APRIL 2025:
Anora and the Cultural Reckoning of Intimacy…
A Film for the Post-Me Too Era
When Anora premiered at the 2024 77th Cannes Film Festival to a rapturous standing ovation and soon after took home the Palme d’Or, the film world was quick to celebrate Sean Baker’s ascent from indie provocateur to festival auteur. But the adulation did not arrive without complexity. While Baker’s camera remained tightly focused on the lives of sex workers and the working-class poor — a hallmark of his previous work in The Florida Project and Red Rocket — the performance at the heart of Anora, delivered by Mikey Madison, drew particular attention not just for its raw power, but for the ethics behind how that performance came to be.
![The 77th annual Cannes Film Festival took place from 14 to 25 May 2024.[1][2] American filmmaker and actress Greta Gerwig served as jury president for the main competition.[3] American filmmaker Sean Baker won the Palme d'Or, the festival's top prize, for the comedy-drama film Anora.[4] The official poster for the festival featuring a still image from the movie Rhapsody in August (1991) by Akira Kurosawa, selected for the 1991 edition, was designed by Hartland Villa.[5] French actress Camille Cottin hosted the opening and closing ceremonies.[6] During the festival, three Honorary Palme d'Or were awarded: the first was awarded to Meryl Streep during the festival's opening ceremony;[7] the second was awarded to Studio Ghibli;[8][9] and the third was awarded to George Lucas during the festival's closing ceremony.[10][11] Few days before the opening ceremony, festival workers called for a general strike. The Broke Behind the Screens (Sous les écrans la dèche) collective made public a complaint about the precarious nature of film festival work.[12] Following the official announcement of The Seed of the Sacred Fig's selection for the main competition, Iranian filmmaker Mohammad Rasoulof was sentenced to eight years in prison as well as flogging, a fine, and confiscation of his property, on the charge of "propaganda against the regime." Cast and crew were interrogated and pressured to convince Rasoulof to withdraw the film from the festival.[13][14] Shortly after, Rasoulof and some crew members managed to flee from Iran to Europe, and attended the film's world premiere on 24 May 2024.[15] On the red carpet, Rasoulof held up images of stars Soheila Golestani and Missagh Zareh, who were unable to leave Iran for the premiere, and had their passport confiscated. The film received a 12-minute standing ovation, while cast and crew protested in solidarity with Iranian women fight for rights.[16] The festival opened with French comedy-film The Second Act directed by Quentin Dupieux.](https://i0.wp.com/moviestohistory.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/77th-Cannes-Film-Festival-768x1024.jpeg?ssl=1)
![The Palme d'Or (French pronunciation: [palm(ə) dɔʁ]; English: Golden Palm) is the highest prize awarded to the director of the Best Feature Film of the Official Competition at the Cannes Film Festival.[1] It was introduced in 1955 by the festival's organizing committee.[1] Previously, from 1939 to 1954, the festival's highest prize was the Grand Prix du Festival International du Film.[1] In 1964, the Palme d'Or was replaced again by the Grand Prix, before being reintroduced in 1975.[1] The Palme d'Or is widely considered one of the film industry's most prestigious awards.](https://i0.wp.com/moviestohistory.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/Palme-DOr-Trophy-1024x570.jpg?ssl=1)
In the post-Me Too landscape, intimacy on screen has come under necessary scrutiny. The film industry, long a place of blurred lines between realism and exploitation, has adopted new professional norms: intimacy coordinators, transparent contracts, and consent-based choreography. Against that backdrop, Anora raises urgent questions. How should we understand a film that portrays sexual vulnerability while choosing to sidestep some of the industry’s safeguards?
This recommendation explores Anora as both a remarkable artistic achievement and a flashpoint for ethical discussion. It is, in many ways, a movie about power — personal, sexual, financial — and its intersections with gender. And no one embodies those tensions more fully than Mikey Madison.
Plot and Context: Anora in the Baker Cinematic Universe
At its core, Anora is the story of a young woman’s attempt to claim agency in a world that constantly commodifies her. Mikey Madison plays Anora “Ani” Mikheeva, a Brooklyn-based stripper whose chance encounter with Vanya, the son of a Russian oligarch (played by newcomer Mark Eydelshteyn), spirals into a whirlwind marriage, media spectacle, and transnational family crisis.
