Emilia Pérez and the Misrepresentation of Forced Disappearances in Mexico
I cannot recall an Oscars awards season more controversial than this. While every year some films ignite debate over their merits, I don’t remember any sparking as much discussion as the French film Emilia Pérez. Making history as the most-nominated non-English-language film at the Academy Awards, with 13 nominations (including Best Motion Picture of the Year and Best International Feature Film) the film has also generated heated critique.
From Selena Gomez’s questionable Spanish to the exoticization of violence in Mexico and the misrepresentation of transgender people, the discourse quickly transcended film criticism and entered mainstream conversations on social media. One of the major controversies surrounding Emilia Pérez is director Jacques Audiard’s apparent refusal to research Mexico, claiming he already knew all he needed; an attitude that inevitably led to the film’s reliance on stereotypes. This lack of engagement with the country’s realities only deepened concerns about its portrayal of violence and forced disappearances.
With each nomination, award and controversy, the film remains in the spotlight. This publicity has led more people to watch it, discuss it and share memes that risk turning the film into an internet joke. While the memes are entertaining, they risk reducing the conversation to satire and distracting attention from the film’s careless approach to sensitive issues. That’s why it is crucial to discuss Emilia Pérez with conviction: to go beyond viral jokes and critically examine the film’s more troubling aspects.
I do not intend to engage with the film’s artistic merits, performances or even the casting choices, all of which have been subjected to online public scrutiny. Instead, my focus is on a plotline that takes over the film’s second half —one that left me with an unsettling feeling that there is something deeply concerning in the script: the representation of forced disappearances in Mexico.
Emilia Pérez tells the story of Rita (Zoe Saldaña), an attorney disenchanted by her profession and the abuses of power within the Mexican justice system —abuses she has enabled through her work by defending corrupt people. She is hired by a cartel kingpin, Juan “Manitas” del Monte (Karla Sofía Gascón), a trans character who wishes to leave the world of narcotrafficking behind to live an authentic life. After a few musical numbers (some of which have gone viral because of their absurd representation of gender-affirming surgeries), Manitas becomes Emilia Pérez (also played by Gascón), a wealthy white woman whose businesses remain vague but are seemingly detached from the cartel she used to own. The film follows Emilia as she, with Rita’s help, navigates her new life as a woman, which seems to instantly make her a better person.
Among the various plotlines, Emilia encounters a mother who is desperately searching for her disappeared son. Moved by her story, Emilia uses her former cartel connections to discover what happened to him. Inspired by this case, Emilia founded a nonprofit organization, La Lucecita, dedicated to locating the bodies of those who were disappeared by drug cartels, so their families can mourn. As with many themes introduced within the film’s 132-minute runtime, the subject is handled superficially, without acknowledging its weight for Mexican society. La Lucecita ultimately functions as a narrative device to redeem Emilia, despite her own complicity in the disappearances.
The term “forced disappearance” refers to the arrest, detention or abduction of people by state agents or groups acting with their support, followed by a refusal to acknowledge their fate or whereabouts, placing them outside the protection of the law. Latin America has a long history of forced disappearances, particularly in countries like Chile and Argentina, where they were used as tools of repression under dictatorships. In Mexico, many of these disappearances are linked to organized crime, often with the involvement, support, or acquiescence of state actors. According to the National Registry of Missing Persons in Mexico, there are more than 120,000 disappeared people who have not been localized (an official figure that is likely an undercount, as many families delay reporting cases due to security concerns, and state-level databases are unreliable).
These human rights violations affect not only the families and loved ones of the disappeared but also inflict a deep wound in Mexican society. Beyond the inherent violence of forced disappearances, violence is reinforced through the perception of bodies as disposable, the persistent anxiety of not knowing what happened or where they are, and the state’s failure to provide meaningful support in the search for the missing. The streets in many Mexican cities are covered with flyers with the faces of the disappeared, representing a daily reminder of this ongoing violence but also aiming to keep their memory alive.
