2025 Oscar Nominees (pt. II)

Nickel Boys

Emilia Pérez

Hola dear readers, we have arrived at the end of the pre-Oscars hype, and our long awards season nightmare is almost over. Though I love to complain, this year’s cinematic accolade race has been excitingly-unpredictable. Last year, we knew Oppenheimer was going to win every single Oscar it was nominated for, because it won every single other award as well. There was nothing unpredictable about last season beyond Jo Koy bombing as a Golden Globes host, which, now feels pretty unsurprising looking back. This year, the winners and nominees have been truly all over the place, and each awards ceremony leading up to the Big Night has proven that regardless of category or genre, it’s kinda anybody’s game. I love when the awards predictors and film pundits are thrown for a loop, because I don’t think any of this should be pre-determined or dependent upon history. It’s just more fun when we don’t know how the little gold statues will fall! Timothée even won the SAG Award the other night—a historic and pleasantly-surprising victory—even though the already-Oscar-winning Adrien Brody who used performance-enhancing-AI is still likely to win Best Actor. A few weeks ago, A Complete Unknown was cast aside as another forgettable music biopic, but now it’s actually getting attention. Best Actress has mostly been awarded to Demi Moore—my first choice as well—but Mikey Madison and Fernanda Torres have been trailing close behind. Best Supporting Actor has pretty much unanimously been reserved for Kieran Culkin for A Real Pain, which is fine even though his character is certainly a lead and not a supporting role. The same could be said for Zoë Saldaña, the main character in Emilia Pérez who, for some reason, is constantly winning for Best Supporting Actress—but more on this travesty in a moment. Best Director has been almost equally shared by all nominees, with Brady Corbet, Sean Baker, Jon M. Chu, and Coralie Fargeat taking home this prize at different ceremonies, respectively. And when it comes to Best Picture, well, it’s even more scattered. Wicked, Nickel Boys, I’m Still Here, and Dune: Part Two are the only Best Picture nominees to not receive any Best Picture wins thus far, but since they’ve been awarded in other categories they do still have a chance. But it’s most likely to go to one of the other nominees, which couldn’t be more different or random if they tried. My greatest wish (that I know will never be granted) is for the wild and wacky film The Substance to win Best Picture, but hey, two years ago the wild and wacky film Everything Everywhere All At Once won, so I suppose anything’s possible. The little cunty Pope drama Conclave is my more reasonable pick for Best Picture, and since it just won a BAFTA and a SAG award, its odds are better than I would’ve thought. I’m Still Here is also deserving, but I’d love for it to win Best International Feature, if nothing else. Anora also has a strong chance of winning, which, to me, is more bizarre than people enjoying The Substance, but we do love a messy mafia farce (where “fuck” is said 479 times) here in the states. Just as Timothée makes A Complete Unknown enjoyable, Cynthia Erivo (and the unnominated Bowen Yang) is the magical force behind the movie Wicked, which I believe is the least likely to win. The first Dune film was all the rage with nerds and industry-types alike, but Dune: Part Two seems to have been forgotten altogether. And as far as The Brutalist goes, I’ve already forgotten most of that, as well. This just leaves us with tonight’s two films, which will conclude my Oscars coverage, and not a moment too soon.

