THE CISGENDER NONSENSE OF EMILIA PEREZ script (Patreon)

Hey all,

If you haven’t seen me talk about this on Bluesky, I’ve been working on a video essay about Emilia Perez, a film that’s been getting a lot of awards attention lately—including winning the Golden Globe for Best Picture - and its probably going to get several Oscar nomations. It’s a French musical about a Mexican drug cartel leader who comes out as a trans woman, written and directed by a cis man. That premise alone raised a lot of red flags for me, but I wanted to give it a fair chance - especially given the film has a trans woman actor in the titular role (who, despite all the film's problems, does an AMAZING job in the movie)

What I found, though, was worse than I expected. I thought it might be clumsy or tropey, maybe even condescending in the way so many cis-led trans stories can be. But, in my opinion, this film manages to go beyond that—it’s not just ill-informed; it’s deeply harmful. Obviously, mine is not the only opinion of the film, but to my mind - in a time when anti-trans hate is becoming more dangerous, seeing films like this celebrated by cis institutions patting themselves on the back while stories by trans creators, like I Saw the TV Glow, are ignored honestly deeply angers me. Not to mention, as I touch upon, all the criticism it's getting from Mexican critics, given that it's also a French film about Mexico.

So I wrote a script breaking down not just the issues with Emilia Perez but the much larger issue it represents—cis folks who claim to be progressive yet refuse to see trans people as fully human. Instead, they center themselves, patting themselves on the back for being “inclusive” while expecting us to fall in line and be grateful for their crumbs. I’m working on filming the video essay version of this to release next month, but I wanted to share the current draft of the script with all of you here first because your thoughts often help shape the final video. I also wanted to get this version out ASAP as a resource, especially as Emilia Perez gains more attention. Don't worry, the script is assessible to even those who haven't seen the film (and honestly, you shouldn't in my opinion).

Thank you for being here and for always supporting the work I do. I’d love to hear your feedback!
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[JESSIE STANDS NEXT TO A BIG WHEEL OF FORTUNE WHEEL WITH DIFFERENT MINORITIES ON IT]

Ah, awards season! That magical time when Hollywood spins the big wheel of marginalization to decide which community gets the dubious honor of being commodified for prestige. [JESSIE SPINS THE WHEEL] Oh, look—trans people win again! Jared Leto, step aside and go ruin queer-coded cyberpunk franchise instead, because Emilia Perez is 2024's awards darling.

This French film, directed by Jacques Audiard and based on Boris Razon's 2018 novel Écoute, follows a trans-Mexican cartel leader who hires a lawyer to help her transition and fake her own death. Oh, and it’s a musical, because nothing says gritty crime drama like a dance number!

I first heard about it during the 2024 Cannes buzz, where it won the Jury Prize and competed for the Palme d’Or. A mainly non-white female cast? A trans actress in the lead? A morally complex, unsanitized trans character? And UHURA is in it? Alright, Emilia Perez, you had my attention.

But when the film hit Netflix in November, LGBTQ+ critics weren’t so kind—GLAAD called it “a profoundly retrograde portrayal of a trans woman,” and it became a lightning rod for trans community backlash. You may have seen that clip circulating online. Out of context? Hilarious. In context? Oh, we’ll get there.

Despite the criticism, Emilia Perez is cleaning up at awards shows, nabbing SAG nominations, leading the BAFTA longlist, and winning Best Picture Musical or Comedy at the Golden Globes. Naturally, I had to see it.

At worst, I expected another Green Book or Sia’s Music—a patronizing, surface-level attempt at representation. A trans misery-porn spectacle designed to provoke pity and cis applause, complete with deadnaming and tired tropes à la The Danish Girl. And sure, all that’s there. But what surprised me wasn’t what the film got wrong—it was the deeper issue hiding in plain sight.

So, while I went in wanting to give this film a fair shake, I found something far more troubling beneath its surface—something that criticisms from mainstream queer outlets were circling around but not quit hitting - a problem that transcends one film and cuts to the heart of a bigger issue facing the trans community today. So Let’s unpack Emilia Perez—THROUGH SONG! Ok… I’m not doing it through song. I’ll save that energy for this essay. But I could sing… Maybe I will if you stick around. 

=====TITLE SEQUENCE======

The film opens with a brief melancholic number playing over stereotypical imagery of a mariachi band crossfading with shots of Mexico City. Because, of course, how else would you know this is a movie set in Mexico? Then we meet cisgender lawyer Rita Mora Castro, played by Zoe Saldana, busting her ass to get ahead. We spend several minutes following her life—watching her work late on a case - only to see her lead male co-counsel get all the credit for her hard work. In a song, Rita even explicitly connects her inability to get ahead and the exploitation of her labor to her being a Black woman, marginalized and overlooked in Mexican society.

And, honestly, that story is compelling! But the film spends 15 whole minutes grounding us in Rita’s struggles and perspective before we even meet Emilia Perez, the titular trans woman. And once Emilia finally enters the scene, Rita’s story becomes less relevant. So, why even include it? What’s the point?

Rita’s perspective serves as a convenient entry point for cisgender audiences into Emila Perez, the trans character’s, life. The film is not about centering Emilia’s interior life; instead, we’re shown her through a cisgender, externalized lens. This choice is potentially problematic on the surface—it presents Emilia to us as an otherized entity, reinforcing the notion that trans people exist to be observed, not understood.

Yet, while Emilia Perez adopts a cisgender perspective, it at least acknowledges that choice, inviting us to view Emilia through Rita’s lens. The cisgender Rita becomes our guide, interpreting Emilia while withholding us access to her interiority. Some trans critics have found it insulting that a movie about a trans character doesn’t center her directly, but this approach actually mirrors crime dramas like Training Day or The Shawshank Redemption, which examine morally complex figures through an outsider’s eyes. Hell, even films by cis directors that do center trans protagonists like The Danish Girl or Boys Don’t Cry, often still end up objectifying them - something I’ve spoken about in my video on the cis gaze. Think of all those scenes where trans characters are shown staring at their bodies in mirrors—moments where the camera forces them and by extension the audience, to objectify themselves. In these shots, the trans protagonist becomes both the subject and the object of the audience’s gaze, their body framed as something alien, to be examined and judged.  In contrast, trans-created films often use mirrors as symbols of transformation, inviting us to follow the protagonist’s desire to step through rather than trapping them in objectification. The focus shifts from how their body is perceived and judged by others to how they experience it, centering their interiority and agency - a journey told through a trans person’s viewpoint. Ultimately, the cis lens in Emilia Perez isn’t necessarily the issue—it’s how the film chooses to establish and build upon this perspective that shapes its impact.

Rita’s opening number centers on her crafting a closing statement to absolve her client—a man accused of murdering his wife—by framing her death as a suicide. The argument is powerful enough to sway the jury, despite her co-counsel’s lackluster delivery. Yet, Rita herself doesn’t believe it. She even admits her client “looks like a criminal,” reinforcing her belief that appearances define truth. The film clearly aims to challenge this perspective, asking us to question what lies beneath the surface rather than trusting outward appearances. However, there’s an immediate contradiction—as we never learn if her client did kill his wife. So, while the film sets up Rita’s viewpoint to be challenged, it simultaneously leaves room for her superficial initial judgments to still hold true. This introduces the film’s core thematic exploration—interrogating how we perceive and interpret others. Yet, by leaving Rita’s client’s guilt open-ended, the film clearly sets up that it wants to use ambiguity as a device, which as we’ll see can have dangerous ramifications if not wielded with proper nuance and care. 

Rita then receives a call from Emilia, who is still closeted and using her dead name - which the film uses liberally even after she transitions by the way. Emilia flatters Rita, praising her abilities and offering wealth if Rita chooses to meet her. Frustrated at her career, Rita agrees, only to be violently kidnapped and dragged, terrified, into a meeting with Emilia—played by trans actress Karla Sofía Gascón, here in heavily masculinizing makeup to depict Emilia pre-transition. The film is deliberately framing Emilia to the audience — through Rita’s experience—as a violent, manipulative male drug lord who wields fear, power, violence, money, and emotional manipulation to get what she wants. This characterization is reinforced throughout the first act. When Rita later uses Emilia’s money to splurge on a first-class plane ticket while doing work for Emilia, Rita is once again violently kidnapped and reprimanded. Emilia is repeatedly shown as a controlling abuser, and the film’s initial impression is clear: Emilia is someone to fear.

Yet, while this initial picture is a problematic one, many critiques of the movie stop at “it portrays a trans person as a violent abuser—so it’s bad.” I understand where that criticism comes from. There is the stigma that trans women, in particular, are all inherently violent or deviants, and this representation risks feeding that preconception. Our society is also steeped in transmisogyny that frames trans women—especially trans women of color—as just inherently violent men pretending to be women, or as people forever trapped by their “male” past. This stereotype is profoundly dangerous, fueling much of the systemic and individual violence wielded against trans people. I even did a whole video on the myth that we are inherently “male socialization,” breaking down how this harmful idea suggests trans women are raised and conditioned as men, making us predisposed to violence. This narrative is just biological essentialism in disguise—taking the age-old idea that men are inherently violent and predatory and applying it to trans women by reframing it as socialization instead of biology. 