The film unfolds over a tight time frame — a single week that begins with a manic Vegas-style wedding and descends into chaos as Vanya’s powerful father (Aleksei Serebryakov) arrives in New York, determined to undo the marriage. What starts as a romantic fantasy becomes a darkly comic war of wills, with Ani trapped between the illusions of love and the brutal logistics of wealth, status, and patriarchy.
Baker’s signature realism is on full display: handheld cameras, non-actors in secondary roles, and scenes that bleed with improvisation. Anora is a movie that rarely feels scripted. But it is precisely that realism — especially in the sexually explicit scenes — that has sparked debate.
The Performance of the Year: Mikey Madison as Ani
It is difficult to overstate just how central Mikey Madison is to Anora. In a film with large political and familial themes, it is her face, her voice, her body that carries the weight of every scene. The role is emotionally and physically demanding, requiring Madison to oscillate between charm, manipulation, heartbreak, and exhaustion — all while remaining believably grounded in a character who, by design, exists on the margins of the American dream.
Madison’s performance has been widely praised — earning her the Best Actress Oscar and solidifying her as one of the defining actors of her generation. Critics have compared her presence to early Gena Rowlands or Giulietta Masina: a woman balancing desperation and defiance, comedy and tragedy. She brings a kind of radical empathy to Ani, refusing to let the character fall into stereotype or judgment.
But what has complicated the response to her performance is what she revealed at Cannes: that she chose to forgo the use of an intimacy coordinator, a now-standard presence on most Hollywood sets involving sexual content. According to Madison, her comfort level stemmed from a year-long collaborative relationship with Sean Baker and his wife and producing partner, Samantha Quan.
“As I’d already created a really comfortable relationship with both of them for about a year, I felt that that would be where I was most comfortable with and it ended up working so perfectly,” Madison said, as reported in Variety (Ritman & Shafer, May 22, 2024).
At the same press conference, Madison described how Baker and Quan would act out sex scenes themselves to communicate what they wanted from the actors. While she framed this as a gesture of trust and transparency, the admission sent ripples through the industry.
Refusing the Intimacy Coordinator: Consent or Complicity?
The refusal of an intimacy coordinator, particularly in a film with multiple graphic sex scenes, inevitably recalls the pre-Me Too era — a time when directors, mostly male, wielded extraordinary control over actresses in the name of authenticity. The choice to sidestep this standard is not, in itself, unethical. Indeed, adult performers do and should have the autonomy to set the terms of their work. But the industry doesn’t exist in a vacuum, and the cultural context matters.
Madison’s decision might be read as a testament to the power of close creative collaboration — or as a troubling sign that even now, the boundaries around female bodies on screen remain malleable, contingent on relationships, and ultimately at the discretion of the director.
Some critics have pointed out that Madison, by describing her comfort with Baker and Quan as preferable to a neutral third party, inadvertently echoes an older Hollywood dynamic: that of the “muse” and her auteur. Others have argued that her public comments — made on a global stage at Cannes — may set a dangerous precedent for younger or less experienced actresses who feel pressured to comply with a director’s vision in the name of “art.”
There is also the question of the gender dynamic behind the scenes. While Baker and Quan appear to have created a collaborative environment, their reenactment of sex positions — even if done with humorous intent — could easily be interpreted as a power move. Would this have been acceptable had Quan not been present? Would a male actor have been expected to rehearse those same scenes in front of the filmmakers? And does the fact that Anora is a critical and commercial success make these questions easier — or harder — to ask?
Sex Work, Realism, and the Ethics of Looking
Part of the challenge — and brilliance — of Anora is that it refuses to flatten Ani into a victim or a symbol. She is at once deeply romantic and shrewdly transactional, a young woman navigating a system she understands intimately, even when it hurts her. The film’s realism is deeply informed by Baker’s longtime interest in sex work and his stated goal of “helping remove the stigma” around it.
Yet that realism comes with aesthetic and ethical implications. To depict sex work authentically often means depicting sex — and Anora does so more explicitly than any of Baker’s previous work. But as intimacy coordinator Ita O’Brien and others in the industry have emphasized, realism does not preclude structure. In fact, it demands it. The closer fiction veers toward the real, the more it risks violating the actor’s boundaries under the guise of “truth.”