Up first is a film that is being praised for its stunning, downright groundbreaking camerawork, and yet it somehow hasn’t been nominated for Best Cinematography or Best Director… and this is RaMell Ross’ Nickel Boys. Based on Colson Whitehead’s novel of the same name, Nickel Boys transports us to Jim Crow-era Tallahassee, Florida, where we meet a young, Black boy named Elwood Curtis. Except, we are not introduced to Elwood in the typical way in which narrative stories make their characters known: we, as an audience, see the world through Elwood’s eyes. Almost exclusively throughout this film, the camera remains in a first-person perspective, where we see everything that this young, innocent boy has to see and endure. I’ve seen films and video games where the first-person POV is utilized, but never to this extent, and never this creatively. Elwood (Ethan Herisse) is a young boy being raised by his grandma, and we see and learn about the world through him—through the lens of childhood, young adulthood, and adulthood. We see a calm late afternoon in the grass, cigarettes being ashed at a lively poker game, Elwood’s nana Hattie (Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor) decorating the Christmas tree and playfully dropping tinsel on Elwood’s face, a bright blue sky above his friends as they climb a jungle gym on the playground. All around, on TV sets and the radio and through nana Hattie’s friends, we hear rumblings of the growing Civil Rights Movement—the booming voice of MLK Jr. offering a beacon of hope in this stuffy, white society. Elwood is pretty much protected from prejudice until he reaches young adulthood, where he is gawked at and in one instance, poked forcefully by an old man’s cane. The silent but profound look of disdain this old white man gives Elwood, and by the magic of this film, us, is nothing short of chilling. Elwood minds his business, he’s a good student, and a voracious reader, but his mostly-peaceful existence is disturbed one day when he’s hitchhiking and gets into the wrong car. Not long after Elwood enters this turquoise impala, he learns that it is stolen, and the cops pull them over. Suddenly, Elwood is treated as an accomplice and thrust into the world of juvenile delinquency, as he is forced to be enrolled into a boys reform school called Nickel Academy. As with everything else in 1960s America, this school is segregated, and Elwood hardly fits in among this group of troubled youth. “Oh sweet, we get to play football” Elwood remarks as he witnesses a bunch of white boys playing outside, to which a peer swiftly corrects him, “Nope, they do.” It is an oppressive, dangerous, isolating prison that Elwood finds himself in, but we see lovely glimpses—dreams, memories, even nightmares that offer us an entrancing break from the constant abuse and racism. The best break Elwood catches, though, is through finally making a friend at Nickel Academy, another sensitive dude named Turner (Brandon Wilson.) The rest of Nickel Boys takes us through the trials, tribulations, hijinks, and revelations that occur during this horrifying chapter in these kid’s lives, and though it is often brutal and emotional, it feels less lonely to be in Elwood’s POV when his friend is there. We’re also steadily shown visions of the future, where Elwood is free from this hellscape and has a successful business and various love interests. He also seems to be doing some digging into the now-defunct Nickel Academy, to uncover evidence of the truth that Elwood already knew—this place was abusing and killing innocent Black boys and burying them before anyone could bat an eye. The fictional Nickel Academy is based on the real-life Dozier Academy that operated in Florida for 111 years until numerous unmarked graves were found on campus, which is unsurprising given this country’s historic hatred for people of color. It is nevertheless horrific to witness this in a semi-fictionalized format, entirely from the perspective of someone who survived this establishment by the skin of their teeth. And the fact that RaMell Ross, nor any of this cast, is not nominated for an Oscar is the most blatant snub I’ve seen since May December. Not since Boyhood have I seen such a complex and all-encompassing story told so effortlessly, with such patience and and detail and miraculous universality. Nickel Boys is a movie marvel, an emotional rollercoaster, and one of the trippiest cinematic experiences I’ve had in awhile. And even when moments of this film dragged, it felt more natural and earned than any of the long, drawn-out scenes in tonight’s next film—a film that has more controversies within and outside of the actual film itself than I can count, Jacques Audiard’s Netflix film Emilia Pérez.

