Warning: This article contains spoilers.
In the last five minutes of Anora, we witness one of the most quietly devastating character transformations in recent cinema. It’s not loud or theatrical, it doesn’t need to be. Instead, it unfolds through a shift so intimate and internal that it knocks the wind out of you.
These final moments bring the entire film into sharp focus, revealing that Anora was never just a stripper-turned-Cinderella story; it was about identity and reclaiming one’s humanity in a world that constantly tries to commodify it.
Anora tells the story of Ani (played by Mikey Madison), a young stripper from Brooklyn who meets and impulsively marries Vanya (played by Mark Eydelshteyn), the son of a powerful Russian oligarch. But when word of their whirlwind romance reaches Russia, her fairy tale begins to unravel as his parents head to New York, determined to annul the marriage.Â
Throughout the film, Ani, whose real name is Anora, goes by the name she uses while working as a stripper and sex worker. While not a typical “stripper name,” Ani serves the same purpose: it’s a protective mask, a stage persona that separates the woman from the job. In the world of sex work, this dual identity is often a survival mechanism. It creates distance. Almost to say: “You’re not entitled to all of me.” Helping women keep their power.Â
A stripper’s name acts as a boundary, separating the real person from the product being sold. For many men who seek the company of sex workers, it’s easy to forget that behind the performance are real women with thoughts, emotions, and inner lives. While one could argue that many sex workers prefer this emotional distance, viewing their work as just that, work, it’s crucial to remember that professionalism doesn’t erase personhood. Ultimately, they are still human beings deserving of empathy and respect.
But everyone around Ani, clients, coworkers, and even her sister, refers to her by this chosen alias, as all her relationships are transactional. She gives, they take. Even her marriage to Vanya becomes another lopsided exchange: she offers her body, attention, and escape from his adult responsibilities for his fleeting affection and perceived rescue.
But Igor (played by Yura Borisov), one of Vanya’s father’s henchmen, sent to retrieve him and bring him back home, is different. He’s the only character who consistently treats Ani as a person, not a product. He sees her pain, her confusion, her dignity. Even in one scene, plainly stating “I like Anora better than Ani.”Â
When Vanya’s family moves to annul the marriage, it’s Igor who suggests, however briefly, that Vanya should apologize to her for all that he’s put her through. It’s a simple act of recognition, one that’s immediately dismissed by the others, but it matters. Because Igor doesn’t see Ani as the persona, he sees Anora as the woman, despite knowing her line of work.Â
This all comes to a head in the final five minutes of the film. After recovering the wedding ring that was taken from her by Vanya’s mother after the annulment, Igor returns it to Ani. Not as a bribe, not in exchange for anything, but as a gesture of respect and care. Ani instinctively begins to perform. She crawls into his lap and starts to seduce him, not because she’s thanking him or desires him, but because everything she has ever known has been transactional. She’s operating on the same script that has governed every relationship in her life: I give, you take.Â
But this time, something shifts. Igor does not want a performance; he wants a connection. When he tries to kiss her, gently and sincerely, she snaps. She fights him off with everything that she has, lashing out physically and emotionally. But in truth, she isn’t fighting him. She’s fighting herself. She’s fighting Anora.
Anora is the part of her that feels. The part that can be hurt. The part that has been betrayed by someone who was supposed to love her. The part that believes she’s worthy of love without needing to perform for it. But Ani, the survivor, the mask, the professional, doesn’t know what to do with that kind of intimacy. She resists it with everything she has, terrified of what it might unlock.
And then, suddenly, she breaks. A guttural sob escapes her, and it hits like a gut punch. It’s the only time in the entire film that she cries. In that moment, she’s no longer Ani. She’s Anora, fully, heartbreakingly human. The performance is gone. What’s left is a woman who has been holding herself together for too long, finally allowing herself to feel everything she’s endured. The betrayal, the loneliness, the deep yearning to be seen, not as a body, not as a job, but as a person. Understanding that reclaiming your humanity does not always look like a triumph. Sometimes, it looks like falling apart. Â