Real-life activist groups working with the families of the disappeared in Mexico, such as VIDA and Colectivo 10 de Marzo AC, have spoken out against the film and the insensitive representation it has made of the disappeared. Moreover, Emilia Pérez portrays the search for the disappeared as dependent on the goodwill of a former cartel leader rather than driven by the determined and relentless efforts of families who have organized and fought for justice, as seen with groups like Movimiento por Nuestros Desaparecidos en México. This erasure of agency is exaggerated in a scene where the grieving mother who inspired the organization kisses Emilia’s hand in gratitude for finding her son’s body. While the character is unaware that she is thanking the person responsible for her tragedy, the audience is. As a result, the scene reinforces a troubling narrative in which the perpetrator is also the savior, and the victim remains disempowered.
In an attempt to redeem its main character, Emilia Pérez frames her transformation as a journey from criminal to saint. Her work with La Lucecita is used to rehabilitate her image without engaging in meaningful discussions about her past acts of violence, and without showing genuine remorse. Moreover, the nonprofit is funded by Pérez’s own money (wealth accumulated through the crimes that led to the disappearances in the first place), as well as donations from corrupt and dangerous figures. In one scene, characters participate in a procession honoring Emilia. They carry posters with her portrayed as a Virgin, while singing a hymn of praise to her: “To the one who performed the miracle of turning pain into gold / Re-enchanting this world,” thus exalting her as a saint. While it remains unclear whether those in the procession are aware of her past (one would hope not), the audience is fully aware of her crimes and the violence she perpetrated. Mexicans have particularly critiqued this scene because it appropriates a traditional ritual of the country, repurposing Catholic symbolism that holds deep significance in their culture to exalt a criminal.
The film further insists that, despite Manitas’ history as a criminal who tortured people, he was a good and loving father.[1] Likewise, although Manitas’ cartel was responsible for disappearances, he is portrayed as having a good heart. This is an assertion reinforced by actress Karla Sofia Gascón, who has commented in interviews that she imagined Manitas as a good man merely pretending to be tough to survive in the narco world. This is a difficult claim to accept as his violent behavior toward Rita, controlling her life and forcing her to work for him, contradicts this portrayal. Moreover, in one scene, his wife states that if she had ever run away with her lover, Manitas would have cut them into pieces and thrown them to the dogs.
Some have taken issue with the film’s musical format, with complaints that range from the poor quality of the songs (and their interpretations) to the belief that subjects such as feminicide, gender transition, narcotrafficking and disappearances are too serious for songs and dances. But the problem is not using the music to address difficult topics —many musicals have done this effectively — the problem is Emilia Pérez’s superficial treatment of every subject it introduces. A song can address forced disappearances and violence with depth and respect (for instance, Vivir Quintana’s Canción sin Miedo mourns the murder and disappearance of women in Mexico).
There is a whole musical number in which the loved ones of the disappeared sing in unison a lyric that supposedly aims to represent their pain but is a romanticization of the tragedy. The lyrics focus on regret, the desire to close a chapter and the transformation of their lives (“To know where, when, who and how it happened/ To tell those he loved the ending/ So that all his friends can mourn him/ To know where the wrongdoers hid her”). The song seeks to move the audience in the same way Emilia’s story did. While this could have been an opportunity to meaningfully engage with the memory of the disappeared and provide a deeper exploration of the crimes behind their absences, it falls short. Instead, the scene reinforces the troubling notion that those responsible for the disappearances can also be the ones to facilitate healing (“To hold my own gaze in the mirror/To raise my children today with clean money/So that there is a life before and another after”), further contributing to the sanctification of Emilia’s image.
Moreover, the song introduces topics related to race (“To talk about the color of their face/ Here I am”), making the problematic assumption that the color of one’s skin could be directly linked to the likelihood of being disappeared. Racism is indeed a concern in Mexico, and an issue recently highlighted by anti-colorism movements such as Poder Prieto, which challenge the national myth of a homogeneous Mexican identity rooted in Spanish and Indigenous ancestry, instead exposing the daily discriminations based on skin color. But disappearances are a much broader issue that extends beyond colorism.
A particularly tone-deaf scene involves a woman who comes to Emilia upon hearing that her missing husband has been found. Afraid he might still be alive, the woman carries a knife to kill him, feeling relief with the news that La Lucecita found his body and he is actually dead. While the scene deals with the subject of gender violence, it leaves the troubling impression that “it is good that the cartel killed this man,” casting victims in a negative light and subtly suggesting that those disappeared by narcos might not be innocent. The discomfort deepens as the woman and Emilia exchange smiles and laughter—she reveals her knife, and Emilia, in turn, shows her gun. Using comic relief in a moment meant to depict a national tragedy trivializes the real suffering of countless families. As such, this misstep underscores the film’s failure to sensitively portray the reality of forced disappearances.