But the impulse to avoid those stereotypes - to never show trans people as violent or problematic - often swings too far the other way, leading to overcorrections where trans characters are only depicted as squeaky-clean heroes. These portrayals, while well-meaning, often feel shallow. They strip away complexity and humanity, reducing trans representation to something bland, safe, and easily packaged for corporate diversity checklists—back before studios started caving to the tantrums of weird aggrieved outrage merchants whining that any story featuring someone who isn’t a cis white dude is “woke DEI propaganda.” What we need are messy, flawed, and complicated portrayals of trans and queer people—characters who feel fully human. The challenge is doing that responsibly. Messy representation requires a level of care and nuance to avoid reinforcing harmful tropes or stigmas. Does this film do that? WE’LL SEE! But to give the film leeway, it has the potential for something more complex—an ability to grapple with cisgender people’s ingrained reactions to and biases about trans women. 

As Judith Butler’s theory of gender performativity discusses, gender isn’t innate—it’s a set of roles and behaviors enforced by societal expectations. We’re all socialized under patriarchy, which imposes rigid binaries and assigns us roles designed to uphold power structures that thrive on conformity. For many trans women, before coming out, this dynamic pushes us to overcompensate by performing hyper-masculine roles in a desperate attempt to fit into a mold that feels inherently wrong. This is why so many trans women gravitate toward hyper-masculine spaces like the military before coming out—I myself became an Eagle Scout, trying to prove I could be THE BEST at being a boy. And it’s also why, when many of us do come out, we often overcompensate by performing hyper-femininity. We’ve internalized society’s rigid definitions of what it means to be a woman, and we feel the need to meet those expectations. But true transition isn’t just about physical surgeries; it’s about unlearning those imposed roles and discovering who we are as women on our own terms. It’s a process of finding ourselves within the new context of how society perceives us—while resisting the binary constraints it continues to enforce. It’s not about “male socialization”; it’s about the crushing weight of patriarchy and the extreme measures we take to survive within it. Sometimes, this even means we enact violence on ourselves and others, perpetuating the very systems that harm us. For more on this, check out my videos on the myth of male socialization.

In this way, Emilia’s early characterization holds a kernel of truth. She probably sought out the role of a cartel boss because it was hyper-masculine so she could use its world of aggression and violence to hide her deeply buried desire to be a woman - even to herself. She even admits she had to be more violent than anyone else in that world out of fear her transness would be uncovered. In her world of crime, weakness - which femininity is seen as - isn’t just ridiculed—it’s a death sentence. She exists in a society that glorifies toxic masculinity and enforces it through violence, pushing her to mirror those behaviors and causing harm to others.

The movie even takes time to reveal there’s more beneath the surface of this hypermasculine role the characterizes Rita’s initial impressions. We’re eventually introduced to Emilia’s wife Jessi, played by Selena Gomez, and their two children. Despite the backdrop of cartel violence, Rita begins to see glimmers of tenderness, vulnerability and love from Emilia—most notably in a quiet moment as Emilia and her family lie beneath the stars together. So while the movie deliberately leans into harmful framing at the start, it’s clear the intention is to push us to question who Emilia really is. So, this initial framing holds strong potential to interrogate cis assumptions about trans people through Rita’s perspective—to push the audience to see Emilia as a fully realized, multifaceted human being, with transness used as a vehicle to showcase her complexity. But this is where we start to see director and writer Audiard’s lack of understanding trans people begin to rear its head. 

Emilia, pre-social transition, hires Rita to help her complete her transition discreetly, ensuring no one—including her family—finds out, with an emphasis on surgical intervention. Rita rightly notes that transitioning takes time, but then Emilia, still male-presenting, unbuttons her shirt to reveal she’s been on hormones for two years and already has developed breasts. Rita gasps. And the ambiguous emotion of this reaction has ignited significant discourse, with some critics dissecting it as a possible window into the director’s overall perspective on transition and trans bodies. Is it disgust? Surprise? Something else entirely?  But as my fellow trans critic Tilly Bridges pointed out -

“I’ve seen some folks say this was a gasp of disgust. I’ve seen some people say this was a gasp of surprise. What I want you to know is that either way this is showing transition as a surprise and something to be shocked by. It’s showing you trans people are duplicitous. See what she was hiding from you?” - TILLY BRIDGES

Shoutout by the way not only to her episode where she, her wife Susan and I talk about the film, but also to her Tilly’s Trans Tuesday podcast in general - its a really great resource for trans folks about media representation- y’all should subscribe to it if you have the chance. But we’ve already seen Emilia’s personality tied to manipulation, but now her transition is tied into it as well - framing transness as tied to Emilia’s core nature. Here is where we begin to see the problematic intertwining between transness and the films core thematic question - can you truly change who you are? 

In a later scene, an Israeli surgeon sings, “I only fix the body… but I will never fix the soul,” arguing that identity remains unchanged despite any physical transformation. Rita counters, “Changing the body changes society, changing society changes the soul,” suggesting transformation is deeply tied to identity and the soul itself. This argument is the core philosophical dialect that the film wants to grapple with - is there an essential core to who someone is, unchangeable, as the Doctor argues? Or, as Rita contends, can changing one’s body—transitioning—reshape not only how society perceives a person but also how they experience themselves and their place in the world? Rita’s argument challenges the idea of a fixed identity, framing transformation as deeply intertwined with society and identity. 

This debate is a deeply intriguing one, one often central to narratives trans people are both drawn to enjoying and telling about ourselves. There’s a large trans fandom around stories of body modification, like those seen the cyberpunk or body horror genres - because they reflect questions of the ways changes to the body can or cannot reshape identity and self-perception, but also how our physical body exists within society.

The body horror masterpiece David Cronenberg’s Videodrome - which I discussed in this video - explores how technology like the internet can lead us to start to question our bodies, and how we can transform it become something new, but also how that same technological transformation can be weaponized by larger systems of control like the American government, the military, or corporations - and how we can seek to regain our own autonomy over our right to choose how our transformed body can function. Similarly, cyberpunk, frames body modification as a way to align external reality with internal identity. At the same time, cyberpunk often explores the tension between personal autonomy and corporatized systems. These stories show how capitalist forces commodify and gatekeep bodies, turning self-expression into a product and pitting agency against oppressive structures. 

Trans directors and writers have also played with these themes. The cyberpunk masterpiece The Matrix, for example, features numerous body horror scenes where Neo’s body is invaded, penetrated, and controlled—both inside and outside the Matrix. His fight to reclaim control over his bodily autonomy and discover his own power becomes a striking metaphor for resisting oppressive systems, reflecting the universal struggle to define oneself against forces that seek to dictate identity.More recently, I Saw The TV Glow presents its trans-coded protagonist, Owen, whose refusal to embrace his true trans self because of his fear of leaving the expectations of working-class manhood he’s supposed to embody causes his body to slowly decay—a haunting and visceral metaphor for the consequences of denying self-realization and authenticity. In trans narratives, the body often becomes a battleground, a space where self-discovery and societal control collide. These stories reflect the tension between transformation as liberation and the oppressive forces that stigmatize it. And all of these works reflect the Judith Butlerian philosophical concepts about identity being performed and shaped by societal expectations and roles rather than fixed that we spoke about earlier. 

But these genres can also reflect dominant cisheteronormative patriarchal fears. The video game Cyberpunk 2077 and its related anime Cyberpunk Edgerunners for example, features the concept of cyberpsychosis - a mental illness where too much cybernetic modification can cause a dissociative disorder- echoing transphobic narratives that frame us as mentally ill people mutilating our bodies, rhetoric often used to justify systemic violence that seeks to strip us of our autonomy. I’d also highly recommend, by the way, this excellent recent video by Broey Deschanel which explores body horror and how movies like The Substance sometimes reflect societal fears of women’s bodies—not just trans women but of the broader disgust at all women’s bodies used to police our autonomy. [play the sagging breast clip from her video]

Which brings us, sadly, back to Emilia Perez. The film toys with the same themes of bodily autonomy and societal control, yet this scene between Rita and the doctor centers entirely on two cis people discussing a trans woman’s transition, completely excluding Emilia from the conversation. At no point does Emilia articulate what kind of transition she wants—it’s a blatant stripping of her autonomy, reinforcing the persistent pattern of cis people dictating the terms of trans transition. What’s worse is that Rita’s argument here rings hollow because while it contradicts her earlier belief that appearances equate to truth, her shift was driven not by genuine growth on her part but by Emilia’s violently attacking Rita to get her to speed up her transition process in the scene directly prior to this one. Rita’s plea to the doctor isn’t a genuine challenge to societal assumptions; it’s a desperate attempt to avoid further violence—framing the support for trans autonomy and the rejection of patriarchal expectations as something coerced through fear and threat of violence from a trans woman - again Emilia’s violent character being tied directly to her being trans. We’re seeing a pattern of Emilia Perez relying on cis fears and biases, raising the question of if it genuinely understands the narratives it seeks to interrogate. 

