For months, the actor Karla Sofía Gascón had been reaping the rewards of leading a prestigious film. She plays the title character in Emilia Pérez, about a Mexican cartel boss who transitions into a woman and seeks to build a more virtuous life. The Spanish-language musical has faced waves of backlash since its release last year—but it has also found a devoted fan base among awards bodies.

Gascón was one of its anchors: She delivered an impassioned speech dedicated to the trans community at the Cannes Film Festival, where she shared the Best Actress prize with her castmates. When Emilia Pérez won the Golden Globe for Best Musical or Comedy last month, Gascón movingly addressed the audience. She made history shortly thereafter, becoming the first openly trans performer to earn an Oscar nomination. A relative unknown in the United States, the Spanish actor personified a message of tolerance and acceptance; Emilia Pérez, despite all of the criticism surrounding it, looked to have elevated a star who matched the heroism of Emilia Pérez herself.

But her momentum soon came to a halt. A journalist discovered an array of Gascón’s tweets dating back to 2016 that contained racist language and crude jokes about a range of marginalized communities. In response, the actor stopped following the typical awards-season playbook: She posted defensive updates on Instagram, sent a long-winded statement without the assistance of a public-relations team to The Hollywood Reporter, and personally scheduled a lengthy, tearful interview on CNN en Español. Gascón became Hollywood’s persona non grata, just under a month before the Academy Awards ceremony.

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The actor’s trajectory represents one of the most dramatic implosions of an awards run in Oscars history. Twists and gaffes happening at the tail end of a race—for which this year’s voting round ended on Tuesday—are nothing new. (Gascón’s fellow Best Actress nominee Fernanda Torres weathered her own controversy this season; a clip of her wearing blackface in a comedy sketch resurfaced last month. The I’m Still Here star responded by releasing a measured apology.) But the nature of Gascón’s fall is unusual. Rarely has a nominee’s curated image—that of a righteous up-and-comer, applauded by an industry eager to demonstrate its tolerance—so thoroughly differed from the one conjured by her personal online accounts. Her case is a fascinating look at how industry status can collide with the social-media era: In spite of the awards season’s purported aims to celebrate cinema, a performer’s off-screen narrative can matter just as much as their work.

Gascón’s diminished chances of winning a trophy arguably resulted not so much from the resurfacing of her bigoted tweets, but mainly from the way she diverged from established public-relations guidelines. Oscar campaigns tend to be carefully controlled endeavors, and Netflix, Emilia Pérez’s distributor in the United States, has one of the most experienced awards-strategy teams in Hollywood. The streamer had helped turn Gascón from an unknown in the U.S. into a contender—and on the same day that her old posts garnered attention, Netflix circulated her official apology. “As someone in a marginalized community,” read the standard-issue statement, “I know this suffering all too well and I am deeply sorry to those I have caused pain.”

But soon afterward—and reportedly without clearing her plans with Netflix—Gascón went rogue. She sent The Hollywood Reporter an additional statement claiming that her tweets were misunderstood, at times even by herself. (“Sometimes I, myself, am not even aware of having written something negative,” she wrote.) She shared thoughts on Instagram about her words being taken out of context. And she scheduled the CNN en Español interview, during which she argued that she’d done nothing wrong. She also claimed that her co-stars—including Zoe Saldaña, the Supporting Actress Oscar front-runner—supported her “200 percent,” despite no public evidence that they shared her sentiments. “I have not committed any crime, nor have I harmed anyone,” she said. “I am not a racist, nor am I anything that all these people have taken it upon themselves to try to make others believe I am.”

The more Gascón tried to salvage her reputation by herself, the more those associated with the film pulled away from her. Shortly after Emilia Pérez nabbed 13 Oscar nominations—the most of any movie this year—Netflix began removing billboards in Los Angeles that singled her out; the company has reportedly restricted her access to the team’s travel funds, making it harder for her to attend more precursor award ceremonies. Gascón responded to comments from the film’s director, Jacques Audiard, about her “self-destructive approach” by pledging on Instagram to stay silent going forward. Earlier this month, Netflix’s chief content officer, Bela Bajaria, addressed the scandal, calling the controversy “a bummer.” (The company is also “reevaluating” its strategy for vetting actors’ social-media accounts, she said.)

