This article originally published in May 2024, along with our review of the movie’s premiere at Cannes. We’re republishing it ahead of Anora’s theatrical release in the U.S. (You can read more about the leads of the movie here and here.)
Critics at Cannes are rightly gushing over Mikey Madison’s breakout performance as the titular role in Anora, Sean Baker’s film about a savvy, brash Brighton Beach stripper who meets, falls for, and spontaneously marries a Russian oligarch’s failson. What seems at first like it might be a Pretty Woman–adjacent romantic comedy soon turns into something mordantly funny and frenetic, an After Hours wild goose chase around Coney Island that never loses its believability thanks to Madison’s spirited but grounded performance (and a surprising gut-punch of a final scene from her that I’m still thinking about). The latest entry in Baker’s ever-expanding canon of sex-worker dramedies (Tangerine, Red Rocket, Starlet), Anora is also, at its heart, about class and, as Baker explained a the post-premiere press conference, destigmatizing sex work.
If the film does manage to chip away at that stigma, it’s in large part thanks to the on- and offscreen work of its supporting cast, including Luna Sofía Miranda, Lindsey Normington, and Sophia Carnabuci, who play Anora’s coworkers at the strip club and who, to varying degrees, consulted on the script and with the cast about authentically portraying the world of stripping and sex work. I had the privilege of being seated next to Carnabuci, who plays a stripper named Jenny, and near Miranda, who plays Anora’s best friend, Lulu, on my flight to Cannes last week; I met Normington, who plays Anora’s arch rival, Diamond, at the premiere. The day after, the four of us drank Porn Star martinis and rosé on the beach and talked about their experience filming Anora, how they got cast, how accurately the film captures sex work, and whether they’d ever been proposed to by an oligarch.
Tell me a little bit about each of you, who you are and the work you do.
Lindsey Normington: I’m an actor and a stripper. I work at the only unionized strip club in the United States, Star Garden in North Hollywood, the second to ever unionize and the first with Actors’ Equity. I’ve been one of the main players in the strike and in the unionization of this club, which is now striking again. It’s a hugely complicated saga. But we’re really proud of the work we’ve done. I’ve been stripping for seven years, but I’m sort of on my way out. Acting is what I’ve always wanted to do. So this experience has been a great transition for me. But I’m interested in remaining in stripping in terms of politics and organizing and management and ownership — I’m part owner and founder/performer in something called the Stripper Co-Op, which is an all-genders, all-races, all-bodies strip pop-up show that’s currently seeking a brick-and-mortar space.
Sophia Carnabuci: I dance in a club in Brooklyn, and I am also an instructor at a studio. I’m a writer — poetry, autobiography, fiction. I have a few different projects in the works, including a documentary and comedy series following workers at a strip club. I just love community; I think that’s what’s very special about sex work.
Luna Sofía Miranda: I’m Latina, born and raised in Brooklyn, and I was one of those kids who was like, “I want to be a movie star and a stripper.” And both of my dreams have come true. I’m mainly a stripper — I’ve done some adult content, sugar-daddy stuff, but I’m a dancer at heart, and I’m also a burlesque performer who produces burlesque shows. I work at the infamous Pumps in Brooklyn with Sophia, and I came up through the very campy, DIY drag and burlesque scene. And now I’m in a movie at Cannes! I really want to get into writing and producing films. I’m working on putting together a sex-worker film festival, for sex workers who have produced and written films. They can get in touch with me on Instagram.
How did each of you get cast?
S.C.: It’s kind of a crazy story. I have an Instagram just for stripping, and Sean just followed it one day — I think he found me through the Pumps Instagram — and messaged me and was like, “Hey, I don’t know if you’ve heard about me.” And I was like, “Ahh!” He was like, “I’m working on this movie and it’ll be set in a place like Pumps. We’re looking for consultants if you’re interested.” So I met with Sean and Sammy Quan, Baker’s wife and a producer on the film, a few times. I met with Mikey over tea. I answered questions she had and gave her insight on what the night looks like at our jobs, some slang, some characters you might see there, customers and dancers.
Did they consult with anyone else? What kinds of questions did Mikey ask you?
S.C.: I think so. She was really curious about language and slang. Drama that was happening, which was specifically prevalent at the time for me. How we approach customers. What house fees are. The inner workings of the club.