Because we need to talk about THE SONG. Yes, that song—you know, the one that got memed into oblivion. [clip]. Oh yeah, the one where Rita is paraded a magical buffet of trans surgeries like it’s some kind of Trans Surgery Candy Land™. Naturally, this song became a favorite for trans folks to roast online because it perfectly captures society’s fixation on surgeries as the defining feature of trans lives. Out of context, trans people felt the song MUST have been intended to be a tongue-in-cheek parody of the fetishized way cisgender people turn our surgeries into a spectacle by making it a “big musical number!” Because otherwise, who wouldn’t love their personal healthcare decisions turned into a whimsical ditty? And while the song is meant to be over-the-top and funny, it sadly lacks that self-awareness in context. In the film, the comedy is instead meant to come from how freely these surgeries are supposedly handed out. The surgeon we see here is based in Thailand—a country in real-life that has relatively lax restrictions on trans surgeries which has led it to become a vital destination for some trans people who were denied care or face incredibly long wait times or prohibitive costs in their home countries due to restrictive laws or gatekeeping. Yet the film completely glosses over this harsh reality. Instead, it asks us to laugh at (and judge) how absurdly easy it is for Rita—a cisgender person—to casually select surgeries for a trans person, reducing these deeply personal and often inaccessible decisions to something as trivial - pointing at every surgery and yelling YES YES YES as if she’s order something off a buffet menu. Not only that, this —alongside Emilia’s lack of involvement in her choosing her own transition—implies that surgeries are one-size-fits-all for trans people, erasing the individuality of trans experiences. It leans into the transmedicalist tropes that frame transition as requiring a preselected surgical path to be valid. Adding to this, the sequence parades stereotypically beautiful, naked bodies of men and women, reinforcing the harmful notion that transition is about achieving objectified, idealized forms. This perpetuates the idea that trans women transition to fulfill a fetishized, sexualized version of womanhood, that we’re just sexual “perverts” who wish to become the object of our sexual desire - a common transphobic trope called autogynephilia. 

And while terrible, these are just background issues that simply underscore the film's lack of awareness of trans issues and cisgender bias. More relevant to the film’s ultimate ideas, the Thai doctor’s office is massive, flashy, and clearly expensive - and throughout the song, the cost of surgeries is repeatedly emphasized, underscoring the idea that this doctor performs trans surgeries purely for money. This portrayal directly feeds into a deeply familiar transphobic trope: that transgender surgeries are handed out like candy by a medical industry eager to exploit and profit off trans people. So much anti-trans propaganda hinges on this narrative—the claim that the medical establishment is “pushing” trans identities through media and culture to profit from “mutilating” people, especially children. It’s a toxic lie used to justify the outright banning of trans healthcare, and this portrayal plays right into that rhetoric.

This implication becomes even more apparent when Rita visits the aforementioned Israeli doctor, who is portrayed with far more respect than the Thai surgeon. Working out of a tiny, modest office, he shows little interest in the large sum of money Rita offers. Instead, his focus is framed as concern for whether Emilia is “truly trans.” He insists on meeting Emilia before performing any surgeries—a request the film frames as brave, with Rita warning him of the risks of potential violence from Emilia, which the doctor “valiantly” dismisses.

But back on point, on the surface, the doctor’s desire to meet Emilia before taking any medical intervention makes sense; trans people should have access to doctors and the freedom to explore their transition goals—what medical interventions they may want, if any—without judgment or pressure toward a specific outcome. However, the film elevates the doctor as a wise caretaker while ignoring how that affirming, nonjudgmental care is often gatekept by the very medical establishment he represents.

Because the doctor’s prerequisites aren’t about understanding Emilia as a person. We see that it’s only done so he can hear Emila deliver the expected “sob story” of gender dysphoria so she can justify him giving her surgeries. This reflects the harsh reality of medical gatekeeping trans people face, where even in places offering care, we’re forced to “prove” the necessity of our procedures for our “mental health” to cisgender authorities - pathologizing us. 

Navigating the healthcare system as a trans person often means enduring invasive scrutiny to access necessary care. To get my own vaginoplasty, I was required to have my therapist write a detailed letter, including a diagnosis of gender dysphoria, to satisfy insurance prerequisites that divulged deeply personal aspects of my life, including descriptions of my feelings on my genitals at the age 10. The whole process was not only invasive but also deeply humiliating - especially given that letter is in some insurance office somewhere for anyone to read for this day. When I pursued breast augmentation, the plastic surgeon, who readily performed the procedure for cisgender women without question, insisted I pay a second therapist to get another letter to confirm I wouldn't regret the surgery. He demanded this despite studies indicating that regret rates for such procedures are actually higher for cis patients than trans individuals.

These experiences highlight the systemic mess that is transgender healthcare. The DSM-5 includes 'gender dysphoria' as a diagnosis, which, while sometimes helping with insurance coverage, also pathologizes trans identities. This medicalization fuels gatekeeping, forcing us to meet rigid criteria and collect endless professional endorsements just to access basic gender-affirming care. It’s also worth mentioning here that Emilia can easily afford all these surgeries—money is no object for her, thanks to her wealth from criminal activities. While that makes sense for her character, most trans people don’t have that luxury. Many can’t afford surgeries out of pocket or even insurance that might pay for them—if they even live in areas where such inclusive coverage is available. At its core, this system thrives on mistrust and control over our bodies, delaying vital care and feeding harmful narratives that constantly question the legitimacy of who we are. 

Yet, Emilia Perez frames these dehumanizing hurdles as progress, portraying medical gatekeeping as necessary and even beneficial. In doing so, it reflects a supposedly progressive approach to trans acceptance: outwardly more "enlightened" than hateful right-wing rhetoric but still rooted in belittlement and control. Liberals like to think they’re progressive, embracing trans people, but only do so on their terms—through pathologization and medicalization. This allows them to feel virtuous without confronting their biases or ceding power over our lives. It’s not acceptance; it’s gatekeeping cloaked in condescension and dressed as compassion. 

Through all of this, we can see that while Emilia Perez, the film, tries to wrestle with the philosophical question of whether people can genuinely change through a trans lens, it completely muddies it by making Emilia’s transition something dictated, judged, and controlled by cisgender gatekeepers. Instead of engaging with the autonomy and humanity of trans people—our ability to define our transitions and what they mean for us—the film shamelessly reinforces the same cisgender biases, transphobic narratives, and oppressive structures that dictate and control trans lives, all while pretending to question them. Worst of all, it extends this framework to how Emilia views her transition. 

Because I haven’t even touched on how Emilia feels about her own transition—largely because the film itself barely addresses it until a third of the way in. We finally glimpse Emilia's inner world in the song “Deseo” (“Desire”). Its sung ostensibly to give us insight into Emilia’s emotions, but still framed through Rita’s perspective - the only person who witnesses it. Rita’s still acts as the surrogate for the presumed cis audience’s response to Emilia’s reveal of her true emotions - making them something to be otherized, sympathized but not emphathized with. Still, in a raw and undeniably powerful performance by Karla Sofía Gascón, the song lays bare Emilia’s longing—not to change into something new, but to become someone else entirely. Though she has everything society tells her she should want, her true desire is to become the post-transition Emilia - whom she views as a completely different person. This moment is striking because it frames Emilia’s view of her transition not as a reclamation of identity but as a rejection of her current self, treating it as a desperate escape of her current self—a shedding of her past to fully embody someone new. 

In real life, trans people have wrestled with the idea of whether transition represents stepping into a completely new self or a continuation of the self they’ve always been for decades. For much of the 20th century, the dominant narrative around trans people framed transition as a way of becoming “someone else”—a person “born in the wrong body” finally stepping into the idealized other they longed to be. Many trans people, particularly in earlier generations, embraced this narrative, cutting all ties to their pre-transition lives and even sometimes destroying artifacts of their pasts. It’s a view that I have a lot of understanding for - especially as it in many ways was done out of safety as much as an emotional choice - it was safer to be stealth if you could in a society that is deeply transphobic and enacts violence against us. 

But this view was also deeply rooted in the binary, biological essentialism that dominates Western culture, where men and women are seen as oppositional, inherently separate. In many other cultures, gender nonconforming identities were seen as part of society, nor were men and women see as diametrically opposed. It also feeds into a broader societal fetishization of womanhood. By placing men and women in opposite and placing women lower in a hiearahcy to be objectified in our culture, trans women stepping into the societal role of “woman” are often accused of fetishizing womanhood rather than simply continuing to exist as ourselves

It’s why, as the early 21st century brought more mainstream attention to trans people, and transphobia initially seemed to be on the decline, the dominant narrative around transition began to shift. The idea of transitioning as “becoming someone else” started to lose traction, replaced by a narrative that transition was a way to align one’s external appearance with their internal truth—a continuation of the self rather than a reinvention. For many trans people, this reframing was liberating, offering a way to embrace their identities without the need to erase their pasts. It also combines nicely with the Judith Butlerian idea of the performativity of gender—that by changing how we perform our roles, we are actively taking agency in reshaping and redefining not only our identities but the society around us by creating new roles and plays of how to build society. This view challenges the rigid, binary constructs of gender, emphasizing that identity is not fixed or innate but something fluid and continually negotiated through our interactions with societal expectations. 

And we see these two views come into conflict within Emilia. While Emlia seeks to become a wholly new person - she also still has a strong emotional tether to her current life because of her family. Emilia’s plan to fake her death and abandon her wife and children is marked by visible anguish, with her tears underscoring the regret and pain of this decision. While a more modern view of transness would see her try to transition by integrating her family into her changing role, which many trans people today try to do, even if it might have caused tension with how her wife and children perceived her, instead she believes a completely clean break is necessary to become the woman she longs to be. Emilia’s agonizing decision ties directly into the film’s philosophical exploration of transformation: can altering the body truly redefine who you are, or is identity something more deeply rooted, beyond the reach of physical change. This question is further complicated by Emilia’s identity as a cartel drug lord—a figure who has clearly enacted significant violence to secure her power. The film doesn’t shy away from showing Emilia’s brutality, from her violent treatment of Rita - although it leaves the broader implications of her crimes, including kidnapping and drug trafficking, mainly offscreen, which we’ll come back to. But her ability to fully finance her transition is also directly tied to this violence and exploitation. 