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Gascón’s attempt to control her image is singular in its audacity. None of her fellow awards contenders this season has made such bold, unfiltered moves while trying to convince Academy voters that they’re worthy of a trophy. Even before her tweets resurfaced, the Emilia Pérez star had begun deviating from the film’s standard promotional press campaign by chiding Torres’s social-media strategy. Criticizing another nominee’s tactics is an inadvisable step for someone on the Oscar track; the act can come off as combative, and the Academy can penalize attacks against fellow contenders. “There are people working with Fernanda Torres tearing me and Emilia Pérez down,” she claimed in an interview. “That speaks more about their movie than mine.” Gascón later retracted the remarks and explained that she wasn’t targeting her competitor, but merely trying to admonish “toxicity and violent hate speech on social media.” And then, when her past social-media posts came up, she completely ignored the rules of how to face a blowback. She could have followed in Torres’s footsteps—the I’m Still Here actor had just demonstrated how effective sticking with a standard mea culpa can be—yet once again, Gascón diverged from the norm.

Not everyone follows the Oscars playbook, of course. But the other most unconventional campaign this year is notable because it’s so thoroughly unlike what Gascón is doing. Timothée Chalamet, who’s up for his performance as Bob Dylan in the musical biopic A Complete Unknown, certainly seems to be defying the rules of typical press tours, surprising his look-alikes at a contest in New York City and riding a Lime bike onto the red carpet at a premiere, among other antics. Chalamet’s efforts have worked in part because he is an established, controversy-free celebrity, a household name with movie-star appeal. If anything, his well-received run so far, even if he doesn’t win the Oscar, underlines what made Gascón’s Hail Mary fail: Chalamet’s calculated, personality-driven stunts evoke the youthful renegade appeal of the cultural icon he played, courting chatter but not criticism.

Meanwhile, Gascón’s defensive behavior, by turns rebellious and inflammatory, undid the storyline she and Netflix had cultivated for months: that the actor intimately understood why Emilia Pérez succeeded with so many awards-season voters, many of whom are Gascón’s peers. Gascón’s character in the film is supposed to epitomize the human capacity for good, and for overcoming flaws with grace. After the actor’s tweets resurfaced, she emphasized that “light will always triumph over darkness” in her Netflix-approved apology; the statement repositioned Gascón as remorseful about her past, just like Emilia had been. But if Gascón appeared to exemplify the film’s message early in its journey toward Oscar glory, she has come to embody a different narrative—that of a shocking, largely self-inflicted public collapse. It’s not the kind that tends to win someone an Oscar.

In the years since it began a committed effort to diversify and expand its membership, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has weathered strikes, the pandemic shutdown of theaters, and constant hand-wringing about declining TV ratings and potential cultural irrelevance. But one trend has remained consistent for the Academy Awards, the voting body’s annual big event: The Academy has been getting more and more international. This year’s nominations, announced today (six days later than planned, after a delay in recognition of the horrific Los Angeles fires), confirmed the extent to which Oscar voters’ tastes have shifted. The French-produced, Spanish-language musical Emilia Pérez received the most nominations of the day, accompanied by several other movies that premiered—and were big hits—at European film festivals.

The Academy nominated 10 films for Best Picture, leaving room for some of the biggest blockbusters of last year. The musical Wicked (10 nominations) and the sci-fi sequel Dune: Part Two (five nominations) were two of 2024’s highest-grossing films, racking up hundreds of millions more in box-office grosses than most of the other Oscar contenders. But if you want to gauge the true awards favorites, looking at the Best Director category, where only five hopefuls get picked, is usually more useful. Each of this year’s directors is a first-time nominee in the category, and four worked on features that mainstream moviegoers might consider unorthodox: Alongside the filmmaker Jacques Audiard’s Emilia Pérez, there’s the indie darling Sean Baker’s Anora, a raunchy dramedy about a sex worker; the actor turned filmmaker Brady Corbet’s 215-minute historical drama, The Brutalist; and the relative newcomer Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance, one of the few horror films in the Academy Awards’ history to resonate with voters. The writer-director James Mangold’s A Complete Unknown—a musical biopic that’s seen as conventionally attractive Oscar fare—stands out as the anomaly of the group. That Mangold’s film was also the only one to skip the international-festival circuit further suggests a turning tide for the Academy’s preferences.

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But Emilia Peréz, which debuted at the Cannes Film Festival last year, is a unique case among those five front-runners—it’s a Netflix-branded movie. The streamer has spent years striving for the Best Picture title, only to narrowly miss out again and again. Netflix made what seemed to be likely bets over the past half decade with Roma, The Irishman, Mank, The Power of the Dog, All Quiet on the Western Front, and Maestro, and over and over again, Netflix’s most prestigious work has gotten a ton of nominations but walked away without the biggest trophy. (In the cases of Roma and The Power of the Dog, the company at least left with the consolation of Best Director.) That track record is partly because of Netflix’s tendency toward backing fairly artsy, auteur-driven movies; the hope apparently has been that a director such as Martin Scorsese and David Fincher would be enough to draw viewers and votes. But the paltry Oscar showing thus far is likely also because, as a streaming-first studio that remains fairly hostile to cinematic releases, Netflix has a more polarizing status in Hollywood than most of its peers.

