In Need of a Cinematic Pick Me Up? Go see ‘Anora’ Now!

Roger Ebert once said that “the movies are like a machine that generates empathy. It lets you understand a little bit more about different hopes, aspirations, dreams and fears. It helps us to identify with the people who are sharing this journey with us.”

If there’s one writer-director currently working from a place of empathy, it’s the fiercely independent Sean Baker, who’s cinema of humanism gives us an uncompromising window into the lives of marginalized, often overlooked people not often seen on the big screen. 

Baker’s new Palm d’Or winning film, Anora, tells the story of Ani (Mikey Madison), a sex worker dancing in a popping Manhattan club, who hits the jackpot when she meets Vanya (Mark Eydelshteyn), a Russian 21-year-old son of billionaire oligarchs who’s only prerogative in life is to have fun, have sex, do drugs, and then do it all over again. He sweeps Ani off her feet, exposing her to a life meant only for the elites. The impetuousness of youth gets the best of them, and they spring for a shotgun wedding in Las Vegas, setting into motion a series of events that will change Ani’s life forever.

It’s impossible not to feel swept up alongside Ani: private jets, penthouse suites, more money spent in one night than Ani has seen in her entire life. It’s a world vastly different from her own working class South Brooklyn, Brighton Beach upbringing. No above ground trains shaking her awake here. It’s totally intoxicating. But this high comes with a major crash, and Ani’s fairytale takes a terrible turn when Vanya’s parents get wind of their son having married an escort.

The turning point comes when Vanya’s parents send their lackeys to fix the problem. What starts off as a visit to get intel descends into chaos. Vanya, learning that Mommy and Daddy are on their way to punish him, makes a break for it, leaving Ani all alone. This pivotal scene manages to strike a balance between a screwball slapstick comedy and a terrifying home invasion horror film. While you can’t help but laugh at the craziness of a petite young woman holding her own against a few bumbling goons, there’s still the underlying tension that we are witnessing a kidnapping, and maybe something worse. Underneath the laughter is the ever-creeping fear of the inevitable: Ani’s fairytale has come to a screeching halt. Anora is in trouble.

During the post-screening Q&A, Baker mentioned his intention behind this scene, citing a quote from Charlie Chaplin: “Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.” And he uses this to great effect. The wide shot of Ani kicking, biting, and smashing everything in her path cuts the tension. But when we get the extreme close-ups of Anora gagged or screaming, it truly is frightening, and we’re reminded of the stakes.

And that’s what makes Anora so compelling. It’s equal parts thrill ride, laugh-out-loud comedy, and tragic portrait of a marginalized young woman whose only crime was dreaming of a better future for herself, only to be betrayed by a spoiled brat who can afford to keep women like Ani as disposable as the vape pens he sucks down. Ani’s tough, take-no-prisoners exterior – a survivalist defense posture she learned working in the club – can only last so long.

With his longtime producing partner Samantha Quan at his side, Baker’s Anora is no doubt his biggest film to date, and probably his most “movie-like” and crowd-pleasing. Here he opts for a predominately professional cast, compared to his usual mix of non-actors alongside professionals. Though he still manages to bring the authenticity he’s known for, using real life dancers and strippers in titular roles, like Ani’s club nemesis – played by the perfectly abrasive Lindsey Normington – who embodies the perfect strip club villain with enough sass to knock you on your… well, you know.

Despite the mostly pro crew, Baker’s ethos still shines through. He’s concerned with people, those that don’t normally get their stories told in Hollywood. It’s the kind of personal filmmaking that we need, a form that can act as a crossover from the smaller independent world to a larger audience, all in an effort to keep the moviegoing culture alive. Studios, take note.

It’s no secret that one of Anora’s biggest inspiration is Federico Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria, which tells a similar story of a naive, but optimistic prostitute who desperately tries to find happiness, only for it to be continuously dashed away. And it’s a timely comparison as SBIFF’s brand new Town Center has been running a Fellini Retrospective. Which means you can also see Nights of Cabiria on the big screen as it was meant to be seen! Double feature, anyone?

Shot on beautiful 35mm film stock, purposely evoking the ‘70s genre films that Baker loudly and proudly adores, Anora is a rapturous, infectious film that manages to take you on a ride through a spectrum of emotions. With additional nods to Pretty Woman, with a bit of Cinderella sprinkled in for good measure, Anora is an amalgamation. Of what? Of Sean’s love for independent filmmaking and his foray into something bigger, but just as affecting. It’s sexy, steamy, romantic, thrilling, and yes, even hilarious. It’s one of the best films of the year.

Sean Baker films are not fairytales, but they’re not depressingly hopeless, either. What you take from the film is ultimately up to you. Baker touched on this at the Riviera: “My favorite endings in the films I love are ones that are open ended and designed to be open for interpretation, allowing the audience to perhaps write the epilogue.” Go watch Anora and write the epilogue. Or better yet, get behind the camera and write your own story. If there’s one thing for certain, we need more movies like Anora.  

Anora is currently in theaters, playing at SBIFF Riviera Theatre and The Hitchcock Cinema.

And SBIFF’s Fellini retrospective has been extended due to popular demand, with showings of his greatest films playing until Thursday, November 28. Nights of Cabiria screens Sat, Nov 23, at 5 pm; Tues, Nov 26, at 2 pm; and Thurs, Nov 28, at 7:30 pm.