This tension could have been an interesting avenue for the film to explore, examining the accountability tied to one’s identity and how trauma or harm cannot simply be erased through reinvention - and even the ability to reinvent yourself can often come from privilege and exploitation.It could have delved into the tension between transformation and the inescapable weight of the past, confronting Western society’s pervasive desire to erase history as a way to dodge accountability and deny privilege such as how American conservatives insist that the slavery is all in the past, and that its legacy has not led to existence of systemic racism and white supremacy that encapsulates our present society. Yet, given the film’s constant biases and reliance on outdated tropes, we have to start to wonder if this is leading to a genuine exploration of these question or more heading to a reinforcement of the same biologically essentialist views that have long misrepresented and constrained trans identities.

Because the film goes on to frames Emilia’s decision to transition by faking her death as cruel, depiction the emotional devistation her “death” causes Jessi and their children. But here’s the kicker: we’re made to see their pain through Rita’s eyes, not Emilia’s. This framing reinforces that cisgender people understand the consequences of trans people’s decisions better than we do—that we’re oblivious to it or, worse, don’t care about the harm our transitions supposedly cause others. It’s a deeply insidious way of framing Emilia’s choice, as if her transition is inherently selfish, irresponsible, and damaging to the people around her. 

This is the same transphobic argument TERFs, and anti-trans parents use to frame trans kids’ transitions as a narcissistic “stealing” of the child they thought they had. It’s the same rhetoric that paints trans kids and adults as selfish, justifying policies that strip us of autonomy. First, they block healthcare for trans kids under 18, claiming it’s “for their own good.” Then, as we’re seeing in the U.S., they ban it entirely, branding trans people of any age as self-absorbed and mentally ill. By framing Emilia’s transition as selfish and harmful, the film reinforces the belief that trans lives must always be justified through the lens of cis comfort.

But, even worse, the film links this transition choice to Emilia’s controlling nature at the same time, with Jessi expressing anger at the loss of her autonomy by Emila’s posthumous forcing Jessi and the kids to move to Switzerland for their supposed protection.

From here, Emilia undergoes all her gender confirmation surgeries at once—facial feminization, vaginoplasty, breast augmentation, and maybe more. No doctor would ever do that; it’s not safe. But safety clearly isn’t a concern in this movie’s fantasy of cisgender assumptions on trans surgeries. Emilia spends a minute in bandages before she’s magically healed and ready to go. As someone who’s had these surgeries, let me tell you: you leave a bloated, bruised mess, set for weeks of recovery—not a quick time skip. There’s even a moment where Emilia looks at her post-op vagina in a mirror with visible relief, and... let’s just say, that’s not happening. Emotional relief - maybe, but visually? It’s more “tornado at a deli counter” for a few weeks down there. This whole sequence reeks of cisgender hyperfixation on our genitals and surgeries again, reducing it to voyeurism under the guise of a trans narrative.

But speaking of time skips, the movie jumps ahead four years—completely skipping any chance to see Emilia adjusting to being perceived as a woman or navigating her new place in a patriarchal society, now detached from her violent past. Nope, instead we cut straight to her surprising Rita at a dinner party. Because, of course, transness is a surprise! You’d never know someone is trans—they could pop up behind you at any moment like John Wick. We’ll get you with our surprise pencil! Once again, we’re stuck with Rita’s cis perspective—questioning how much Emilia has changed in four years without any of the nuance that comes from - ya know - actually exploring her transition and what it would mean for Emila’s perception of herself. 

Now, I do have to give credit where it’s due—the transition to black at the moment of Emilia’s reveal is a brilliant filmmaking moment. It perfectly underscores the secret they now share and their isolation from the others it causes that the film wants to portray. Honestly, this movie is packed with stunning visuals that elevate its ideas. Cinematographer Paul Guilhaume, choreographer Damien Jalet, and so many other technical crew members did phenomenal work. Hell, Zoe Saldana’s movements throughout her dances are fucking fire. It’s sad this all wasn’t in service of a better story—this would have been my SHIT otherwise. 

Because this isolation that the cinematography underscores is the movie trying to show us that Rita is implicated in Emilia’s secret trans identity, as if it's something shameful or dangerous. And given how transness has been continually linked to Emlia’s violence, its hard not to view that as transphobic. But further, Rita’s immediate reaction to Emilia’s sudden appearance is fear and anxiety—understandable given Emilia’s violent past and the possibility that she’s here to tie up loose ends. But Emilia quickly tries to allay Rita’s concerns, sayings she only here to shower her with gratitude and flowers, thanking her for helping her transition and giving her this “amazing life.” However, moments later, the real reason Emilia’s has come back emerges: she wants Rita’s help bringing her children back to Mexico so she can rebuild a relationship with them. While Emilia isn’t here to be violent, her sudden arrival is a betrayal of her promise to leave Rita alone, and her initial love-bombing reeks of manipulation. So we’re left to ask, has Emilia truly changed, or is she still the same violent, manipulative, and selfish person beneath it all? And this doubt, given we are made to see Emlia from an external lens and in juxtaposition to her past self, is what lingers over every scene that follows.

Which would be fine, again, if the film were genuinely interested in questioning Emilia’s moral character. But instead, it consistently ties her potential duplicity to her transness, as if her transness is someone tied to her morality. For example, when Rita finally brings Jessi and the kids to Emilia’s home, Emilia introduces herself as their aunt. It’s like Mrs. Doubtfire, gangster edition—except instead of comedic hijinks, we’re meant to question if this is a evidence of Emilia’s manipulativeness! “Oh look, a trans person lying about her identity—does that mean she’s inherently deceitful?” - the film seems to ask.

The films bizarre transphobic approach to Emilia’s transition seems, in part, to be an artifact from its source material. Remember earlier when I mentioned Emilia Perez was adapted from the book Écoute by Boris Razon? Well, that’s only half true. It’s actually based on a single chapter of the book. In that chapter, a minor drug trafficker transitions solely as a means of escaping the cartel. Now obviously, thats already a transphobic concept - playing into the anti-trans idea that trans people are just violent cis men to gain access to women’s spaces. But - in Audiard’s own words, “The author, who is a friend of mine, did not develop this character. I asked for the right to expand the character myself.” And, boy, did he expand it.

The problem is Audiraid only made a singular, surface level change to the source material - making Emilia an earnest trans woman. Critic Juan Barquin, in their review for Little White Lies, summed up the core problem with this perfectly: “A lot of these issues stem from adapting a chapter that is explicitly about a cartel leader using transition as a means of escape. You realize that you might get accused of being transphobic, so you try to smooth it over by hiring a trans actress and revising certain beats without looking at how other parts of the script reflect transness negatively.” So much of the film’s transphobic elements - from Emilia cruelly abandoning her family to the focus on whether Emilia is actually a man underneath her change reflect the source material's core idea that Emilia isn’t actually trans. Audiard’s attempt to “smooth it over” shifts the superficial transphobic idea by making Emilia actually trans, but refuses to make the fundamental changes that would necessarily follow from that choice. If she weren’t actually trans, as in the book, there’s at least a (transphobic) logic to questioning whether her transition is evidence of her duplicity. But in a story about an actual trans woman, this framing becomes indefensible—it’s no longer about interrogating a character’s morality but about reinforcing harmful stereotypes that cast trans people as inherently deceptive because we are trans.

It highlights just how little thought or care Audiard put into portraying transness authentically or empathetically. Honestly, his shallow attempt to cover his tracks without making meaningful changes offends me more. It shows Audiard knew enough to avoid outright backlash by aligning with surface-level mainstream understandings of trans people but didn’t care enough to actually engage with or learn from us. Instead, he wanted to tell a story about a character he found cool in a book, doing the bare minimum to ensure cis audiences wouldn’t call him out, while leaving the transphobic core of his narrative intact.

And we can see this in one of the film's most revealing—and worst—scenes where Emilia puts one of her kids to bed for the first time since her transition. Gascón delivers a stunning performance - her strongest in the movie - capturing Emilia’s raw conflict as her child expresses how much he misses his dad and Emilia wrestles with the desire to tell him the truth. For a brief moment, we actually see Emilia unfiltered, free from the ever-present cisgender gaze that dominates the film. Shockingly, Rita isn’t sitting in the damn room, staring at Emilia for us to gawk at her through—probably why this scene could have been one of the film’s most powerful.

Yet the scene instead becomes one of the most subtly damaging because despite removing the cis character explicitly questioning Emilia’s intentions - Emilia’s child sings about how Emilia smells like his dad - cigars, mezcal, dogs in car rides - insisting he can smell "under" her perfume.

[JESSIE BREATHS IN DEEPLY]

OK, SEVERAL THINGS HERE. First, this scene makes it glaringly obvious that no one involved in writing this film did even the bare minimum of research into trans people. If they had, they’d know one of the first, most noticeable changes of HRT is that our smell changes. Before hormones gave me softer skin, fat redistribution, or breasts, I noticed I smelled different. So, this entire moment is not just ignorant—it’s showcases their insulting laziness.