Could Emilia Pérez be the contender to break that streak? If so, it’ll be a slightly confounding win that could spark another thousand think pieces about the Academy’s continued drift from popular opinion. It’s a non-Hollywood film with very little English dialogue, a gonzo musical about a Mexican cartel leader (played by Karla Sofía Gascón) who fakes her death, transitions into a woman, and then tries to build a more authentic life. Emilia Pérez won major accolades at Cannes, but its post-festival reception has been more muted; it has weathered waves of backlash from multiple sides since its November debut on Netflix. The company has pushed all of its resources into the movie anyway, clearly seeing the potential for nabbing the big prize in a diffuse field; it’s already triumphed at the Golden Globes. But Netflix has come close and missed before, so it’s perhaps too early to be bullish on Emilia Pérez’s chances.

Netflix’s biggest challenger appears to be the distributor A24. The independent company acquired The Brutalist after its successful debut at the Venice Film Festival. The movie is a large-scale American epic made for a comparatively small budget, a supersize film (with an intermission) about topics that have resonated with Oscar voters for decades: tortured male geniuses, the long shadow of World War II and the Holocaust, the struggle of art against commerce. It’s an excellent film, as well as the kind of big movie that has won Best Picture many times. A24 mounted a slow Christmas rollout as a way to build buzz with not just critics but audiences too, including putting the movie on IMAX screens. The plan has worked thus far, and the breadth of awards-season attention, including Oscar nominations for all three main cast members—Adrien Brody, Felicity Jones, and Guy Pearce—might be enough to take the movie all the way. But simmering backlash to The Brutalist’s knottier second act—and, to a lesser extent, some scuttlebutt regarding the use of AI—could do it in; that the feature peaks about halfway through has become something of a prevailing opinion.

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The other big favorites will probably have to settle for slightly less notable trophies. Anora won the Cannes equivalent of Best Picture and has received a slew of other awards nominations, but after getting passed over at the Golden Globes, it somehow feels like an outside shot in every category (except maybe Original Screenplay for Baker). Wicked was an audience sensation that got warm reviews (if not outright raves), but it seems competitive only for the design trophies. Conclave, a robust grown-up drama about the Vatican choosing a new pope, missed a predicted slot in Best Director, suggesting a broad sense of “liked but didn’t love” among voters. Dune: Part Two will be treated as its predecessor was: a technical achievement, first and foremost.

Two smaller-scale nominees that snuck into Best Picture, I’m Still Here and Nickel Boys, benefited from passionate reviews and well-run campaigns by their respective distributors, Sony Pictures Classics and Amazon MGM Studios. Another competitor, The Substance, sustained its festival buzz with a solid box-office run; pundits’ worries that its lurid material might be too polarizing for staid awards voters have now been swept away, and the lead actor, Demi Moore—who won a Golden Globe for her performance earlier this month—looks like the top candidate for the Best Actress trophy. Meanwhile, two films that debuted and played well at North American film festivals—and which critics assumed were in Best Picture contention—ended up just missing out: A Real Pain, which was still nominated for Best Supporting Actor (the recent Golden Globe winner Kieran Culkin is a favorite) and Original Screenplay, and Sing Sing (which got three other nominations, including Best Actor for its star, Colman Domingo).

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The one movie that defies many of the trends among this year’s Oscar crop—particularly its lean toward a more international, film-festival-friendly lineup of nominees—is A Complete Unknown, as old-fashioned an Oscar picture as they come. It’s an American-produced biopic from a reliable, well-liked filmmaker (James Mangold) featuring a major star (Timothée Chalamet) playing a national icon (Bob Dylan); it’s largely traditional but with a slightly arty twist. Critics and theatergoers alike have praised the movie, and Chalamet in particular has enjoyed a great year: Between a buzzy press tour and his starring turn in fellow Best Picture nom Dune: Part Two, he appears to be well positioned to earn Best Actor. But in the end, Chalamet might be too “normie” for the big trophy. That reading stands in stark contrast to the Oscars of even 10 or so years ago, when the Academy favored movies such as Argo and Spotlight, mature Hollywood dramas that told well-known true stories in effective ways. This year’s ceremony, to be hosted by Conan O’Brien on March 2, will demonstrate just how much that consensus has shifted.

