Zoe Saldaña in Emilia Pérez (Netflix)

Before we dive into Emilia Pérez’s story, some context is required. The portrayal of transgender identity in Latin American cinema involves a history much more conflicted than that in Hollywood, which is saying a lot. Think of El lugar sin límites (1978), Cheila: una casa pa’ maita (2009), or A Fantastic Woman (2017)—from Mexico, Venezuela, and Chile respectively—where trans characters can’t focus solely on their identity dilemmas; they are among the many marginalized by other societal issues in their respective countries. Rarely do their stories reclaim the central narrative, as they are tied to broader problems. To complicate this legacy further, welcome the French and Belgian co-production Emilia Pérez. Disagreements will abound when it comes to considering the bizarre premise as either brilliant (it mostly is) or a shameless feast of unforgivable excesses offending morality and good taste.

It’s many things at once, and together they form an explosive, contradictory, and savage recipe matching the iconic title character. First and foremost, it’s a musical, with original songs composed by Clément Ducol and Camille. It’s also an over-the-top melodrama in the style of a narco novela, directed by Jacques Audiard and written by Thomas Bidegain (both French). Their foreign perspective will inevitably raise suspicion. However, they don’t aim to overanalyze or judge their characters. Instead, they dive into the Mexico City setting and its flavors with reckless abandon. Simply put, the storyline follows a Mexican drug lord, Manitas, whose fortune has grown at the expense of horror and violence that many have suffered. He is seeking to fulfill a dream and a kind of undeserved redemption, so he enlists the help of Rita (Zoe Saldaña), a lawyer without scruples (but not without remorse) who seizes this lucrative opportunity to finally fix her life, at least financially.

The drug lord’s wish is quite simple: to fake his death and become what he’s always wanted to be, a woman. Rita asks if he wants to change his sex or change his life. Manitas answers, is there a difference? The film bounces back-and-forth answering the question: To what extent does change absolve someone? Can we be reformed through a different identity willing to amend past sins? Of course, it’s not that simple. Still, from this singular dichotomy, Emilia Pérez is born—vaginoplasty complete with a musical number—and she introduces herself to the world as a benefactor with a fortune. Together with Rita, she creates a foundation to help the families of people missing because of drug cartel violence. The organization recovers bodies, closes cases, and brings closure to so much pain. This fairy tale won’t be as rosy as it sounds.

Both the male and female identities of the protagonist are played by Karla Sofía-Gascón in an unforgettable performance. Sofía-Gascón has a long history as an actor in Mexican telenovelas. As a transgender woman, her reintroduction as a performer to the public sphere happened less than five years ago. The particularly acute climate of homophobia and transphobia in the industry and country where her career thrived cannot be overstated. In other words, you would never get—at least not yet—a narco boss, or a protagonist of any kind, having such identity issues for a daily mass audience without backlash.

Saldaña is equally a lead, delivering her best role yet, impressing with her fierce body language in the musical numbers. (The opening “El Alegato” and a later centerpiece titled “El Mal” are pure spectacle.) Selena Gomez surprises by leveraging her pop-star charisma (her song “Mi Camino” is a banger), shining as Jessi, the wife and later widow of Manitas, with desires and ambitions of her own. Adriana Paz, in a much smaller role, adds sweetness, especially standing out in the romantic duet “El Amor.” Ultimately, the film belongs to its women, so the potentially divisive reaction it might provoke will be tempered by what they bring to the table.

There’s nothing quite like Emilia Pérez—a ridiculous, beautiful, heartbreaking, and hilarious work best enjoyed with an open mind. Its depiction of Mexico and its symbolic correlations with the history of violence and crime across much of Latin America may seem glib and demeaning. However, as a counterargument, it’s praiseworthy that the filmmakers don’t pretend to understand, or worse, provide White-savior solutions. They instead capture ambiguities and contradictions through characters that aren’t meant to be representational role models.

Emilia Pérez represents the Latin American spirit more than many would like to admit. It’s no wonder that soap operas about drug lords and their extreme violence are a genre that continues to attract viewers. This movie has telenovela in its DNA, and like the narco novela, it uses melodrama to communicate serious themes without too much severity. There’s an essential reason for this: Where horrors are vast and constant, it’s impossible to take everything too seriously. Singing, dancing, and seeing life through the filter of spectacle is almost a Latino duty by definition, to survive. Thus, Emilia Pérez is a flawed champion of resilience.