The deeper, more infuriating issue is how this moment anchors itself in biological essentialism in order to question Emilia’s identity. All the smells the child lists are very much tied to Emilia’s former masculine identity - despite being years from away from it. It clings to this insidious belief that some immutable, biological trait will forever define who Emilia “really” is—undermining her identity and framing her transition as just a superficial mask over an unchangeable "truth." No matter how much she’s changed - she still smells like a man. You can’t remove that stink I guess.The film all but shouts, “No matter how much she transitions, no matter how she presents herself, she’s still, at her core, biologically a man.” This isn’t just invalidating; it’s a gut punch to any trans person watching, reinforcing the idea that we’ll never truly escape the boxes cisgender society forces us into, no matter how much we change. By the way, in this video, I explained how trans women are not “biological males” but, like all humans, have numerous biological and social traits—some - like FUCKING SMELL - that are mutable, some that are not—that patriarchy forcibly categories underneath male and female binaries.

But we can’t stop there. The suggestion that a child can “sense” a parent’s “true” identity leans into conservative rhetoric about biological bonds and parental rights—narratives weaponized to control trans people and women. It props up the fantasy of a "magical" biological family bond to confine women to caregiving roles, tethering their value to biology while erasing their autonomy. It’s the same rhetoric used to say that cis parents know their trans child’s “true” identity better then they do and thus justify limiting access to trans care.

So this scene that COULD have been beautiful instead sends a chilling message to cisgender audiences: “Don’t trust trans people. Don’t listen to what they have to say. Deep down, they’ll always be the person you knew they were in your gut.” And this exact concept? It’s the thread that will weave through the entire rest of the movie. Buckle up.

At this point in the film, Emilia, while out with Rita, starts noticing family members of cartel violence victims searching for their loved ones. Emilia starts to show guilt at her past actions as a cartel leader and so starts to use her connections with incarcerated cartel members to create a nonprofit aimed at identifying the bodies of cartel victims. This could have been really compelling because it introduces a storyline not tied to Emilia’s transness—one that could have explored whether Emilia has truly changed. Her guilt is evident, but the nonprofit also garners her fame and public veneration, raising the interesting question: is she still benefiting from the very violence she once inflicted without ever taking accountability for it?

In a better movie, this would have been a turning point that dove into the repercussions of and confronting Emlia with her past behavior. What if some victims' families Emilia helped find their loved ones bodies discovered that Emilia was responsible for their loved ones' deaths in the first place? And if the film wanted to engage with transness, perhaps some of these families, while rightfully angry, also weaponized transphobia against her—forcing Emilia to have to confront both the harm she caused while also parsing the bigotry directed at her identity at the same time. THAT would have been a nuanced, powerful narrative tackling accountability, transness, and the ways patriarchal, cisheteronormative societies simultaneously entice men to commit violence and absolves them—until they belong to a marginalized community. Imagine a version of Emilia’s story where she’s forced to rightfully take accountability for her violent past only because her history was discovered after she acted on guilt she can now fully feel as she lives in an identity that societally allows her to be more in touch with her emotions - but at the same time, she must navigate a world that not only holds her to a different, transmisgonistic standard but is also deeply hostile to her very existence as a trans woman. I would have found that story extremely interesting.

But sadly, that’s not what we get. Instead, Emilia calls on her corrupt politician friends from her pre-transition life to fund her nonprofit, leading to a song where Rita points out the “shocking” revelation that the upper class of the city is corrupt. Rich people bad! What a groundbreaking critique of capitalism, I guess. 

Worse still, all of this is used to question Emilia’s character without ever actually forcing her to reckon with her past. Emilia never has to confront the harm she caused. Instead, we get small, petty moments—like Rita complimenting Emilia’s outfit, only for Emilia to not return the compliment, prompting Rita to mutter “bitch” under her breath. It’s yet another shallow attempt to make us question whether Emilia is a self-centered narcissist, masquerading as "progressively provocative" because—gasp—Rita called her a bitch, affirming Emilia’s gender in a sexist way. Wow, so edgy. Meanwhile, it completely sidesteps any meaningful or complex exploration of Emilia’s culpability for her past actions in organized crime.

And this is why I’m not just offended as a trans person—I’m offended as a filmmaker and writer. There was so much potential here to create a nuanced portrait of a trans character and relate that to complex societal issues, but Audiard didn’t even try. Instead, he took the laziest, most transphobic shortcuts, filtering Emilia through his own biases and reducing her to a caricature and putting all these clearly talented artists to work all to say shit that only goes as deep as “RICH PEOPLE BAD”.

The only other storyline to come out of this plot thread is also awful. A victim of cartel violence, Epifania Flores, visits Emilia’s nonprofit while hiding a knife. At first, it seems she might be there to attack Emilia, possibly having uncovered her past. But no—she’s just there to find out what happened to her husband, bringing the knife to kill him if he was alive because he had subjected her to years of abuse. Emilia coldly and dismissively tells Flores her husband is dead, reinforcing her characterization as a narcissist, and only softens after seeing Flores’ surprising relief at the news. Emilia comforts Flores, and the two even begin a sexual relationship.

But the entire time, the movie frames this relationship through the lens of Emilia’s own past violence. It practically screams at the audience to ask, “Is Emilia just as violent and abusive as the man Flores was so relieved to escape?” We get this shot of Emilia hugging Flores where we as the audience are meant to question how sincere her hug is - or if she’s just using Flores so she can enter into sexual relationship. The shot shows how insidious this framing has become—by this point, there’s no need for Rita to be there to explicitly cast doubt. The movie has already done the legwork to train its audience to question Emilia’s motives as inherently suspect. The camera and thereby the film itself assumes the audience is ready to mistrust Emilia as a given. We even learn later that despite having a relationship with her and being the person closets to Emilia beside Rita, Emilia never tells Flores that she’s trans or that her kids are not really her cousins as she tells everyone. So again, transness tied to duplicitousness. 

This narrative echoes the same transphobic garbage TERFs like J.K. Rowling use to justify excluding trans women from women's shelters—painting our existence as a threat. They claim trans women are just violent men invading women’s spaces, a myth now enshrined in UK law through new Crown Prosecution Service guidelines that frame trans women as potential rapists if we don’t disclose our identity to partners. This ignores the reality that trans women are far more likely to be victims of sexual and domestic violence, often at the hands of partners who react violently to discovering we’re trans. It also cruelly denies us access to spaces like women’s shelters, which we desperately need. This hateful rhetoric has fueled a wave of anti-trans laws targeting public spaces like bathrooms under the guise of protecting cis women, perpetuating baseless fears of men posing as trans to invade women’s spaces—fearmongering designed to strip us of safety and autonomy. By framing Emilia as lying to sleep with a cis female victim of abuse, the film regurgitates TERF and conservative narratives that dehumanize trans women, all to reduce her story to a shallow question of whether she has “truly” changed. 

This finally brings us to the moment where the audience's growing mistrust is finally paid off. Throughout the film, Emilia has started to build up a new relationship to her ex-wife Jessi as a woman. Because Jessi thinks Emilia is her dead husbands sister, Jessi opens open to Emilia - revealing that she had complex feelings about her husband but ultimately did love him. Its a tender scene where Emilia wrestles with the clear pain she caused Jessi through her neglect and implied abuse despite loving her. But we also learn that Jessi cheated on Emilia, and that reveal is less centered on Jessi opening up and more a moment for the audience to wonder if Emilia will reveal her “true” self by showcasing anger upon learning of Jessi’ infidelity. But she doesn’t and we’re meant to take that as a indicator of Emilia’s potential growth.

Yet, we also start getting songs showcasing Jessi’s interior life—something Emilia never gets to do on her own terms. Jessi’s songs reveal her growing anger and frustration at her husband’s control, even in death. She feels trapped, forced to staying in Emilia’s supposed “sister’s” house in order to access his money. So, in a moment of frustration, she calls Gustavo—the man she cheated on Emilia with—and says, and I kid you not, “my pussy still hurts when I think of you.”

[Jessie rubs her head in pain.]

That has to be the most straight man writing a woman line I’ve ever heard. It’s right up there with “she titted along boobily down the stairs.” But anyway—

Rita eventually catches Jessi with Gustavo while they’re out a karaoke bar singing a song written for the film, “El Camino,” with contains translated lyrics like: “I want to love myself, to love myself fully, to love myself as I am… that’s what being a woman is, right?” The song clearly carries trans-femme undertones—lyrics that resonate deeply with ideas of self-acceptance and womanhood, especially for those who’ve had to fight for their identity. It’s also one of the main Selena Gomez song used to market the movie, so the film clearly wants us to view it as significant. But its placement here feels... strange. The song comes from Jessi, not Emilia, in a moment intentionally hidden from Emilia. Given the movie’s constant questioning of Emilia’s womanhood and the guilt she carries for her past violence, it seems to imply that Emilia, by failing to love herself fully, isn’t truly a woman. It’s a bizarre, uncomfortable implication, especially considering this is the song being used to sell this supposed “trans” movie. It feels like the film is saying something profound about identity and self-acceptance—but somehow lands on a message that undermines its own trans protagonist.

But that’s beside the point, because after this, Emilia confronts Jessi about staying out late and getting drunk around the kids. It’s an uncomfortable moment, as Emilia's concern is rooted in her role as their parent—a truth she’s unwilling to reveal, leaving her motivations again duplicitously concealed behind her transness. But surprisingly, Jessi takes it well—until she reveals that Gustavo has proposed to her and that she’s planning to take the kids and leave Mexico to finally feel free from her dead husband’s control. Emilia reacts negatively and the two argue begin to argue… And then it happens. As the argument escalates, Jessi calls Emilia a “whore,” and Emilia snaps. She shoves Jessi onto the bed in a fit of violent rage, her voice dropping to the same deep register she used pre-transition. Jessi freezes, her body language implying she’s shocked by that this isn’t new to her—this is a position she’s been in before. It’s likely the same style of violent abuse Emilia used to inflict as Jessi’s husband. Even further, Emilia calls the children “mine” - not “ours” - highlighting her sense of ownership, superseding Jessi and her children’s autonomy.  

