More Than Meets the Eye: Female Agency and Visibility in Anora
“The thing with being a woman is that the world sees you only as what it wants to see.” Chimamamda Ngozie Adichie
“To love, we must recognize the power of the gaze, how it can be used to either empower or to objectify.” — Bell Hooks
Being looked at and being seen are vastly different experiences, and both can be acts of brute force. Nobody knows this better than women, and in Sean Baker’s Palm D’Or winning Anora (2024), nobody knows this better than the film’s titular character. It is no coincidence that Anora is receiving immense critical success in late 2024; Because the film explores female agency, being looked at, being seen, and how all of these relate, it is hitting a nerve in a time where these topics are at the forefront of societal negotiation. Anora asks its viewers to sit with uncomfortable contradictions and to tolerate unresolved rage — experiences that ring familiar for many women.
Anora, who goes by Ani, is a 23 year old stripper from New York’s Russian-American neighborhood Brighton Beach, vividly and brilliantly portrayed by Mikey Madison. We first see Ani at work, framed in a manner that prioritizes her own perspective rather than objectifying her. Baker captures Ani dancing to bubblegum pop in slow motion, panning the camera across the other girls rather than focusing on Ani’s interaction with the customer. This sets up a safe environment where Ani’s internal world can radiate through the scene’s colors and light. It is an aesthetic that reminds of Petra Collins’ photography, Marilyn Minter’s art, and of Euphoria — a distinctly female point of view, assuring us that while Baker is interested in exploring power dynamics of looking, he is not interested in relishing in its voyeurism. This is a woman who is comfortable and safe in her own skin, who savors her joy — a woman who can hold the gaze and hold it gracefully.
Baker’s interest in an authentic perspective extends to the worlds Anora portrays, be it Brighton Beach, the community of strippers, or the spoiled-rotten life of a young oligarch, all depicted with humanity and attention to detail. It is refreshing to see so this level of interest in parts of New York that are not usually shown on film, like a remote Brooklyn neighborhood or a windowless strip club at the edge of midtown Manhattan. The effort that went into location scouting (Ross Brodar and team) to depict these environments convincingly is commendable. With the exception of Ani, the roles of all other strippers are performed by real-life exotic dancers who double as actors.
Ani is likable and relatable: She spats with her sister over unreplaced milk, bonds with friend from work, dances and enjoys it, stands up for herself and enjoys that too. Her life takes a turn towards aventure when her boss at the strip club introduces her to a new client, Vanya Zakharov, a 21-year old with boyish carefreeness and a close to limitless cash supply, charmingly portrayed by Mark Edelstein. Vanya turns out to be the son of a Russian billionaire who currently stays at his family’s mansion in Mill Basin — a slightly tacky joint with all kinds of unnecessary luxuries and a bedroom overlooking Jamaica Bay. Ani and Vanya like each other, and not long after they meet he offers her $10,000 to be his “horny girlfriend for the week”. Ani asks for $15,000 and it’s a deal.
Of course, Vanya is deeply immature and unable to measure up to Ani’s independence. Throughout the film, his willingness to look at Ani but inability to see her is symbolized by the variety of sunglasses he likes to wear. It is clear that Vanya is unwilling to have the gaze he is so ready to give returned on him. Later in the film, when Ani confronts him about his abrupt departure, he looks away, and demonstratively covers his eyes with the shades.
What follows is a whirlwind fling that feels genuine, thanks to the multidimensionality Madison and Edelstein give their characters in small gestures and demeanor; One endearing detail of their flirtation is the play between languages; Vanya speaks broken English and Ani speaks broken Russian, which leads to a limited understanding of each other’s world that intrigues them. Switching between languages and laughing about each other’s language becomes a bit of an inside joke, and as their romance flourishes, Ani makes more and more forays into practicing her Russian, in an attempt to solidify the flimsy love into the reality of language.
It’s a playful, chaotic romance, a joyride with no one at the steering wheel — next stop the white chapel in Las Vegas.
The mirrage does not last long. When Ani and Vanya return as a married couple, their romance inevitably starts to cast waves in the real world. Less than amused that their heir married “a prostitute,” Vanya’s parents deploy their henchmen Toros, Igor and Garnick to split up the union. Vanya turns out to be mortified of his parents’ disapproval and takes off, leaving Ani alone to fend for herself against the three intruders.
This is where the film — excuse the pun — really starts to bite. In a brilliantly comedic sequence, Ani battles off the three men who insist that her marriage is illegitimate and that annulment is the only option. Fight back as she might, Ani soon finds herself tied up and held immovable by one of the henchmen, Igor. Finally, when Ani’s engagement ring is forced off her finger, she lets out a primordial scream. Sharp cut to a frontal close-up of Ani, her mouth gagged with a red scarf.
There is a distinct tonal shift with imagery of Ani no longer in control of her body and her love life, symbolized by the ring. This leads into the most relevant and pivotal scene of the film: A superbly acted, sobering dialogue between Toros and Ani about the realities of the powers at play when it comes to Ani’s agency. In a nutshell, the two are negotiating ownership over Ani’s love life and bodily autonomy. When Ani mentions that she might be pregnant, Toros responds “I hope you are lying, because we’re going to have to take care of that too.” The Zakharovs seem to have too much leverage, and with Vanya gone, there seems to be little evidence that this romance is tenable.
This central pivot firmly manifests Anora in the societal and political context of our time. With Roe v. Wade overturned and women’s rights being contested in an increasingly polarized political climate, this scene and the image of Ani tied down and gagged on the couch hit a mark for many women. They painfully remind of the kind of language that has been circulating online since November (“your body, my choice”). Anora resonates so deeply in part because it compassionately portrays a woman who is being overpowered by systems she never agreed to all while being antagonized for her sexuality. One could say that at its core, it is a film about women’s rights.