Did you see scenes or lines in the film where you were like, “Oh, I talked to her about that?”
S.C.: Yeah! When she’s going up to the customers and talking to them, it feels really real. It’s what we say. It was wild. A year later, Sammy texted me and asked if I wanted to audition. I was like, “Yeah, I’m not an actor at all, but sure.” I auditioned and they gave me the role of Jenny, who was initially described as Diamond’s friend and then later changed to a “friend to all.”
How’d you, Lindsey, and Luna, get cast?
L.N.: I met Sean at an after-party for a film in L.A. I was with one of my friends, drinking and dancing, and there was a lot of networking going on because it was film people but we were like, “Ugh, the ‘standing around talking’ culture of film people is a little tiring.” At the end of the night, someone pointed out Sean to me, and I’m a huge fan of his; he’s probably been my favorite director for a few years. I was a little drunk, and I was like, “If I don’t say something now I’ll regret it.” I tapped him on the shoulder and introduced myself and my friend, and I think I ran away screaming, but we ended up connecting over Instagram the next day and followed each other. A few months later, he reached out and asked me to audition to play Diamond, Mikey’s foil, the hating-ass bitch in the dressing room. I’ve gotten to play the “stripper with a heart of gold” a few times, but when I read Diamond, I was like, “I know this girl.” It was the most insane kismet moment I could imagine. I fell to the floor.
What I love about Sean’s work is it’s about sex workers as people and not really the work itself. I liked playing a girl like Diamond because I’m very involved in the community and very politically involved and care a lot about what goes on with strippers in L.A. and beyond, but there’s a huge subset of strippers who don’t think about that. Just that type of girl who’s there to get money and not to make friends. It was fun to shed some of my PC stripper life and be like, “I can finally be the girl who tried to fight me in Hollywood five years ago.”
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Sean Baker’s film.
L.S.M.: Both of my parents teach film, and they did not let me watch Disney films growing up. They didn’t want me to believe in the happy Hollywood ending. We saw some of Sean’s films when we were very young. My mom felt like they at least represented something real. Tangerine and The Florida Project came out when I was in high school. Anyway, I was at Pumps two years ago, and I wasn’t supposed to be working that night, but I’m a hard hustler. I’d had a bad night the night before, talking to a couple who were awful. I see another couple sitting at the bar and I’m like, “I don’t want to talk to another couple, it’s so annoying.” But I felt like, Fuck it, if they’re rude, I’ll leave. They were sitting there kind of awkwardly, like, I don’t really know what to do, handing out dollars. I went up to see if they wanted a lap dance or something, thinking, It’s date night, they need to spice things up. But it became obvious that was not the vibe. I told them I was an actress, that I loved film, and they were like, “We’re indie filmmakers, and we’re casting something you might be good for.” And they explained that they were here to see Sophia, that she was helping with something. I was intrigued. I asked what films they’d made and they said, “I don’t think you would know, they’re very indie.” I said to try me. When they told me, I was like, “Oh my God. I love those movies.” Sean was like, “You know my movies?!”
Six months later they had me audition, and they called me on my birthday to tell me I got the part. The casting call said that Lulu was “Ani’s best friend, a girl’s girl,” and I was like, “That’s me. I’m one of the bitches.” They had Mikey and me meet multiple times, to do dinner, and they brought me on as a consultant, too, to talk to her about my work and life. I shared my playlists, memes, lots of slang, a whole PDF of New York strip-club slang.
What are some examples of New York strip-club slang?
L.S.M.: I taught them about “sharking,” which is when you steal a client. The line made it in. And I taught them about “whales,” the client who dishes it all out, changes the game, and makes your night. And about house fees, tipping out, which didn’t make it into the movie but it’s still a part of the world.
Did some of the songs you shared make it into the movie?
L.S.M.: Oh my God, I shared my slow-burn stripper playlist, my ratchet stripper playlist. I don’t know if any of that made it into the movie.
L.N.: Was “Daddy As Fuck” yours?
L.S.M.: Oh, I think so.
L.N.: I think they mentioned that was your recommendation.
L.S.M.: I love Slayyyter. She has a very stripper aesthetic.
What other sorts of things did you teach Mikey?