This is the moment that essentially confirms its consistent asking of the audience to mistrust of Emilia. The scenes comes across as a reveal - this is FINALLY us seeing “real” Emilia underneath it all.  And her “true” self is coded as her former male persona - with elements like her deep voice—emerging. Her anger, her rage, her violence. The film wants us to see this as the climatic, ultimate proof that Emilia’s transition couldn’t change her “true nature” as a violent, controlling, abusive, narcassitic man. It doubles down on the idea that trans women’s identities are a lie, that no matter how much we transition or grow, we’re just waiting to “snap” and reveal the violent man lurking within. 

If I were feeling charitable, I’d say the scene isn’t deliberately trying to say Emilia is a man deep down—though it absolutely does—but is instead sloppily using male coding to emphasize her "true" character. It feels like a clumsy leftover from the book, where Emilia wasn’t a trans woman but a violent cartel member in hiding, and the writers failed to properly adapt this for their chosen narrative. But honestly? Intent doesn’t matter, and frankly, I don’t really buy that - especially not with the rest of the film’s blatantly transphobic framing. 

Audiard himself has basically outright admitted his intent here: “The question is to what degree is [Emilia’s male persona] still within her… She dreams of paying off her debt, of redeeming herself, but the world around her is not going to change. Changing the world is a delusion at some level. Where we do see her selfishness is in her relationship with her ex-wife.” He explicitly states that this moment was meant to ask, “to what degree the MALE version of herself is still in there.” It’s disgusting. It’s harmful. It’s a cheap, lazy trope that reinforces every stereotype transphobes use against us. This isn’t storytelling—it’s bigotry dressed up as drama.

What makes this even more frustrating is that it could have been so much worse. I haven’t talked much about Karla Sofía Gascón being cast in the role of Emila. Much has been made of the fact that she’s a trans woman cast to play a trans woman—somethign sadly still far from the norm. Hollywood has a long, gross tradition of casting cis men to play trans women, reinforcing the idea that we’re just men underneath it all. And even if we take the Hollywood’s excuses at face value—the repeated claims that they couldn’t find a trans woman for the role or they couldn’t find the right one for the role, which is utter nonsense, especially in high-budget productions—they could have at least cast a cis woman instead. That choice, while still erasing trans woman actors, would at least have upheld the idea that we’re still women, rather than perpetuating the bias that we’re secretly men. But time and time again, they go with cis men, because that’s how they see us.

Casting cis people in trans roles doesn’t just harm representation; it upholds a cisgender economy where trans actors are locked out of roles as both trans and cis characters. This denies us pay, visibility, and opportunities to build careers in an industry that profits off our stories while excluding us. So yes, Gascón’s casting is notable here. And from what I can tell, she did have some influence on the character.

Audiard initially envisioned casting two actors for Emilia - one for her pre and post transition. However, Gascón convinced him to merge the roles, wanting to play the character’s duality completely. To Audiard’s credit, he hesitated at first, not out of artistic reasons, but out of concern for Gascón’s comfort in playing a man. “I didn’t want to put it her through that, as in my own experience, it’s not something I’ve been through being a white male in my late sixties, and I didn’t want to have her endure that. But it turns out that she insisted she wanted to do it, and she did great.” But even more tellingly, in the scene when Emilia violently attacks Jessi, Gascón argued for to play Emilia as showing a more subdued, restrained fury rather then an even more violent outburst. That’s telling. Even with Gascón’s influence, the scene was still an outright caricature of transphobic stereotypes. It’s wild that it could have been even worse. It highlights how deeply these biases were baked into the script and how little effort was made to reframe them, even with a trans actor pushing for nuance.

But those were the only two instances I could find where Gascón influenced the film’s larger creative choices—and both were tied to her performance, not the writing itself. Casting a trans woman only goes so far when the foundation of the story is so deeply flawed. All that being said, I do have criticism for Gascón herself, particularly in how she has shielded the film from valid critique. In an interview with Vanity Fair, Gascón was asked about the criticism the film has received from the trans community. In resposne, she first stated she hadn’t read the reviews—but then immediately dismissed them, saying:

“Being LGBTQ, having those labels, does not remove your stupidity, just like heterosexuality does not remove your stupidity… What bothers me is that the people that say things like that [are] just sitting down at home doing nothing. If you don’t like it, go and make your own movie. Go create the representation you want to see for your community…. There are some that say, ‘I want to see LGBTQ or trans characters outdoing what people do in real life,’ but we do bad things too…. I don’t understand the criticism about the representation of portraying Emilia Pérez this way. The reality is that the trans experience is not the same for everybody—my trans experience is different from somebody else’s.”

I'll give Gascon some grace since English isn't her first language, but dismissing critiques as "stupid" without even reading them is condescending. Sure, she’s right—trans people aren’t a monolith, and opinions about this film vary. There’s even this piece by a trans writer for Out Magazine who liked it, and I know others feel the same. That’s great—Its awesome our community has diverse opinions. But dismissing valid critiques without engaging with them isn’t okay. And telling critics to “go make your own movie” is belittling. What, only the Wachoskis or Jane Schoenbrun can critique your film? Tons of trans people would love to make a movie. But who’s funding trans creators? In the past five years, I can count on my fingers the majors studios who gave money to trans directors - Warner Bros (the same studio bring you JK Rowling’s new show), A24, and, not a major studio but, Nebula. Speaking, I directed my sci-fi thriller IDENTITEAZE last year, starring John DeLance and Abigail Thorn—stream it on Nebula! I’ve also got a TV pitch version ready to go if anyone’s interested. But most trans directors, like Vera Drew (The People’s Joker) and Mia Moore (Again, Again), had to self-fund their movies and struggle to get by. And yes, we need stories about morally complex trans characters—but they require care to avoid harmful stereotypes. This film fails miserably at that.

While Gascón’s dismissive response frustrates me, what infuriates me even more is how she’s the one taking the heat while Audiard, the actual creator, skates by untouched, collecting accolades and praise. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t find a single interview where Audiard was asked about the backlash from the trans community. Not one. Instead, it’s Gascón out here fielding these questions, taking on the burden of defending a film she didn’t write or direct. Let me be clear: none of the harmful representation in Emilia Pérez is her fault.

As a trans woman of color on a French film directed by a white man, Gascón probably had the least power on that set. There’s a part of me that wishes that she would have turned down the role, but how many of us in her position would realistically do that? Trans women get so few roles, let alone leading ones. A high-profile, Oscar-bait project could end up - and quiet clearly seems to be - making her career. She did what she could with what she had control over, and frankly, her performance and input clearly made the film less bad. She deserves credit for that.

But it’s hard not to feel like Gascón’s casting was a calculated move to shield the film from critique. Audiard must have known it would look bad not to cast a trans woman in the lead, so he did—but it reeks of tokenism. Her presence feels like a shield, a way to deflect legitimate criticism with a lazy “How can this be transphobic? We cast a trans woman!” excuse. Slapping a trans actor onto harmful, lazy writing doesn’t solve the problem—it just exploits her identity to excuse it.

On a similar note, I have a sneaking suspicion that Audiard chose to make the “good” doctor Jewish to avoid accusations of antisemitic undertones. Claims that a “powerful medical establishment” profits from “turning kids trans” frequently serve as gateways to antisemitism, invoking long-standing blood libel accusations and conspiracy theories pushed by far-right groups, as I’ve discussed in a previous video. So making the doctor that is more willing to gatekeep trans surgeries and who clearly isn’t interested in money Jewish avoids this. If this is true, it shows Auidard is self-conscious enough to be aware of tropes that would get HIM flack, but not willing to do the same to avoid where the criticism would come down on his marginalized cast and crew. 

Because this isn’t the only time Audiard has dodged criticism by deflecting through his actors. Notably, none of the main cast are from Mexico. To be fair, Zoe Saldaña did ask to change her character’s initial Mexican background to reflect her own Dominican Puerto Rican heritage, showing again how performers can influence authenticity. However, Selena Gomez, who is of Mexican descent, did face heavy criticism for her accent in the film. Mexican actor Eugenio Derbez, despite liking the film overall, said on his podcast, "Selena is indefensible... every time she had a scene, we looked at each other to say, ‘Wow, what is this?... How weird that the director doesn’t speak English or Spanish and the movie is in Spanish and English, and it takes place in Mexico and you don’t understand the culture.’ It’s like if I made a film in Russian without knowing the culture or speaking Russian and talk in French.” Gomez responded on TikTok saying “I did the best I could with the time I was given.” This sparked outrage, with Gomez’s followers attacking Derbez causing the entire discourse to center on their supposed feud, forcing Derbez to apologize to Gomez - which distracted from the fact that Derbez’s critique was ultimately pointed at the Audiard, not Gomez. Yet again, the focus shifted to criticizing a woman instead of holding the male director—who held the real power for the decisions—accountable.

Because doesn’t it strike you as odd that a story about a Mexican trans woman was made by a 72-year-old cis white French man funded by French money in France? When you think “authentic representation of a Mexican trans experience,” your first stop isn’t Paris. In an interview, when asked if he even bothered studying Mexico before making the film, Audiard casually responded, “No, I didn’t study much. I kinda already knew what I had to understand.” Unsurprisingly, this cavalier attitude didn’t sit well with Mexican critics, and rightfully so.