Jacques Audiard, the film’s director, recently made a nominal apology to Mexico following the incendiary critiques the movie received in the country. In an interview with CNN en Español, he stated: “If there are things that seem scandalous to Mexicans in Emilia, I apologize.” But rather than truly acknowledging the concerns of Mexican and Latin American audiences, his response sidesteps the real issue: his failure to recognize the responsibility that filmmakers bear in shaping narratives and representing the communities they depict.
Emilia Pérez attempts to do many things at once —blending musical elements, multiple genres and narratives about narcotrafficking, trans identities, forced disappearances and gender violence— but ultimately fails to do justice to any of them. This raises the question: was the film truly meant to tell a meaningful story, or was it merely designed to capture attention by relying on stereotypical and sensationalized storylines that are known to generate views? Is the real goal of the movie to show that someone can change their life and redeem themselves from past mistakes? If that was the aim, it falls short by never fully addressing the weight of those past acts while repeating stereotypes that inflict more damage.
Mexico has suffered years of cartel violence and mourns tens of thousands of disappeared people. In the pain of waking up one day to find your loved ones disappeared, there is a universal story of grief, loss, injustice and uncertainty. Those whose relatives have been disappeared have suffered an indescribable loss. They deserve control over whether their stories are told, how their stories are told, why their stories are told and who gets to tell them. And when a foreign director who openly admits to doing no research tells their story in a way that minimizes their pain, this should not be celebrated by the Academy Awards.
The Emilia Pérez case speaks volumes about the ethics of storytelling in American and Western media. In the same interview with CNN Español, when asked about prioritizing creative freedom over cultural fidelity in projects that address sensitive topics, Audriad remarked: “If I have to choose between the truth and the legend, I prefer to write the legend.” This perspective, rooted in a spectacle-driven approach to entertainment, aligns with the industry’s tendency to prioritize marketability over authenticity. In a press conference, he even admitted to casting high-profile names like Selena Gomez and Zoe Saldaña over Mexican actresses for their marketing appeal.
This approach is particularly striking in contrast to another nominee in this year’s Oscars, the Brazilian film I’m Still Here, which also explores the subject of disappearances (this time related to political disappearances during Brazil’s dictatorship). Unlike Emilia Pérez, it has been widely acclaimed for its sensitive and thoughtful approach to the topic, which uses a real-life story to explore the psychological suffering of the families of the disappeared detainees. While both are nominated for Best Motion Picture of the Year and Best International Feature Film, Emilia Pérez (at least before the controversy over Karla Sofía Gascón’s old racist tweets) was leading the race for the International Feature award.
People have speculated on social media that the favoritism toward Audiard’s film is tied to the kind of political statement these awards often seek to make. In a year marked by contentious US policies, Emilia Pérez could be seen to signal support for trans and queer communities (even if the representation they make of those communities is dubious). However, this recognition remains closely linked to marketing and to rewarding art that aligns with the aesthetic and narrative codes the Western industry values.
Instead of shedding light on the reality of forced disappearances, Emilia Pérez distorts the narrative, failing those who continue to search for justice. Making a film is an opportunity to generate meaningful change – to alert people to injustices and to demand that they are not ignored. To squander such an opportunity is to prioritize spectacle over substance. If cinema has the power to shape public perception, then misrepresenting a crisis as urgent as forced disappearances only deepens its invisibilization. Stories like this demand care, not careless appropriation.
[1] When referring to the character before the gender transition, the film uses the pronouns he/his/him (which could also be seen as misgendering the character). For the purposes of this review, I used the pronouns that align with the character’s identity at each stage of the film.
Valentina Proust is a Ph.D. student at the Annenberg School for Communication and a member of the Center for Media at Risk Steering Committee. Her research focuses on how marginalized communities are represented in the media and how they create discourses of resistance against hegemonic narratives. With a particular emphasis on gender issues within the Global South, her work delves into the influence of cultural traumas on these communities, exploring how such traumas shape collective memory and identity formation while fostering solidarity, activism and social justice. Follow her here.
