on YouTube for being offensive, and the irony is palpable.
Would Johanne Sacreblu receive a standing ovation at Cannes? Would it earn 13 Oscar nominations? Would the West tolerate being ridiculed—not by itself, but by the rest of the world? The answer is no. This is precisely why the reinterpretation of external narratives is unequally received—its reach and acceptance depend entirely on who is doing the reinterpreting and what is being reinterpreted.
The Themes of Emilia Perez
Emilia Perez is not a bad film when considered as a closed system. If it existed in an ideal Parnassus, detached from reality—if the country it portrays did not exist—it could be seen as a solid experimental film. The problem is that it does exist. It narrates the drama of a grieving people torn apart by drugs, violence, and forced disappearances, yet even in this, it misses the mark.
Narcos do not gather like Berbers in the desert. As members of organized crime, they wear suits and shop in the most expensive stores in Paris. It is plausible that a narco could be unhappy with his assigned sex at birth, but highly unlikely that he could escape his life of crime with a simple operation.
Although the film is a musical, it is an experimental one—closer to opera. This contributes to misunderstandings in its execution. As an opera of the apparently real, the actors are not expected to possess outstanding musical skills, since the music serves as just another dramatic device within the farce being told.
The performances are generally strong. Selena Gomez is adequate, considering the character’s background and the fact that Spanish is not her primary language. Both Zoe Saldaña and Karla Sofía Gascón also provide clarity regarding the origins of their accents. Mexico is depicted in typical Hollywood fashion—with a yellow filter, worn walls, and, of course, a conspicuous absence of white people.
Within the farce, the plot remains fairly consistent—but only within the farce. Emilia’s repentance is absurd, particularly because it leads to the discovery of the remains of people she herself ordered murdered. The final canonization reaches the peak of absurdity. On one hand, it mocks the religious sensibilities of the Mexican people; on the other, it merely provides redemption for an ignorant audience, who believe the story has concluded with a happy ending. But as the times would have it: “No one mourns the Wicked”—except for those who romanticize a national tragedy.
Emilia Perez is not a good representation of the trans community.
According to GLAAD (formerly the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation), the film fails to accurately depict the community. The organization argues that it presents a cisgender interpretation of what a trans person should be, with an overwhelmingly cis audience driving its support. It also portrays a grotesque version of gender-affirming surgeries and the motivations behind them. But beyond this, other problematic elements can also be highlighted.
The character of Emilia Perez is as narcissistic as the actress portraying her. On one hand, it could be argued that she undergoes a sex change not as an expression of gender identity, but as a means to escape her criminal past. Yet, Emilia cannot resist the narcissistic impulse of being worshipped by the masses. From narco to savior, she merely reshapes the same power dynamics—once controlling criminals, now manipulating women desperate to find their deceased loved ones.
And while a trans woman can be perceived however she chooses, the character’s romantic arc—finding love with another woman—is, at the very least, questionable. Not because of the relationship itself, but because Emilia’s transition is intertwined with escaping her past through a change of identity. This raises the unsettling question: is the entire transformation merely an act of autogynephilia—the perverse pleasure of seeing oneself as a woman?
For all these reasons, Emilia Perez obscures the real struggles of the trans community, whose experiences are not expected to be as narcissistic as those of the character—or the actress playing her. The latter victimizes herself on social media, even going so far as to compare the criticism of her character to the Holocaust. It is not her belonging to sexual diversity that fuels the backlash—especially since the community itself does not identify with the film—but rather the arrogance of the actress and the narcissism of her character that provoke such strong reactions.
Emilia Perez: A General Opinion
As a film—as a work of irresponsible art—Emilia Perez is adequate; but as an artistic product with social responsibility, it is a disgrace. It is shameful because it romanticizes criminals, trivializes violence, and presents a shallow, superficial study of Mexican reality.
Let’s invoke reciprocity and ask: would Europe and the United States embrace a similar critique of their own societies? Hollywood, despite entering a phase of self-criticism, exposes its own hypocrisy through the film’s disproportionate nominations. For those not easily offended, it is a passable and even entertaining film, but it is far from Oscar-worthy—unless the award being given is for the cinematic validation of Western colonial prejudices.
For the director, choosing a trans storyline was a guaranteed wildcard for success. And indeed, in certain media circles detached from this reality, the strategy has worked. But in truth, the film does little to serve the trans community and even less to portray the depth of Mexico’s struggles—deeply offended by this representation. Nothing will change in the near future; prejudice will prevail, awards will be handed out, and the audience will go home content: Once again, we have redeemed the Third World!
