armenianweekly.com. Sean Baker’s Anora, a film that features not only two Armenian actors but also plenty of dialogue in the Armenian language, took home several awards at the Oscars this year. Karren Karagulian and Vache Tovmasyan walked onto the stage of the Dolby Theatre on March 2, 2025, to accept Hollywood’s highest accolade—an undeniably celebratory moment for America’s Armenian diaspora. They look Armenian, they speak Armenian, their names are Armenian, they’re born in Yerevan and now they own that shiny gold trophy. One cannot deny that this is a massive success, considering that Armenian representation is incredibly rare in the media and beyond.
Anora follows a young sex worker in New York named Anora (Ani) who impulsively marries Vanya, the son of a Russian oligarch, entangling herself in his family affairs. Vanya’s security guards—two Armenian men—learn of the marriage and spend several days trying to wrangle Ani and Vanya into annulling the marriage, per orders from Vanya’s parents in Russia. This narrative drives the chaos, humor and excitement, making for an inarguably entertaining and thoughtful film.
The Armenian security guards, Toros and Garnik, speak Eastern Armenian, cursing and scheming as they bicker with Ani and hunt for Vanya. For those who understand the Armenian language, their attitudes and speaking styles were both genuine and hilarious, making for a wonderful surprise. Never in my life prior to watching Anora had I heard the word qavor in an AMC theater.
Toros and Garnik were the comic relief in an otherwise dark film. For a native Armenian speaker, the humor is multiplied tenfold, as their jokes carry significant cultural contexts and meanings. However, I left the theater wondering why the Armenian characters were the comic relief in the first place. Though funny, these characters stem from common Armenian stereotypes. I wasn’t fond of their attachments to the Russian oligarchy, specifically as henchmen to a wealthy and corrupt Russian man. Their subservience reflects a stereotype that exists both in Armenia and in the diaspora—one that places Armenians in a hierarchy, beneath the economically more powerful Russians.
Toros, our qavor, is seen exiting a family baptism to take calls from his boss, a shadowy Russian oligarch who happens to be Vanya’s father. Toros and Garnik’s devotion to this oligarchical family and their brat of a son links Armenian culture to suspicious Russian activities. Vanya destroys Anora’s life, spends exorbitant amounts of money and disobeys his family, leaving Toros and Garnik to pick up the pieces. This feeds into existing stereotypes of both Armenians and Russians as slimy and seedy—which I would argue is more harmful to Armenians than Russians, given how infrequently Armenians appear on the silver screen.
By attaching the Armenian characters to Russian social politics and activities in the one film where Armenians even exist in the first place, Anora fails to establish a singular and specific Armenian identity. Realistically, a white American filmmaker like Sean Baker does not owe the Armenian people nuanced and authentic cultural representation, as he never claimed Anora to be that film. However, as an Armenian viewer, I don’t feel that the film advances Armenians as an independent and self-determined people. I certainly would not pinpoint this film as the crux of Armenian representation.
This portrayal is by no means atypical, nor is it entirely unrealistic. The historical and present connections between Armenians and Russians—linguistic, political and social—are undeniable. So is the existence of suspicious activity within the Armenian community, done both in conjunction with Russians and independently. Though ugly and shady, these characterizations stem from a facet of the Armenian reality, which—I hate to admit—almost made the film more funny. I enjoyed watching Toros and Garnik’s shenanigans, but I couldn’t help but wonder about their implications for Armenian representation going forward.
Upon moving to Los Angeles several years ago, I was met with my first instances of anti-Armenian sentiment from American youth. Outside of L.A., Armenian communities tend to be small and overlooked; this shaped my experiences growing up, as it was up to me to positively influence the perception of Armenian culture in places where it was largely unknown. However, since Los Angeles houses the largest concentration of Armenians outside of Armenia, assumptions about Armenian culture are already entrenched.
How convenient.
When I introduce myself to non-Armenians, I am invariably asked about one of four topics: tax evasion, crashed BMWs, cigarettes or the Kardashians. People approach me with such bluntness and confidence, as if I am obligated to attach myself to the joke or reinforce these stereotypes with personal anecdotes. In Los Angeles, the Armenian man is a Borat-adjacent, racially ambiguous, citywide meme. Racist jokes against Armenians are acceptable in L.A., as the Armenian community here is so obnoxious in the eyes of the prejudiced individuals who believe that their Armenian credit card fraud jokes are edgy.
For these reasons, I raised an eyebrow at Anora’s portrayal of Armenian men as this exact caricature. Although this image of the Armenian people reflects a realistic trend that does exist in L.A. and elsewhere, it is disappointing to see it become the singular image of Armenian identity in Hollywood today. Though Toros and Garnik’s identities are not the central element of the story, their portrayals as goofy Russian puppets are reductive and unproductive. Armenians are already so thinly represented in the media, and any mention of Armenian existence, regardless of context, is bound to gain traction within the community.
However, Anora’s representation of Armenians shouldn’t be the basis for people’s assumptions about Armenian culture, nor should it set a precedent for filmmakers to cast Armenians solely as members of a mob or subservient to an oligarchy.
Ultimately, Toros and Garnik are characters that deserve to be celebrated, as they highlight just some of the many roles that Armenians can occupy in film. Hopefully, future films will showcase elements of Armenian culture beyond its connections to Russian oligarchs. In constructing an Armenian image in 21st century cinema, I hope that Anora is simply a starting point, not the foundation.