![Ita O’Brien is a British movement director and intimacy co-ordinator for film, TV and theatre. She has taught at some of Britain's leading drama schools, has published research and devises her own work. In 2017, O'Brien introduced the "Intimacy On Set Guidelines", to protect performers during scenes that involve sex or nudity, which gained significant industry and public interest in the wake of the Harvey Weinstein scandals.[1][2][3] She has worked for Amazon, BBC, HBO,[4] and Netflix.[5]](https://i0.wp.com/moviestohistory.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/Ita-OBrien.jpg?resize=525%2C380&ssl=1)
Madison’s comfort on set, as she tells it, is not in doubt. But the broader question remains: Is a system ethical if it relies on individual cases of trust and goodwill? Or should structures of protection be non-negotiable — especially in films that thrive on emotional and physical exposure?
Anora in the Landscape of American Independent Cinema
Sean Baker has never been a filmmaker content to sit within comfort zones. From Tangerine (2015), which was famously shot on iPhones and followed two transgender sex workers on Christmas Eve in Los Angeles, to The Florida Project (2017), which paired first-time actors with Willem Dafoe to tell a story about poverty on the fringes of Disney World, Baker has consistently married aesthetic experimentation with social realism.
With Anora, however, he moves from the fringe to the center. This is Baker’s first film to reach true mainstream success — both in terms of accolades (the Palme d’Or and five Oscars) and in box office performance, grossing over $56 million globally on a $6 million budget. It is no longer possible to describe him as a cult or fringe director. Anora is a turning point — not just for Baker, but for the kind of stories that can be told from within the independent film apparatus and still capture a wide audience.
But Anora is not just a “bigger” movie; it’s a riskier one, and that’s part of what makes it such a lightning rod. While earlier Baker films flirted with scandal, they did so from the margins, where their limited release and scrappy production gave them a certain underground credibility. Anora, by contrast, is glossy, widely released by Neon, and endorsed by major institutions. It has entered the cultural bloodstream.
This shift matters. It means that Baker — and by extension, his methods — are now modeling the future of “ethical realism” for a new generation of indie filmmakers. The decision to eschew intimacy coordination, then, doesn’t just affect Anora; it becomes a data point in a broader industry discussion about how authenticity is achieved — and at what cost.
Echoes and Precedents: Comparing Anora to Other Controversial Productions
The history of filmmaking is littered with stories of controversial methods in the pursuit of “truth.” From Bertolucci’s infamous handling of Last Tango in Paris (1972) — which led to lasting trauma for Maria Schneider — to Lars von Trier’s Nymphomaniac (2013), where body doubles were used but emotional manipulation was still reported, cinema has long traded in a certain kind of eroticized suffering, often justified under the banner of art.
More recently, in the wake of the Me Too movement, several high-profile productions have faced similar scrutiny. Chloe Zhao’s The Rider (2017), which cast real-life cowboys playing versions of themselves, was praised for its realism but raised eyebrows about the emotional labor expected from non-professional actors. Meanwhile, HBO’s The Idol (2023), co-created by Sam Levinson, drew criticism for graphic sexual content and the alleged sidelining of female creatives in favor of male gaze-driven spectacle.
In this landscape, Anora feels like a case study in contrasts. On one hand, it was co-produced by Samantha Quan, a woman and longtime collaborator of Baker’s, which complicates a simple reading of gendered power dynamics. On the other hand, the imagery — long, unbroken shots of Madison performing semi-nude or engaging in stylized sex scenes — invites questions about the aestheticization of vulnerability.
Importantly, the presence of a female producer does not automatically neutralize those concerns. As several feminist film scholars have noted, internalized industry norms can perpetuate problematic dynamics even within seemingly balanced teams. The fact that Quan and Baker performed sex scenes in front of Madison to “demonstrate” their vision is not necessarily sinister — but it undeniably shifts the power dynamic away from actor autonomy and toward directorial interpretation.
Audience Reception: A Divided Applause
One of the most fascinating aspects of Anora’s post-release life has been its reception by different segments of the audience. On Letterboxd and Twitter/X, the film sparked heated debates that went far beyond typical Oscar buzz. Viewers split along ideological and generational lines: some hailed the film as a bold reclaiming of female sexual agency; others called it a case of aestheticized objectification with a feminist mask.
Mikey Madison’s performance was almost universally praised, but the discourse around her public comments became a Rorschach test. Many younger actors and activists were quick to point out that “choosing” not to use an intimacy coordinator only matters in a system where that choice is freely and safely available — which is often not the case. Critics argued that Madison’s comfort could be genuine without necessarily being indicative of a healthy industry norm.