L.S.M.: With Mikey, it was so natural. She is so sweet. We talked a lot about the stigmas, how people judge you for no reason. I shared my personal experiences with sugar daddies and clients, being really honest — sometimes you do get attached to your clients and catch feelings. Just because there’s money involved doesn’t mean it’s not real. And New York girls, how they talk.
Your voice does sound like hers in the film a bit.
L.S.M.: She talked to a lot of people, so it’s possible I got mixed in somewhere. I also taught her, “It’s brick outside.” I had my speech neutralized in acting school; I have a very strong Brooklyn accent and in acting school they teach you how to speak “normal.” But it makes it through, especially when I’m with my family. My dad just texted me, “Even though I teach film, people think I’m stupid because I have a Brooklyn accent.”
How many days were you guys on set, and where did you film? Were the other strippers and customers you danced for nonactors, as Sean sometimes casts, or how did that all work logistically?
L.M.: We were at Rosewood, and HQ, which is the club upstairs. I shot for about six days, but they were spread out over a month. We shot during the day because the club was open at night. We had to be out before 5 or 6 p.m., but when you’re inside of a strip club, there are notoriously no windows, and you never know what time it is anyway. So it works. The guys on set were mostly union background actors, but it’s funny — I’ve played a stripper a lot in TV shows, like The Idol and True Story; I go every time there’s a stripper casting call because I have that skill. A lot of guys take on that role when they’re in that environment. It’s like a weird opportunity to talk to the girl, because that’s what you’re supposed to do in the scene, but the line is a little blurry. It’s very funny, honestly. I’ve never had a particularly bad experience with that; everybody was nice and respectful. It’s cute to me how they kind of take on that role. You’re in all the garb, and it sort of happens naturally.
S.C.: It was fun talking to the background actors and the guys in the club. They were so curious about what was going on and —
L.N.: “Oh, you really are a stripper?!”
S.C.: In some ways, it did feel like we were at the club. It was respectful, though.
L.S.M.: There’s a fine line. But most people on set didn’t know I was a dancer; they thought I was an actress playing a dancer. And I want to be perceived as what I truly am, which is both, at least for the time being. I’d been struggling with how people would judge me and perceive me. My dad was like, “So, how are you going to market yourself? The stripper who got into a movie, or the actress who got her big break at the strip club?” But now I’m like, “Fuck it. I’m an actress and a stripper. I can do both.”
Were all of the strippers local as well?
L.S.M.: The strippers were all from a couple different New York clubs, including ours. And for the lap dances, Sean was like, “I don’t want you giving a lap dance to some rando.” So he brought in vetted actors. Mikey and I were dancing on one actor topless and he was doing fake cocaine, and it was so funny, but I don’t think that scene made it in. And Sean brought my boyfriend, who’s an actor — it was so nice. He’s in the fight scene. I went home and told my mom and she was like, “Most film directors wouldn’t do that. You can tell he cares.” And when I went off to film at this $20 million mansion owned by Russians in Mill Basin, I was totally blown away. I felt like Ani. I felt like Cinderella.
What else specifically feels different about stripping in a film versus in real life? Is there an added layer of performance?
L.N.: What I love about stripping is that it mimics theater. You’re in a venue, it’s just for tonight, you can really reach out and touch and affect someone personally. As an actor, you can get really conscious of yourself and aware of your sounds and movements and your body. Stripping is the one space where I can be onstage and completely let go. And I feel so in control. “We’re here because I’m hot, and that’s not negotiable, we don’t even have to worry about that.” So this was a good transition into feeling that way on-camera, versus playing, say, a lawyer.
L.S.M.: Stripping for me, sure, there’s an artfulness to it, but for me, it’s a grind. It’s a hustle. It’s business, and it’s about money. I appreciate when people are like, “Oh, you’re so talented and creative, and this is an art form,” but I’m like, “I want $1,000.” Hustling at the club has taught me how to network in Hollywood.
Have you, or anyone you’ve worked with, ever found themselves in an Anora-type situation? How realistic is that sort of thing?