*Lead image credit: Illustration by Allison Zaucha / The Atlantic. Sources: Sony Pictures Classics; A24; Page 114 / Why Not Productions / Pathé Films / France 2 Cinéma; Bettmann / Getty.

The following contains spoilers for the films The Substance, The Last Showgirl, and Maria.

In the 1990s, Demi Moore became the kind of movie star whose off-screen activities made more headlines than her acting did: She formed one half of a celebrity power couple with the actor Bruce Willis, posed nude while pregnant on the cover of Vanity Fair, and prompted a bidding war between the producers of Striptease and G.I. Jane, resulting in her being crowned the highest-paid actress in Hollywood. Her fame, when contrasted with some of her forgettable films—The Butcher’s Wife, The Scarlet Letter—turned her into an easy punch line. As the New Yorker critic Anthony Lane sneered at the start of his review of the latter: “What is the point of Demi Moore?”

Look at Moore now. Since the writer-director Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance premiered at the Cannes Film Festival last May, Moore, who stars in the movie, has solidified her position as a serious awards contender for the first time in her career. The actor plays Elisabeth Sparkle, an aging celebrity who takes the titular elixir to produce a younger version of herself. What follows is an excessive and unsubtle display of body horror: After Elisabeth’s nubile clone, Sue (Margaret Qualley), bursts out of her spine, she quickly becomes a starlet who antagonizes Elisabeth. Moore is tremendous, imbuing Elisabeth with a haunting vulnerability as she injects herself again and again with a body- and soul-destroying concoction. On Sunday, the 62-year-old won a Golden Globe—her first—for her performance; she delivered the night’s best acceptance speech, eloquently reflecting on how her career has evolved. “Thirty years ago, I had a producer tell me that I was a ‘popcorn actress’ … that I could do movies that were successful, that made a lot of money, but that I couldn’t be acknowledged [for them]—and I bought in,” she said, choking up. “That corroded me over time to the point where I thought a few years ago that maybe this was it, maybe I was complete, maybe I’ve done what I was supposed to do.” Now Moore is experiencing the classic comeback narrative: the Hollywood veteran reminding audiences that they’ve underrated her talent all along.

She’s one of several actors doing so this awards season, and with roles that explore how rapidly the entertainment industry can turn women into has-beens. In the Gia Coppola–directed The Last Showgirl, Pamela Anderson, 57, plays Shelly, a Las Vegas dancer left to confront her feeling of expendability when the revue she’s been in for decades is set to close. Throughout the intimate film, Shelly insists on her value, echoing Anderson’s own trajectory as someone whose work was never taken seriously. Meanwhile, Pablo Larraín’s gorgeously rendered biopic Maria stars the 49-year-old Angelina Jolie as the opera singer Maria Callas in her final days, struggling to repair her voice and maintain her composure. Jolie, like Callas, has endured an especially tricky relationship with the A-list; she’s been a tabloid mainstay in spite of her artistic ventures.

[Read: What is it about Pamela Anderson?]

Elisabeth, Shelly, Maria—all are women who can’t resist the spotlight despite its cruelty. The films about them interrogate the true price of their fame, exploring how their chosen field turns youth into an addiction. Films such as All About Eve, Death Becomes Her, and Sunset Boulevard have long proved the endurance of these themes. The Substance, The Last Showgirl, and Maria go further, however, exemplifying how this lifelong pursuit of beauty is also an act of constant self-deception. Fear, not vanity, animates each woman; losing their celebrity means losing their sense of worth. “It’s not about what’s being done to us,” Moore said of The Substance in an interview. “It’s what we do to ourselves.”

The actors who portray these characters have all coincidentally, and conversely, returned to the spotlight by embracing their age. Each has achieved a so-called career renaissance as a result. But such appreciation can be a double-edged sword: Anointing older female performers as “comebacks” concedes to, and maybe even reinforces, the rigid expectations Hollywood has placed on them. Of these three films, The Substance most clearly establishes that tension as something more than just tragic. The effort to retain an ingénue-like appeal, Fargeat’s fable posits, is both irresistible and preposterous.

The Substance almost immediately pushes the idea that the endless quest for beauty produces its own kind of overpowering high: After she emerges from Elisabeth’s back, Sue—housing Elisabeth’s consciousness—begins to examine her body in the mirror. She relishes her appearance, gazing at her face and running her hands over her smooth features; Elisabeth, meanwhile, clings to life, sprawled on the floor with her hair fanned out and her spine split open. Sue then auditions for the television executive who had just fired her older self. Never mind that the network callously discarded Elisabeth once she turned 50: Given the opportunity to be gorgeous and “perfect” once more, Sue heads straight for the gig that she knows cares about little beyond her looks.