The most trenchant critiques didn’t accuse Baker of wrongdoing per se, but of perpetuating a model in which transparency replaces structure. In this model, the trust between director and actor becomes the safety net — not institutional safeguards. That’s a precarious setup, and one that makes it harder for actors without Madison’s experience, voice, or clout to negotiate boundaries on set.
In film circles, Anora has prompted discussions about what artistic consent really looks like. Is it something that can be given once and held static over a multi-month shoot? Or is it, like physical intimacy itself, a constantly evolving negotiation? Madison’s comfort with the process doesn’t eliminate the risk; it simply speaks to her personal threshold for it.
Baker’s Aesthetic: Hyperrealism or Voyeurism?
Visually, Anora is stunning. Baker continues his tradition of marrying documentary-style shooting with bold color palettes and carefully chosen environments — in this case, the glittering nightlife of Brooklyn, the brutalist palaces of Russian oligarchy, and the cramped domestic spaces of the working class. But in his commitment to realism, Baker often flirts with a dangerous border: the line between empathy and voyeurism.
This is especially evident in the sex scenes, which are long, often wordless, and meticulously composed. There is no suggestion that they were improvised or messy — they are stylized, lit beautifully, and edited for maximum narrative impact. They are, in other words, designed for cinematic consumption. And yet, by removing the role of an intimacy coordinator — someone who would normally oversee the staging and safety of these moments — Baker puts himself in the dual role of creator and gatekeeper.
This conflation is worth examining. Directors often pride themselves on fostering trust with actors — and in many cases, that trust is what allows for extraordinary performances. But trust alone is not a structure. It cannot be codified or standardized. It is, by nature, fragile — and susceptible to being broken, misunderstood, or romanticized.
In Anora, the question is not whether Madison was exploited — by all accounts, she wasn’t. It’s whether a system that relies on a single actor’s ability to navigate such exposure without formal protections is worth replicating.
Sex Work as Subject vs. Spectacle: The Ethics of Depiction
One of the core themes in Anora is its unflinching portrayal of sex work. While Baker’s previous films have engaged with marginalization and poverty (especially in The Florida Project and Red Rocket), Anora brings a different dimension to the conversation. Here, we see a character who is not just a survivor of the system but someone actively working within it. Anora (Mikey Madison) is not depicted as a tragic figure, but as a woman navigating complex power dynamics, where agency and exploitation co-exist in precarious harmony.
The ethical challenges surrounding the representation of sex work are not new in cinema, but they have become more pressing in the wake of movements like Me Too. Historically, films about sex work have often turned their protagonists into tragic figures or idealized them as victims of male aggression, placing them in a moral framework that minimizes their humanity and autonomy. In Anora, however, Baker avoids such pitfalls by presenting a nuanced character — Ani is neither a pure victim nor an idealized hero, but a woman making choices within a system that is itself broken.
This represents a shift from earlier depictions of sex workers in Hollywood, where the characters were often either glorified or vilified. Films like Pretty Woman (1990) or Taxi Driver (1976) have been critiqued for either romanticizing or demonizing sex work, but Anora takes a more complex approach. In some ways, it’s a reclamation of agency, showing sex work as a means of survival, even empowerment, while still acknowledging the inherent danger and the societal stigma attached to it.
Yet the film also raises troubling questions: To what extent can a film about sex work fully represent the lived experiences of sex workers, particularly those outside of mainstream society? There is a danger that by making such a film part of the mainstream (with its glamourized sets, polished cinematography, and accessible budget), Anora risks turning sex work into a spectacle. While the film offers a more sympathetic and humanized portrayal, it also risks falling into a pattern of commodifying the very lives it seeks to humanize. The line between offering a nuanced narrative and using real-world struggles as cinematic fodder can be razor-thin, and Anora dances along that line with remarkable grace but also undeniable risks.
Moreover, there is the question of the act of watching. Baker’s camera lingers on Ani’s body, her movements, her sexual power, and her vulnerability, creating an intimacy with the audience that could be interpreted as both sympathetic and voyeuristic. Is this the portrayal of a woman taking control of her narrative — or is it an objectification that masks itself as empowerment? This paradox is central to Anora and its reception, challenging us to rethink the ethics of depiction in a world where authenticity and exploitation are often entwined.
Mikey Madison: The Post-Me Too Star and the Evolution of Consent on Screen
Mikey Madison’s rise to prominence in Anora cannot be separated from the broader conversation about women’s representation and agency in film. As the industry reckons with its history of systemic abuse and exploitation, Madison’s career — and the debates surrounding her performance — represent both a triumph and a challenge to the prevailing narratives about women in Hollywood.