It is all the more interesting that when Anora was awarded with the Palm D’Or at Cannes, the jury compared its structure to that of screwball comedies, a genre that flourished in the nineteen thirties with films like My Man Godfrey (La Cava, 1936) or Bringing Up Baby (Hawks, 1938). At the time, screwball was somewhat revolutionary in its depiction of gender, portraying often androgynous women who unapologetically exerted agency over their romantic life. These women subverted gender conventions and economic class norms by pursuing men typically below their own societal status. Far from the usual conventional romantic trajectories, screwballs depicted whirlwind romances fueled by physicality, slapstick and a more explicit sexuality than what audiences were used to.
These elements of screwball are so present in Anora that it is not far-fetched to say that Baker is re-imagining the genre. With its intense flight scenes, Anora certainly picks up screwball’s physicality. With his interest in sex work, Baker also takes interest in economic imbalances and transactionality as they inform romance. Similar to screwball, Anora’s romantic trajectory is a whirlwind love affair which prompts the subversion of traditional marriage — marrying in Vegas, annulment, the transactional undertones. In other words, marriage is a central driver for the plot, but the concept is significantly subverted.
Most importantly, Anora shows that female agency, including sexual, does not diminish women’s humanity. Like screwball, Anora reaches for a more equal and liberal world than the male cinematic gaze typically allows, but also explores the limitations of subversion. For example, while screwball hints at violence against women (A central line from Bringing Up Baby states that “The love impulse in men frequently reveals itself in terms of conflict”), Anora paints a much bleaker picture with the central scene where Ani is physically violated and threatened. The larger point Baker states by evolving the genre seems to be: If the women of screwball got away unscathed, Ani, in this day and age, does not.
It is an interesting twist given the societal climate of the 1930s, a complicated and pivotal time for women’s rights. Some women had just gained voting rights (white women in 1920, black and Latina women broadly in 1965), but any feminist momentum was severely stalled by the aftermaths of the Great Depression as well as societal backlashes which hoped to reinforce traditional gender roles and the rise of fascism in Europe. One could draw the analogy that Anora is a product of a similarly tumultuous time when it comes to larger societal shifts and how they affect women.
After the conversation, the focus shifts to tracking down Vanya. Ani, Toros, Igor and Garnick set out on a beautifully shot scavenger hunt through various corners of Brighton Beach, vandalizing shops, scouring through crowded restaurants, all in front of the gorgeous backdrop of the freezing-cold boardwalk. As if to show that the joyride is over, the unlikely quartet rushes by an abandoned Cyclone roller coaster.
Slowly, Baker introduces a new dynamic: Igor, one of the henchmen, grows fascinated with Ani. Baker captures him smiling to himself when he witnesses her wit and resilience. For Ani, this romantic spark is tainted from the start — after all it was Igor who had physically restrained Ani just a few hours earlier.
Baker amalgamizes this ambivalent nature of Igor’s affection into a visual symbol. When Ani feels cold, Igor offers her a red scarf — the very item he used earlier that day to gag her. Ani is appalled, but ultimately takes the scarf, which becomes a reminder of the precarious situation Ani is in, a nod to the way Hitchcock or Antonioni used visual motifs to concentrate central emotional themes (Think of the scarf in Antonioni’s La Notte). This scarf is a means of warmth and/or torture, a sign of caress but also a threat around Ani’s neck, while visually anchoring our gaze on her. When Ani ultimately tosses the scarf off her neck in an act of defiance against others’ misconceptions, it is a beautifully poetic expression of her autonomy: She refuses the gaze.
For the remainder of the film, Baker increasingly frames the narrative through Igor’s perspective, capturing him as he watches her with a quiet curiosity and softness of spirit that was completely missing Vanya’ eyes. Igor seems to adore Ani, but she has not forgotten the violence at the mansion. “You have rape eyes,” she assesses.
As an audience, we are put in the precarious position of sympathizing with Igor, maybe even rooting for the two to find their way to each other. In doing so, we take on a gaze that Ani does not trust, assuming we know what is good for her. We find ourselves hoping for an outcome that once again undermines her agency. In this way, Baker subtly makes the audience complicit with a narrative that has time and again attempted to strip Ani off her agency. This twist is a brilliant observation about the male gaze — it does not have to be overtly objectifying to call female agency into question.
After the marriage gets annulled, Igor accompanies Ani back to New York. In another interesting nod to screwball (which film scholar Stanley Cavell dubbed “the comedy of remarriage” (Cavell, 1981)), Igor returns Ani’s engagement ring to her. When Ani and Igor eventually share a moment of intimacy in the film’s masterful last scene, it is the first time we actually see Ani vulnerable. In an interesting parallel to the opening sequence, Ani yet again finds herself on top of a man, but this time is much different. Despite or maybe because of their complicated dynamic, Igor actually sees Ani — and this is what makes him different from the other men in the film. Being seen is a powerful thing, and Ani collapses under the emotions that are flushing in. As an audience, we are left with nothing but the monotonous swishing of the windshield wiper, and a feeling of having just been punched in the gut by irresolvable contradictions.
Anora is one of the rare films that will leave you stunned and questioning, because of how masterfully it digs into relevant experiences of our time. Each time I have seen it in theaters, Anora has left audiences audibly gasping and at a loss for words, the unresolved ending hanging in the air like a dark cloud.
What is there left to do with rage at a world that refuses for women to be seen on our terms? Ani does not know, and neither does Baker. If there is a silver lining, it is that we just witnessed the film of the year and the making of an exciting new auteur filmmaker. It is a reminder that good art can be a catalyst to hold the contradictions of life when they become too heavy for us to hold as individuals — a glimmer in the dark, like the light reflecting off the tinsels in Ani’s hair.
