It generally takes tremendous courage to stand up and proclaim that the Emperor is indeed naked, especially in the face of a crowd of willfully blind onlookers who contend otherwise. Nevertheless, there are times when this truly needs to be said in light of an inexplicably misguided view to the contrary. And that’s certainly the case with the latest from often-overrated writer-director Jacques Audiard. This jumbled mess of a film can’t make up its mind if it wants to be an edgy musical (given its forgettable songs and original score), a quasi-campy comedy (despite its palpable lack of bona fide humor but with a narrative that’s admittedly frequently laughable), a crime thriller (one that feebly grows ever more pretentious, meandering, implausible and uncompelling with each passing frame) or a treatise on forgiveness and redemption that unapologetically drips with overwrought political correctness. In essence, this offering follows the exploits of Manitas (Karla Sofía Gascón), a Mexican drug cartel warlord who wants to undergo the transgender transition process to liberate the inner woman that has been inside him since birth, aided by a supposedly articulate and self-righteous lawyer (Zoe Saldaña) who hastily and seemingly thoughtlessly sells out with the promise of a financial windfall for her assistance. After undergoing the process, however, the newly emerged Emilia Pérez has regrets about her past, both in terms of her brutal “professional” behavior and the abandonment of her kids and shrewish, self-centered wife (a fine performance by Selena Gomez in one of the film’s few praiseworthy assets). However, this change of heart, while modestly understandable, generally lacks believability. And, given the utterly reprehensible nature and baffling, head-scratchingly contradictory choices of all the principals, it’s difficult to fathom how anyone would care a whit about any of them. That’s especially true for the picture’s lead, whose actions do little to generate any kind of meaningful empathy for transgender individuals and causes. And, through it all, the story is mystifyingly augmented with a slew of inconsistently timed, largely unremarkable musical production numbers that add precious little to the overall story (they could have been left out entirely and it would likely have made for a more compelling release). In sum, the finished product plays like a preposterously melodramatic Italian opera libretto mixed with elements from pictures like “Sicario” (2015) and any number of cheesy Mexican soap operas. How this cinematic morass has managed to garner as much attention as it has received is truly beyond me. That’s especially true with the many undeserved accolades it has received, including 10 Golden Globe Award nominations (a virtually unheard-of number for any film in this awards competition), as well as honors from the Critics Choice Awards, the American Film Institute, and numerous film festivals, including the prestigious events in Cannes and Toronto. Indeed, don’t be fooled into thinking that the blend of diverse elements here should be taken for inventive, inspired originality. But, more importantly, don’t waste your time on this celluloid trash, despite how allegedly elegant the Emperor’s outfits are said to be.