Madison’s candidness about her experience with Sean Baker and Samantha Quan during the production of Anora speaks to a larger issue that has emerged post-Me Too: the need for transparency, mutual respect, and concrete safeguards on set. For many, Madison’s choice to forgo an intimacy coordinator was seen as an endorsement of a more organic, trust-based approach to acting. After all, she had worked closely with Baker and Quan for a year before filming, building relationships of trust that made the process feel safe and comfortable for her.
However, Madison’s experience is a rare one — the exception rather than the rule. It speaks to her confidence, autonomy, and control over her body, but also raises questions about how those same choices might be experienced by other, less-established actors. If a young, less experienced performer were placed in a similar situation, would they have the same level of trust and comfort with the director and producer? In a less collaborative environment, could the absence of an intimacy coordinator potentially lead to discomfort or coercion? These are questions that remain at the heart of the post-Me Too dialogue, where the experiences of established stars can sometimes mask the reality for less privileged individuals in the industry.
Madison’s role in the ongoing conversation about consent on screen is crucial. Her willingness to speak openly about her process has made her a key figure in understanding how boundaries can be navigated in a professional setting — and what happens when the industry fails to establish clear, universally applied standards. While her comments on the subject were not met with widespread backlash, they also didn’t go unnoticed by the more vocal corners of the industry, who called for more consistent and equitable protocols on set.
The real question here is whether the absence of an intimacy coordinator represents a broader failure to address systemic issues in the film industry. While Madison’s personal comfort is important and commendable, her experience doesn’t necessarily offer a blueprint for how to ensure safety and consent for all performers, especially those who may not have the same resources or trust-building opportunities as she did. In that sense, Anora is both a success story and a cautionary tale, embodying the tensions inherent in an industry that is slowly, but not fully, learning to prioritize actor safety and well-being.
Industry Reaction: The Future of On-Set Ethics in Hollywood
The industry reaction to Anora’s production and its central controversy regarding intimacy coordination was swift and multifaceted. Film festivals, studios, and production companies have begun to take a closer look at how sex scenes are handled — and whether the presence of an intimacy coordinator has moved from a “nice-to-have” to a “must-have” on all sets.
While many in Hollywood praised Anora for its bold approach and its success in balancing artistic ambition with critical sensitivity, others expressed concern. The decision to forgo an intimacy coordinator was seen by some as an indication that not all filmmakers are ready to adopt industry-wide reforms. In an era where intimacy coordinators are being seen as essential — particularly on high-profile sets — Anora’s controversial choice could be read as a step backward in the ongoing efforts to ensure that actors are not exploited or put in vulnerable positions without safeguards.
However, it’s important to note that the conversation around intimacy coordination is still evolving. Some filmmakers argue that the collaborative process between director and actor can often yield the most organic performances, free from the formal constraints of a coordinator. Yet this perspective remains highly contentious, especially when considering the power dynamics that so often shape the actor-director relationship.
The reaction from feminist filmmakers and advocacy groups has been largely critical, pointing out that while Baker’s and Quan’s approach might have worked in this case, it is not universally applicable. The Me Too movement has shown us that consent is not just an individual, private matter between actor and director; it is a collective responsibility that should be institutionalized in the industry. The backlash against Anora’s production highlights the need for greater consistency and transparency when it comes to protecting actors on set — not just from physical harm, but from emotional and psychological harm as well.
Final Thoughts: Can a Film Be Both Ethical and Provocative?
In many ways, Anora is a film that challenges the audience to grapple with contradictions. It is a work of great beauty, intensity, and emotional depth, with a performance from Mikey Madison that will be remembered for years to come. But it is also a film that requires us to ask uncomfortable questions about power, consent, and the ethics of representation.
Can a film be both ethical and provocative? Anora’s success suggests that it is possible, but it also reveals the limits of what can be achieved within an industry still struggling to establish a universal standard for actor safety and consent. The film is an artistic triumph, but its production raises important questions about the future of on-screen intimacy — questions that we, as viewers and critics, must continue to ask.
The legacy of Anora will not only be shaped by its accolades and commercial success but by the ongoing conversation it ignites about the complexities of consent, the role of intimacy coordinators, and the way we tell stories about vulnerable bodies in the digital age. For filmmakers, actors, and audiences alike, the film serves as both a mirror and a map — reflecting the tensions of our current cultural moment while challenging us to consider how we move forward.
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