Anora is a glaring example of cinema gone wrong—a film that sacrifices depth and integrity for vulgarity and cheap shock value. Despite inexplicably sweeping numerous prizes at the Cannes Film Festival, the film is mediocre at best, raising serious questions about the festival’s current standards and relevance.
The story is shallow and exploitative, centering on the unconvincing relationship between a privileged Russian oligarch’s son and a crude, stereotypical prostitute. Young actor Mark Eydelshteyn delivers a clichéd and uninspired performance as the son, failing to convey any believable emotion or rationale behind his character’s bizarre decision to marry a woman so devoid of charm or complexity. His portrayal is flat and forgettable, dragging the narrative further into mediocrity.
Mikey Madison, who plays the titular Anora, tries her best to imbue the character with some nuance but is ultimately let down by a script that reduces her to little more than an object of exhibitionism. Her character lacks beauty, charisma, and depth, leaving Madison stranded in a role that offers little room for meaningful exploration or emotional resonance.
Sean Baker’s direction, as seen in his previous work Red Rocket (2021), continues to prioritize spectacle over substance. While his knack for raw, location-based authenticity is apparent, it’s wasted on a film so loud, chaotic, and narratively unfocused. The incessant expletive-filled yelling, relentless debauchery, and lack of restraint make Anora a draining 140-minute experience. Baker spends far too much time on gratuitous scenes of sex and partying, neglecting to develop his characters or their relationships in any meaningful way.
Russian actor Yura Borisov, who somehow received a Golden Globe nomination for his supporting role, is similarly underwhelming. His bleak, one-note performance does little to elevate the film, and his nomination feels undeserved, if not outright baffling. Like the film itself, his role lacks the depth or nuance required to leave a lasting impression.
What makes Anora’s accolades at Cannes especially troubling is the context in which they were awarded. In a time of war and turmoil, the festival’s decision to shower this vulgar sexploitation comedy with praise feels tone-deaf and offensive. The film glorifies the very decadence and corruption it pretends to critique, offering a grotesque portrayal of the excesses of Russian oligarchs—figures who rose to power through crime and exploitation in the chaotic 1990s.
One cannot help but suspect that the film’s success may be the result of behind-the-scenes influence. Given its sympathetic treatment of oligarchs and its glamorization of their criminal legacy, it’s hard not to wonder if some of these figures played a role in its promotion. Anora feels less like a genuine artistic achievement and more like propaganda for the ultra-wealthy, a troubling reflection of how power can corrupt even the world of cinema.
Cannes, once a bastion of artistic spirit and reason, seems to have lost its way. The festival’s embrace of this shallow, morally bankrupt film is a disheartening reminder of its decline. Anora stands not as a testament to meaningful storytelling, but as a symbol of cinema’s vulnerability to wealth and influence.