L.S.M.: When I was 21, I met this 50-year-old man who promised me the world. He was extremely rich. We worked out an agreement, a written agreement, that he’d give me $96,000 for a year of weekly meetings. We drew up a contract about what each meeting would look like and what the boundaries were. COVID happened, and he thought COVID was a hoax and wanted me to meet up with him when 800 people a day were dying. I couldn’t do it. He love-bombed me; you start to really care about someone. I’m there for the money, but I have a heart. I ultimately feel like these billionaires don’t have time for real relationships so they pay for a fake one, but he chewed me up and spat me out. It was emotionally devastating. I cried so much during the movie. People don’t talk about the disillusionment and having your heart broken, having someone promise you the world and rip it away from you. But I feel like that was a big learning experience for me. Even though I didn’t get my $96,000, when the clubs reopened and I went back to work, I manifested making that amount. I didn’t get it from him but from myself.
S.C.: People will come in and promise you everything, and it falls apart as easily as it came together.
L.N.: Normally, it’s an older man. So I think it’s even more hurtful when it’s someone who’s close to your age range and they have real chemistry and love for each other. But at the end of the day, Anora is a story about class. It doesn’t matter in what ways they’re similar — the rich have class solidarity in a way that poor people don’t always.
At the press conference today, somebody asked Sean why he keeps making movies about sex workers, and he talked about wanting to remove the stigma. Do you feel like his films do that?
S.C.: I think what it comes down to is opportunities and visibility. I do think Sean nails that. He does put in all of the work necessary in order to make it safe for sex workers. The only stripper who wasn’t a real stripper on set was Mikey.
L.N.: You’re gonna be hard fucking pressed to find another movie where they gave real strippers that many jobs.
S.C.: That’s big. And the time he spent talking to me, to Luna, and other sex workers — that’s much appreciated. I do think it’s important and necessary for society at large and the industry itself to be receptive to sex workers telling and developing their own stories. I’ve met so many incredible people in my community who are more than capable of doing this but who aren’t given the same opportunities because of their background. That needs to change; we can do it. We need an opening.
L.N.: And I think this is the opening, which is so amazing. It could have easily been a bunch of union background people dressed as strippers, or pole-dancing girls. That’s often the case — they get the roles because they’re seen as more professional or palatable. But he sought us out, and now look at the opportunity we have to talk to you — and about our own work.
S.C.: It’s a movie that feels very honest. It isn’t so tragic. And it’s in the official selection at Cannes. People are ready for it, and open to it, and to empathize with our work. I want to ask people to be open and recognize where a stigma is coming from. So much of it is very internalized. When I first started out, I had to go through it, too — to figure out, What has been wired into my brain about sex workers?
L.N.: And I love that Mikey isn’t just the “most likable girl in the world.” She does have a “heart of gold,” but she’s also a bitch. She has to do what she needs to do to control her situation. And it’s seen as her power, which is so important.
S.C.: She’s human!
L.S.M.: And I love that she’s a stripper and an escort. So many strippers are like, “I would never do full service.” It’s like, “Let’s cut that shit out.”
L.N.: Internalized whorephobia in the club. Or strippers who say, “I’m not a stripper. I’m an exotic dancer.” The ladder of privilege. But the further you get outside of the club, the less safe it gets. Black trans women are so vulnerable, specifically, in sex work. We need to understand and accept each other, then reach out to the wider community as well.
L.S.M.: So many people who didn’t know about sex work learned about it from Sean’s films, and because they respect Sean, they want to open doors, too. Not everyone is like that, though. We still have a long way to go. I’ve had so many agents and managers who are like, “But I’m not onboard with what you do for a living.” But Sean is paving the yellow-brick road. There are so many talented sex workers — why hire someone else? He hires real people, which helps destigmatize sex workers and validate them both as sex workers and people who do other shit. There are very few filmmakers who engage with sex work.
L.N.: And who remain engaged after the fact.
S.C.: All of which helps keep them safe — in and outside of the clubs. If a sex worker goes missing or is killed, they’re often labeled as nonhuman. This stuff is really important. We’re here, we’re people.
L.N.: I’m just excited about what this means for us. I’ve spent a lot of time working on Hollywood Boulevard, with industry clients, and you tell them, “I’m a stripper, I want to write and direct,” and they’re like, “Uh, yeah, whatever, I want something from you, good luck with that.” So many people have said, “Because you do this, you aren’t going to be able to do that.” But what I say to those people is, “Fuck you. Because look at where I am — and not in spite of being a sex worker but because of it.”
More on Anora
- Awards Season Starts … Now!
- Anora’s Ending Is No Fairy Tale
- Why Did Sean Baker Avoid Politics in His Films Until Anora?