Many criticized the decision to film the movie in a Paris suburb, with Audiard reportedly visiting Mexico only “three or four times,” feeling that he would have been too “limited” there. This choice, unsurprisingly, resulted in many Mexican critics, including cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto, to call out what they saw as stereotypical filmmaking style, costuming and overdone mustard yellow color schemes often used to represent Mexico. Adding to this, many Spanish speakers felt that the dialogue seemed like it was run through Google Translate rather than being crafted or refined by native speakers, leaving it feeling stilted and unnatural. Gascón also faced criticism, with some labeling her comments as arrogant and even racist after she claimed, “I think this movie is more Mexican than what many Mexicans make.” 

But it was the film’s spectacle-driven portrayal of the Mexican drug cartel that drew the most criticism. According to writer Ricardo Gallegos, 

“In 2024 alone, México has recorded 10,000 missing persons. The total number of missing persons in the last six years was 51,791. Our morgues have more than 72,100 unidentified bodies of murdered individuals between 2006 and 2023…  Residents of the state of Culiacán have been under siege for months due to the daily violence and shootings between cartels and the army that are taking place there. Narcos have significant power in our society; these occurrences are just a few examples of its consequences. This is our reality. Of course, Audiard doesn’t really care about the violence in México or the victims. Like many other foreign directors, he’s only interested in using it for shock and dramatic purposes. This is yet another irresponsible narconovela—this one shot by a French crew in France to depict their racist and narrow first-world vision of México… Audiard tries to make us empathize with a trans character so that we look away from his racism, but having queer representation doesn’t exclude the presence of racism in it… ”

Now, to be fair, I’m not Mexican, so I’m simply presenting the critiques raised by others. It’s also worth noting that several prominent Mexican filmmakers have praised the film. Issa López, for instance, remarked that Audiard handled the topic “better than any Mexican facing this issue at this time.” Even Guillermo del Toro—my horror anti-fascist directing daddy—complimented the film, saying, "It's so beautiful to see a movie that is cinema." Honestly, I find his praise really disappointing as a trans person. But maybe there’s something he saw in the film that resonated with his view of Mexico, and I can’t speak to that.

That said, for my money, given Audiard’s cavalier comments, his handling of trans representation, and the critiques raised by other Mexican creators, I find the arguments about the film’s racism compelling. And, just as with the film’s transphobia, Audiard has largely avoided direct criticism for this, while the weight of backlash falls on others. It’s also interesting to me that the film doesn’t release in Mexico until the week AFTER the Oscar nominations are announced. Mayhaps Netflix is trying to avoid even more vocal Mexican critique before they get their accolades? It’s just a theory… A FILM THEORY!!!

The rest of the film after the climactic, transphobic moment only serves to solidify its deeply flawed core. Jessi leaves Emilia, taking the children with her. Emilia’s response? She immediately seeks to control Jessi by cutting off her access to money, gleefully leaving her destitute while hurling sexist insults like “slut.” And, of course, all of this is underscored by Emilia using her deeper, pre-transition voice, dragging Rita into the middle of it all. Once again, the film emphasizes that Emilia is still controlling and manipulative, tying her behavior explicitly to masculine coding. 

But eventually, Jessi and Gustavo escalate things by kidnapping Emilia with a team of goons, cutting off her fingers to extort money through Rita. The irony the film wants us to take from this is painfully clear: Emilia is now the victim of the same cartel violence she once inflicted on others. Rita assembles a rescue team and attempts to pay off Jessi and Gustavo, but a firefight breaks out. During the chaos, Emilia reveals her true identity to Jessi in song, recounting intimate details of their life together to prove who she is. It’s supposed to be a romantic moment, one that demonstrates Emilia’s attention to the small, loving details Jessi thought Emilia had ignored as a man. But this moment lands hollow because the film never meaningfully reckons with the physical and emotional abuse Jessi endured at Emilia’s hands, both pre- and post-transition.. It’s a cheap attempt to wrap up Emilia’s character arc with a sentimental bow. 

Gustavo shoves Emilia into the trunk of a car and speeds off with Jessi. But guilt overtakes the emotional Jessi, which kinda comes off as just a depiction of a hyperemotional women, and she pulls a gun on Gustavo, demanding he stop so she can free Emilia. A struggle ensues, and—because this film just can’t help itself—the car veers off a cliff, killing all three of them.

This moment is clearly meant to feel profound, as if tying their deaths together wraps the film’s narrative in some poetic justice or tragic inevitability. But let’s call it what it really is: a blatant bury your gays trope. And what shocks me the most is that so few are even talking about it. This is Representation 101—the first and most glaring trope that anyone making queer and trans characters is taught to avoid - how its not to say LGBTQ people SHOULD never die in stories that we’ve had enough of LGBTQ character’s stories ending in tragedy and death. Yet here it is, being served up like it’s groundbreaking instead of tired.

Emilia doesn’t get to live. She doesn’t get a chance to truly confront her past, grow, or find redemption on her own terms. She just dies, erased in a fiery spectacle meant to evoke some faux depth. The film masquerades this as catharsis, but really, it’s a cheap cop-out that panders to cisgender audiences who expect queer tragedy to feel profoundy. I don’t know what else to say other than its lazy. And it’s proof that no matter how much this film pretends to tell a trans story, it was never interested in doing so with honesty, care, or respect.

The films entire laziness is especially frustrating because, in deft hands, this concept could have been a nuanced exploration of accountability. It could have shown how transformation—real transformation—requires work, introspection, and reckoning with the harm you’ve caused, rather than treating change as purely superficial. Because as The Cut writer Harron Walker put it “the film presents transition as inherently redemptive…. [Emilia] transitions from a cartel leader responsible for the deaths of untold thousands to the founder of a nonprofit that seeks to assist the families of victims of cartel violence. It seems to be just as Rita had theorized, that changing the body changes the soul and changing the soul changes society…. Gascón gives an incredible performance… but I loathed her character, largely because I sensed that the film wanted me to like her, to root for her transition from an evil rich man to an evil rich woman, to celebrate her solely for the fact of her transition.”

The film ends on a musical number where Emilia is bizarrely celebrated as a saint by the people of Mexico City, with Rita looking on reflectively—as if we’re supposed to view Emilia as some complex figure who redeemed herself in the end. But why? Emilia is a liar and manipulator from start to finish. Despite fleeting moments where the film portrays her as helping others, we’re repeatedly reminded that Emilia caused much of the very pain she claims to be healing—yet she never truly wrestles with that dichotomy. Instead, she exploits it for her own glorification, using her newfound veneration to soothe, rather than confront, her lingering guilt. When things don’t go her way, she resorts to violence and abuse to maintain control, just as she did before her transition—a behavior the film insidiously ties to the idea that “she’s still a man deep down.” None of this is redemptive.

The only reason the film seems to think Emilia has achieved redemption is that she transitioned and died—as if the ultimate narrative arc for a trans person is to transition and then vanish in some cathartic, cleansing fire. There’s no space for trans people to live, to grow, to find joy or happiness—or, in cases where we’ve caused harm, to better ourselves or take accountability. No, we must be erased, our lives reduced to spectacle, our redemption - because of course we need to redeem ourselves - granted only through our suffering. Our transitions are framed as selfish escapes, narcissistic attempts to flee our “wrong bodies” or violent natures that harm all those around us. And yet, it’s all fine, right? Because we’re beautiful phoenixes, born to burn for the entertainment of those who will never see us as anything more than ash.

To be clear, it’s not that I oppose morally flawed queer characters or ambiguous endings that leave room for interpretation.  I don’t need the movie to have a moral absolutist stance of Emilia as a character either. I love ambiguous endings and characters, especially when they’re used to provoke thought and raise meaningful questions about the story’s themes. Movies like Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker are some of my favorites, specifically because their ambiguous endings invite us to wrestle with big, complex ideas. But in Emilia Perez, the ambiguity doesn’t ask us to explore deeper concepts or engage with nuanced ideas. Instead, it seems to prod us to wonder whether Emilia’s was redeemed simply because she’s trans—or if she really was “just a man” seeking a superficial escape through transition.

This movie isn’t about presenting transgender lives authentically—it’s about reflecting cis people’s views of us as something to gawk at, never on our terms. Compare that to films like I Saw the TV Glow or The Matrix—works by trans creators. Both follow protagonists who feel deeply out of place in their worlds, a perspective rooted in trans experiences. Yet these films, while undeniably trans in their themes—and in I Saw the TV Glow’s case, nearly explicit—also resonate universally. They explore the shared pain of living in a society that forces roles upon us we can’t fully embody, offering connection and critique rather than reducing trans lives to spectacle. And I Saw the TV Glow, released this year, is one of the most visually stunning and ambitious films I’ve seen in years—a bold, uncompromising piece of art that just happens to be about trans people. Yet, I doubt you’ll see it anywhere near the Oscars.

I want to be clear: I don’t believe trans stories can only be told by transgender creators, nor do trans characters always need to be central to illuminate universal societal pressures. A strong example from the SAME year as Emila Perez of this is Squid Game: Season 2, created by cisgender director Hwang Dong-hyuk, which features Cho Hyn-joo, a trans woman competing in the Squid Games. Without falling into exploitative spectacle, Hyn-joo’s story connects her unique struggles to broader systemic issues, like capitalism’s crushing weight. Her pursuit of gender-affirming care isn’t spectaclized but instead shown to result in her financial precarity that mirrors the debt and desperation shared by other cis players, fostering solidarity and connection with the audience watching the film rather than otherizing her.