Then again, this is the only life Sue knows. Her identity is rooted in Elisabeth’s experiences; Elisabeth believes that her value is her supposed flawlessness—a punishing worldview that neither she nor Sue can escape. The film’s most penetrating terror, then, is rooted not in the way Fargeat makes every mutilation squelchily gross, but in how Elisabeth and Sue sabotage themselves as a result of their insecurities. The pair are supposed to switch consciousnesses every seven days for the drug to work, but when Sue spends more time awake than she should, Elisabeth ages. The sight of her wrinkled skin repels her, and she responds with searing self-hatred, chastising herself by binge-eating. One especially chilling sequence doesn’t involve body horror at all: It just shows Elisabeth readying herself for a date, only to give up as soon as she catches the smallest glimpse of her reflection in a door handle.

The women in The Last Showgirl and Maria similarly cannot move past their fixation on the fame they enjoyed when they were younger. Shelly, the Las Vegas dancer, reaches out to her estranged daughter, only for the relationship to fall apart as Shelly insists on the importance of the revue. Jolie’s ailing Maria finds comfort in a dangerous sedative called Mandrax, which causes hallucinations of a journalist pressing her to discuss her legacy. The more these women attempt to figure out who they are beyond their profession, the more they fall back into old habits.

All three films also suggest that their protagonists find their twisted actions thrilling. Maria hides her pills from her household staff with the glee of a child stashing her Halloween candy. Shelly, unlike Elisabeth, makes it to a date with the revue’s stage manager, Eddie (Dave Bautista). She glams herself up in a slinky silver dress and a full face of makeup; as she sits down, she compliments Eddie, and then pauses. “Do I look nice?” she prompts him, grinning widely when he responds affirmatively. And when Elisabeth goes to pick up more boxes of the substance, she acts as if she’s carrying out a pulse-pounding robbery, darting into alleyways and glancing suspiciously at passersby. Keeping up appearances, in other words, delivers an adrenaline rush that justifies the never-ending chase for perfection and acclaim. “Being an artist is solitary, but if you’re passionate about it,” Shelly insists, “it’s worth it.”

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Still, as much as these characters may perpetuate their own pain, the movies aren’t seeking to condemn their choices. Instead, they scrutinize the consequences of a lifetime spent facing society’s insurmountable and fickle pressures. These women don’t seem to consider those who have wronged them to be their antagonists: Eddie is a sympathetic character despite having to close Shelly’s revue, Maria’s critics rarely faze her, and Sue continues to chase the approval of the network executive who fired Elisabeth. Rather, the women’s age and perceived attractiveness pose ever-present threats to their livelihood. The Substance captures this best; the camera leers at Sue and Elisabeth both, closing in on their hyper-sexualized bodies. The costumes are replete with garish hues. The production design transforms Los Angeles into a phantasmagoric nightmare from which Elisabeth cannot be roused—as herself or as Sue. Her only solution is to allow her burdens to consume her. Turning external pressures into brutal obsessions is a metamorphosis as visceral as that of a younger self bursting forth from your back.

In its high-concept outrageousness, The Substance lands on a catharsis that’s missing from The Last Showgirl and Maria. The two latter films end with a mournful—and frustratingly hollow—air of resignation: Shelly is seen performing in one of her last shows after enduring a humiliating audition for a new program, and Maria dies at home after a final hallucination, of an orchestra accompanying her while she sings an aria. The Substance’s conclusion is anything but elegiac, however. Sue, after killing Elisabeth during a violent showdown, takes the substance herself, even though the drug is supposed to work only on its original subject. Out of her spine emerges a creature with too many appendages, body parts in the wrong places, and Elisabeth’s face protruding from her back. Yet she—dubbed “Monstro Elisasue”—does what Sue did when she was “born.” She admires herself in the mirror. She primps and preens. As she gets dressed, she even pokes an earring into a strip of flesh.

Yet as soon as Monstro Elisasue steps onstage, she repulses her audience. They gawk, and then they scream, and then, drenched in the blood that starts spewing from her body, they run. It’s an utterly ludicrous ending—and a liberating one. Only Elisabeth’s face remains as Monstro Elisasue stumbles out onto the streets of Los Angeles and melts into a bloody mess. She leaves with the last laugh, cackling as she pauses over her star on the Walk of Fame. And Moore, in those frames, is transcendent, her expression ecstatic and maniacal and unhinged. What is the point of Demi Moore? Perhaps it’s to reveal how sophomoric such questions were in the first place.