Sean Baker’s Anora doesn’t aim to tell a story in the traditional sense. Instead, it serves as a haunting meditation on identity, love, and the yearning for acceptance. Through the lens of Anora, or Ani, Baker explores the delicate interplay between personal autonomy and the sacrifices we make to belong. Anchored by a mesmerizing performance from Mikey Madison, Anora transcends the boundaries of cinema, demanding not just to be watched but felt.
At its core, the film is about the story of Ani, a 23-year-old Russian-American exotic dancer from Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach. Ani is not new to the language or culture of her heritage—she grew up speaking Russian—but when her impulsive marriage to Ivan, the privileged son of a Russian oligarch, thrusts her into a world of unimaginable wealth, she finds herself speaking Russian more frequently, not as an act of comfort but as a performance of assimilation. Ani’s journey, shaped by her desire to be accepted by Ivan’s family, unravels the quiet tragedies and compromises that come with trying to fit into a world that was never built for you.
Mikey Madison’s portrayal of Ani is a revelation. Known for her ability to bring nuance and vulnerability to her roles, Madison breathes life into Ani in a way that feels deeply personal. Ani is not a caricature of a struggling woman nor a romanticized depiction of a stripper-turned-socialite. She is raw, complex, and painfully human. Madison captures Ani’s contradictions —the confidence she exudes on stage, the fragility she hides when confronted by Ivan’s disapproving family, and the quiet longing that defines her existence.
The film begins in the familiar grit of Brooklyn, where Ani navigates her life as an exotic dancer. Baker, known for his empathetic depictions of marginalized communities (The Florida Project, Tangerine), portrays Ani’s profession with unflinching honesty. The strip club is not a space of glamor or degradation, but rather a stage—a place where Ani exerts control over her narrative, even as she is aware of the gaze she invites. It’s a world she knows intimately, one where she can predict the rules and the consequences with poise.
But this predictability is upended when Ani meets Ivan, played with subtle charisma and entitlement by Mark Eydelshteyn. Their romance is a whirlwind, filled with impulsive gestures and intoxicating promises. In a moment of reckless abandon, they marry in Las Vegas, setting Ani on a trajectory that feels like a fairy tale turned inside out.
The dynamics of Ani’s new life are brilliantly juxtaposed against her old one. Ivan’s family looms large, a symbol of the approval Ani craves and cannot quite achieve. The family’s icy reception is not overtly hostile but steeped in quiet condescension. They see Ani as an interloper, someone unworthy of their carefully curated world. Baker captures these interactions with devastating subtlety—a poorly veiled insult here, a dismissive glance there.
Ani’s attempts to assimilate are heartbreaking in their futility. She attends high-society events, dons designer clothing, and speaks Russian with a fluency that should endear her to Ivan’s family but instead seems to highlight her outsider status. In one particularly poignant scene, Ani practices pronouncing a Russian idiom in the mirror, her reflection both determined and defeated. Madison’s performance in these moments is a masterclass in restraint, conveying the deep ache of wanting to belong without losing oneself.
The visual language of Anora reflects Ani’s inner turmoil. Baker and cinematographer Drew Daniels create a world that oscillates between the warm, intimate textures of Ani’s Brooklyn life and the cold, sterile opulence of Ivan’s world. The camera lingers on spaces that feel simultaneously vast and claustrophobic, emphasizing Ani’s growing sense of alienation. In one striking sequence, Ani stands in the grand hallway of Ivan’s family estate, dwarfed by the ornate architecture. It’s a moment that visually encapsulates her struggle—small, isolated, yet determined to claim her place.
What sets Anora apart is its refusal to judge Ani or her choices. Baker presents her story with a rare empathy, allowing the audience to grapple with the complexities of her situation. Ani’s profession as a dancer is neither vilified nor glamorized; it is simply one facet of her multifaceted existence. Similarly, her marriage to Ivan is not framed as a mistake but as a choice—a leap of faith into a world she hoped would bring her stability and acceptance.
The supporting cast further enriches the narrative. Eydelshteyn’s Ivan is a fascinating enigma—charming yet oblivious to the sacrifices Ani makes for him. Yura Borisov’s performance as Igor, a family friend who serves as Ani’s quiet confidant, adds another layer of complexity. Their conversations, spoken in hushed Russian, provide a rare space where Ani can be herself, unencumbered by the expectations placed upon her.
The film’s climax is devastating in its simplicity. Ani’s marriage begins to unravel, not through dramatic confrontations but through the slow erosion of connection. The final scenes bring Ani back to the stage, but this time, she is not performing. She stands under the lights, her face a mixture of defiance and vulnerability. It’s a moment that feels less like an ending and more like a beginning—a reclamation of her identity, free from the weight of others’ expectations.
Anora is not an easy film. It is slow, introspective, and unrelentingly honest. But for those willing to sit with its discomfort, it offers a deeply moving exploration of identity, power, and the universal desire to be seen. Ani’s journey is one of quiet resilience—a reminder that belonging is not about fitting in but about finding the strength to stand alone.