Even more striking is how Squid Game avoids transphobic pitfalls. Scenes that could have turned into tired tropes, like Hyn-joo being invited into the women’s bathroom that could have turned into a spectacle of her facing prejudice or her reacting to a friend’s death that could have shown her reacting in “male” anger, instead treat her with humanity and nuance. The show also explores her military background—a nod to the hypermasculine roles many trans women occupy before coming out—without judgment, using it to enrich her character. And in one of the most moving moments that honestly made me cry, an older cis woman who initially doubted Hyn-joo’s identity stops Hyn-joo from dying in a blaze of glory, urging her to value her life. It’s a rare rejection of the “bury your gays” trope, choosing instead to celebrate her humanity. 

While Squid Game isn’t perfect—the casting of a cis man as Hyn-joo instead of a cis woman after Dong-hyuk couldn’t safely cast a trans woman in Korea still showcases a bias towards seeing us as men deep down, and her character is still largely defined by the show NOT doing transphobic tropes instead of letting her be a full person beyond her trans identity—to me, it remains a net positive. I actually have a short companion video to this one up on my Patreon and Nebula that goes into the positives of Squid Game’s trans character if you want to send me some support. But overall, Squid Gams thoughtfully connects her struggles to the broader narrative, unlike Emilia Perez, which casts a trans woman as a trans woman but gets nearly everything else wrong. Hwang Dong-hyuk’s effort to approach Hyn-joo with care, nuance and subtlety stands in stark contrast to Audiard’s Emilia Perez, which indulges in spectacle and reflects all the cisgender biases of its creator, who couldn’t even be bothered to try to understand us.

Even other cis directors in the mix this movie awards season have manage to do better. Sean Baker, whose film Anora is also a major awards contender this year, is a cis creator who consistently crafts deeply empathetic narratives about marginalized characters—be they trans people, people of color, sex workers, women, or any combination thereof. His 2014 film Tangerine offers a deeply humanizing portrayal of Black trans sex workers that, while not entirely avoiding the stereotype of trans women as sex workers, imbues them with vitality and complexity. Anora achieves something similar with its titular sex worker character, which I highly recommend Broey Deschanel’s video for more insight into. While cis creators will almost certainly never be able to tell a trans story from a trans perspective—nor should they, at least not without heavy trans involvement, especially given the climate today around trans people—they can still craft narratives that empathize with us and include us rather than exploit or otherize us. Baker and Dong-hyuk’s work proves it’s possible. Auicard, on the other hand, simply didn’t care enough to even try because he just wanted to exploit us for his next awards-bait movie.

But as we wrap out… I want to ask why I’ve been so critical of Emilia Perez. I’ve spent so much time talking about this movie, and I know some of you might think it’s a waste. Sure, it’s a bad movie—one that will rake in Oscar praise and awards, further fueling the economy of cisgender creators exploiting trans stories for their own gain. But at the end of the day, it’s just one movie. The real issue, and the reason I spent so much time on this film, isn’t Emilia Perez itself; it’s the underlying ethos that it reflects.

This film embodies the dominant cultural narrative about trans people—one shaped by cisgender biases, pathologization, and control. While I believe art can influence change, especially works that actively attack the status quo like The People’s Joker, works like Star Trek that envision hopeful futures beyond the status quo or even films like I Saw the TV Glow which simply try to push us to realize that we CAN envision and fight for new realities for our bodies and society - it’s equally important to examine films like Emilia Perez that receive mainstream attention. The reason Emilia Perez is raking in awards over something like I Saw The TV Glow—and no, it’s not just because it’s horror-adjacent (this is the same industry that nominated similar art house style works like Get Out)—is because it doesn’t challenge dominant societal views about trans people; it comfortably reinforces them. Its the thing Hollywood has down countless times before with best picture winners Green Book and Crash - films meant to sell shallow, easily consumable narratives about minorities to the dominate culture. Emilia Perez is a soft, pandering, and utterly unchallenging view of trans people, designed to cater to cis expectations—a tidy little narrative they can consume without ever questioning themselves as they pat themselves on the back for being so enlightened and progressive. And hey, might as well throw in some flashy musical numbers so it becomes a fun dazzling spectacle, right?

But as we stand on the brink of a deeply fascistic era—not just in the United States, where this film is being lauded, but across the world—it’s crucial to recognize that the problem we face isn’t just the far-right’s explicit anti-trans rhetoric. It’s also the neoliberals who position themselves as opposition to anti-trans fascists but in truth fundamentally hold the same biases. That’s why we’ve seen Democrats concede on trans rights long before Trump entered office, why corporations like Disney are quick to erase trans content, and why Meta eagerly gets down on its knees to kiss Trump’s ring by allowing transphobia to thrive on their platform. They don’t see us as our true selves—they see us as political or profitable tokens, nominally included to secure our support or exploit our money while maintaining control over us. Their “support” isn’t about affirming our humanity—it’s about controlling it. When we’re inconvenient to their comfortability or power, we’re tossed aside. They’re ineffective against the right’s anti-trans narratives because, deep down, they agree with the core ideas. Films like Emilia Perez only bolster this economy, reflecting a liberal framework that patronizes trans people, perpetuates narratives that control us, and leaves us vulnerable to the very fascism they claim to oppose. And we’re expected to shut up and be grateful—grateful that they bothered to include us at all, be it when they shower a movie built on their own biases and condescension with praise or when they apologize to us that Biden JUST HAD to sign that military spending bill that cut off trans health care for service members familes because the Department of Defense REALLY needed more money for bombs to send to Israel to kill Gazans, as if their tokenizing acknowledgment and scraps are some grand act of generosity. And if we dare speak up, we’re dismissed as dangerous, far-left radicals who don’t fit their mold of the “right” kind of trans person—making it clear that we’re only accepted as long as we stay in line and play by their rules.

This is why I wanted to talk about Emilia Perez. Not because it’s uniquely a problem, but because it perfectly illustrates how the same transphobic ideas that fuel open hatred are embedded in those who call themselves allies. Even as we trans people face an actual genocide—these so-called allies cling to comfort over solidarity, optics over substance, and civility over liberation. Their lukewarm understanding, their shallow gestures of inclusion, are not just infuriating—they’re dangerous. A desire to hold onto power and “order” while failing to fight for the lives of the minorities they claim to care about leaves us exposed, controlled, and ultimately abandoned. 

This isn’t representation—it’s appropriation. It’s cisgender audiences gawking at transness as a spectacle, never engaging with the interiority, grace, or defiance that defines so many actual trans lives. And while Emilia Perez cleans up at award shows, trans creators telling authentic, complex stories—like the hauntingly surreal I Saw the TV Glow, the anarchistic brilliance of The People’s Joker, or even a small, heartfelt sci-fi indie available now on Nebula—are shoved aside, ignored for being too raw, too real, too daring to challenge the status quo. 

These are stories born from our pain, our resilience, and our joy—stories that carry the weight of survival and the hope of transformation. And we NEED THEM now more than ever. In a world where we are facing a literal transgender genocide, these stories have the power to make people see us, to understand our humanity and, in doing so, confront their own. Cinema can be a bridge—a reflection of shared struggles, a spark of empathy that transcends difference. It can make audiences question what they think they know, helping them recognize their own humanity through ours.

But instead, these stories are cast aside, ignored, or buried, because they don’t fit the neat, palatable narratives that comfort cisgender audiences rather than challenge them. Stories like Emilia Perez aren’t for us, nor do they respect us. They are cisgender fantasies, devoid of accountability, nuance, or genuine care—empty spectacles rewarded for upholding the very systems of power that oppress us. Hollywood’s, and by extension liberals, love affair with their own self-congratulation might win Emilia Perez a trophy or two, but it won’t stop the harm it reflects. While they pat themselves on the back for being so “progressive,” the same ideas this film upholds are fueling the violence and legislation killing trans people right now. That’s not progress. That’s complicity. And it’s a narrative no one should be applauding.

CITATIONS

• https://www.indiewire.com/features/interviews/emilia-perez-jacques-audiard-interview-1235044539/

• https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/movies/newsletter/2024-09-09/emilia-perez-netflix-jacques-audiard-better-man-robbie-williams-william-tell-claes-bang-the-envelope-glenns-edition

• https://www.dancemagazine.com/emilia-perez-damien-jalet/#gsc.tab=0 

• https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/story/karla-sofia-gascon-emilia-perez-awards-insider 

• https://www.thecut.com/article/emilia-perez-netflix-movie-review.html

• https://people.com/emilia-perez-based-on-all-about-the-musical-inspiration-8744033 

• https://www.out.com/film/emilia-perez-great-trans-representation-op-ed#rebelltitem3 

• https://medium.com/@LizBeth1400/the-uk-says-its-rape-if-you-dont-say-you-re-trans-c36a963e841a 

• https://www.vox.com/culture/390998/emilia-perez-selena-gomez-oscars-green-book-crash-transgender-musical 

• https://www.rollingstone.com/tv-movies/tv-movie-news/emilia-perez-movie-controversy-jacques-audiard-1235227073/ 

• https://butwhytho.net/2024/11/emilia-perez-review-netflix/

• https://chicago.suntimes.com/la-voz/2024/12/13/la-pelicula-emilia-perez-no-representa-a-mexico-y-su-identidad

• TILLYS TRANS TUESDAY - BAD REPRESENTATION 2: EMILIA PEREZ - link when it releases