How do you solve a problem like Emilia Pérez? How can we be shocked that a film about a transgender Mexican cartel boss that was made by a cis white French man who admittedly did zero research is bad? How could an over-two-hour-long multi-cultural, multi-issue musical have zero memorable songs? And as the marks against this film seemingly grow by the day, how could it still be nominated for 13 Academy Awards? Before we get into that, let’s see if I can coherently summarize this somewhat incoherent plot. And before I get too into it, just know that I do not mean to offend anyone with this post: I am simply recalling the events and details of this film, some of which are very offensive, and for that I am preemptively sorry for what you’re about to read. After eleven different production company logos are shown, Emilia Pérez introduces us to struggling (and very butch-presenting) defense attorney Rita Mora Castro (Zoë Saldaña), who wrestles with her conscience as she defends a known murderer in the form of a “song.” I say “song” and not song, because as with all of the “songs” in Emilia Pérez, the words are not sung, but rhythmically chanted and/or gutturally whispered. I’m not sure what’s worse: a film like the 2024 Mean Girls that refused to reveal itself as a musical in all of its trailers, or a film like this one, which claims to be a musical, but never earns that title. As Rita sings about her worries, her backup dancers are maids, street vendors, blue-collar workers in Mexico—which, would at first seem like an ode to these oft-ignored professions, but as the film goes on it becomes clear that Jacques Audiard doesn’t know of any other careers that Mexican people can have. The choreography involves cupping ones owns breasts while chanting words like “love” and “death” and “violence”, a random woman asks Rita for a tampon, and this famously-skinny actress claims to have a fat ass, all within the first five minutes. You’d think that this film would remain this consistently-chaotic, but alas, it loses more and more steam the further into this story we dive. Rita receives an unknown call, with a mysterious job offer that could change her life. She doesn’t really react to this prospect, until she is kidnapped and taken to the lair of notorious drug kingpin, Manitas, and he requests that she make him into a woman. While Rita is not a surgeon, we’re meant to believe this down-on-her-luck lawyer has connections that this international crime boss does not, and that she will be able to find the right doctor and location for Manitas. Before we can process this proposed scheme, Rita is flying to Bangkok to research a plastic surgery clinic on behalf of the boss, and it is here that the iconic Penis-to-Vagina song occurs. If you’re somehow unaware, this is the one, singular song from this “musical” to have struck a nerve with any viewer, because it went viral on Tiktok and what’s left of Twitter on account of how ridiculous it is. Were Emilia Pérez more camp or even just a smidge self-aware, a moment like this would be simply iconic, but because Emilia Pérez is entirely earnest and stubborn in its misguidedness, it has become iconic for all of the wrong reasons. I, personally, was off-book with the lyrics of this song before I even watched the film, because the internet has had more fun with it than the film itself is capable of. But I must admit that this is the best part of the whole movie, and it is the only number to feel even slightly close to a thrilling, show-stopping musical number—but it ends in a flash, shockingly early on. And the rest is just a blur. Rita is fully embroiled in this kingpin’s life, she meets his wife Jessi (Selena Gomez) and their children, and successfully finds the right surgeon for the job—an Israeli doctor who is only slightly characterized by his greedy, cowardly Jewishness (but we have plenty more stereotypes to get through before this film is over.) All the while, Manitas is coming to grips with all of the sacrifices that must be made: finding a new home for the wife and kids, faking Manitas’ death, creating an entirely new persona for herself, and she “sings” the dumbest lyrics, like “I don’t lack sky but I do lack singing”—lyrics that, you can tell, Jacques Audiard felt soooo proud of himself as he scribbled them down. Suddenly, four years go by, Rita is now living happily in London, and she has finally figured her eyebrows out. Everything seems to have gone well for her, but then she bumps into the titular Emilia Pérez (Karla Sofía Gascón), and Rita wonders if she’s been tracked down to be killed, since she is the only one who knows the truth. But Emilia has a different idea for Rita: she requests that Rita find her wife and kids, bring them back to Mexico, and have them come live with their dead father’s “cousin” Emilia. This obviously proves to be complicated and risky, especially as Jessi reunites with her former lover Gustavo (Édgar Ramírez), who is clearly going to be the new bad guy now that Emilia is reformed and has opened a charity for the families of Manitas’ victims. Jessi quite romantically and elegantly tells Gustavo that, “My pussy still hurts when I think of you”, and not much later on, one of Emilia’s children seems to recognize her and says, “You smell like papa… like mezcal and guacamole.” Never mind how this small child knows the name of this tequila, but why would this line ever be written at all, unless to be flagrantly ignorant and racist? My jaw dropped when this happened—not when Emilia begins to date the former wife of one of her victims, not when Selena Gomez tries her best to sing in Spanish in this god-awful bleach-blonde hair, not when the bad guy is revealed to be