Listening to the winner of the Palme d'Or last May, I thought it was rather nice that Sean Baker should receive it. Although, in a purely romantic gesture, it would have been wonderful if Coppola had picked up a third to encourage his perpetual quest and perhaps also his lack of lucidity. A third would have put him ahead of the Dardennes, Östlund and August. And he deserved it. At least until Apocalypse. After that, it's another story, that of wine and Sofia, then her nephew. But back to Sean and this Palme. A Palme that I feel is well-deserved, for his career as a whole and from his point of view as an artist, but too late, as Anora is probably his least embodied, least personal film. In this feature film, we sail between James Gray, the Coen brothers (I used the singular on purpose) and Kiarostami. Mikey Madison is breathtaking, and Baker's acting prowess continues, but the Palme should have gone elsewhere. Probably to me. Or for The Substance. Which shows nothing but audacity, and that's already very good. In awarding the Palme to Sean Baker, Greta Gerwig seems to have returned the favor, offering it to congratulate him on his previous work. Anora is a masterful, coherent film, but it merely repeats what we've already seen in Red Rocket, Florida Project and Tangerine. Only less visceral. Less forceful. But still with a lot of love.
Anora didn't deserve the supreme award, and neither did Emilia Perez, because nobody deserves an award more than someone else. Works of art should not clash, but accompany, complement or reflect each other.