exactly whom I thought it would be, not when this film descends into a nightmarish scheme to harm this trans woman. None of that was shocking to me, but the clear-cut, no-bones-about-it racism, that was shocking. Emilia Pérez is not uplifting enough to be empowering and not edgy enough to be deep and nuanced. It desperately wants to be a queer, femme-centric, multi-cultural tapestry of identity and power and legacy, but it comes by these tropes in the tackiest, lowest-effort way possible. When it comes to French cinema, I always prefer their take on horror, because at least they’re not pretending to be anything other than grotesque in that genre. In the case of this accidental French horror show, everything felt flimsy and half-assed. I hate the way it’s edited, I hate the harsh way it is lit, I hate the way it’s written, I hate the way that the uber-privileged industry crowd who adore this movie think that this is somehow a positive depiction of femininity, trans identity, or Mexico. This movie is long and boring and offensive and memorable for all the wrong reasons. It has the subtlety of a wrecking ball and the writing of a misinformed middle school student-directed play. I will say, I’ve never heard music like this before: noises that are composed in such a way that they are incapable of being catchy—the one exception being La Vaginoplastia (by accident.) This movie just thinks very highly of itself and its faux-profundity, and I could forgive a lot of this if it took itself a little less seriously. Because the classification of “drama” and the song lyrics “from penis to vaginaaaa” going together here is utterly absurd. This being nominated for anything at all is absurd. Is it an over-correction in response to Trump winning? Is all representation good, even if it’s this shallow and overwrought? Either way, this American Dad clip is at least a more entertaining version of a tone deaf, stereotype-addicted, desperate-to-say-something piece of work. And by now you must know that the discomfort surrounding this poorly-written narrative has stretched beyond the screen, as several controversies have been revealed since its release. Even though Zoë and Selena are actually singing, Karla Sofía Gascón had her singing voice enhanced by Respeecher: the same AI tech used to alter the accents in The Brutalist. Additionally, in a film set in Mexico and revolving entirely around Mexican people, there is only one, single Mexican actor in the entire ensemble cast—Adriana Paz—and she has the smallest part of all. Critics have also noted that Manitas is darker-skinned than Emilia is, post-op, adding another layer of harm to this portrayal. But perhaps most appalling of all, were Karla Sofía Gascón’s past tweets that were just discovered. As recently as 2022, Gascón tweeted offensive remarks about COVID, George Floyd, Muslims, Black people, Asian people, and of the very Academy who nominated her for Best Actress, she said, “More and more the #Oscars are looking like a ceremony for independent and protest films, I didn’t know if I was watching an Afro-Korean festival, a Black Lives Matter demonstration or the 8M… an ugly, ugly gala.” (Some Spanish speakers claim that her tweets are even more offensive than any translation can decipher.) This woman had plenty of time to delete these tweets, but instead she just offered a couple of half-assed apologies, a bit of doubling down, and an interview with CNN that Netflix did not sign off on. Netflix claimed they were going to take away Gascón's awards travel and fashion funding (but they’ve already gone back on this.) They also released a new poster, bringing the main focus onto the film's numerous wins and nomination tallies, with the Emilia missing from the poster. While she’s been absent from every award show since these tweets surfaced, Gascón says she plans to attend the Oscars on Sunday, which means that we’re in for a night of chaos whether or not Will Smith is present. It is beyond disappointing, that the first ever out trans actress to be nominated for Best Actress also happens to be the Caitlyn Jenner of Spain, but out of this immensely offensive film have come some wonderfully-scathing criticisms—most notably, from Mexico. Following its theatrical release in Mexico, the discontent with this film was so bad that a government institution had to step in and work with the country's most popular cinema chain to handle the sheer amount of people asking for a refund after watching it. Perhaps most satisfying of all, is the reaction that came from Mexican trans director Camila Aurora González, who made the short film Johanne Sacreblu in response to Emilia Pérez. Entirely shot in Mexico with no French person in the cast or crew, the film is a musical set in France showing several stereotypes of France and French people, complete with rats and pretentiousness. It received over a million views in two days—more than Emilia Pérez received at the box office in its first week in theaters. If Emilia Pérez wins Best Picture, it’s not just an insult to the genuinely decent films it’s nominated alongside with, but an insult to every marginalized group and individual whom this movie superficially attempts to represent. And to the members of the Academy voting for this film, thinking its paltry performance of activism and awareness will save your souls, I can promise you: it will not. Well that’s enough shit-talkin’ for one awards season but it felt cathartic to get all of that out. Let’s circle back next week, when all of this Hollywood hullabaloo is over and I can get back to watching the freaky kinda films that the Academy never recognizes. Until then, may the best AI-enhanced, controversy-laden film win!