It’s surprisingly difficult to find a film or television show that portrays the world of dance with honesty and depth. Perhaps that’s why Amy Sherman-Palladino and Daniel Palladino – creators of Gilmore Girls and The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel – decided to take on the challenge with Étoile, a comedy that bears their trademarks: sharp wit, dizzying dialogue, and inclusive narratives.
For those who have spent years at the barre and on stage, watching how the world of ballet is portrayed can be deeply frustrating. Most audiovisual productions reduce the discipline to unrealistic stereotypes: Protagonists who, without ever having trained, become dance prodigies overnight. Classical dancers who abandon ballet for hip-hop as if it were an obligatory narrative rebellion. Absurd subplots that divert the focus from the reality of the craft. And, actors with no dance training who are not replaced by professional body doubles, as if a few weeks of rehearsal could replace years of demanding physical, technical, and emotional training.
In Étoile, you can see the care with which the Palladinos handle dance. They consulted dance professionals, and Amy herself has been part of the dance world since her childhood. That background knowledge translates into plots, dialogue, and jokes that are both believable and deeply anchored in the current reality of ballet. It’s not perfect, but far from falling into caricatures, Étoile builds a story around a group of peculiar characters – because, let’s face it, artists are often eccentric and that also deserves to be told with authenticity.
The big fictional ballet star in Étoile, Cheyenne Toussant (Lou de Laâge), names this truth. While interrogating the young man who falls in love with up-and-coming ballerina Mishi Duplessis (Taïs Vinolo), Cheyenne shoots him a heartfelt warning, asking “Do you really want to be with a ballerina? We’re weird.” And she’s not exaggerating. Mishi, for example, has lived in New York for years, but she doesn’t know Brooklyn – her life is spent among the halls of Lincoln Center. She doesn’t know how to behave in a bar with people her age, she doesn’t know what to talk about because dancers develop a language of their own, a distinct routine, a way of being in the world. Like many dancers, Mishi is one of the first to leave any party: she has rehearsal first thing in the morning. That level of commitment is challenging to understand from the outside, and Étoile portrays it accurately.
Such details, which probably go unnoticed by many, bring veracity to a subject little explored on the screens, nowadays oversaturated with medical, legal, and criminal dramas. On this occasion, the story focuses on a universe that many women have dreamed of – even without ever having set foot in a dance studio – but which is rarely represented with any real depth or realism on screen.
Moreover, the show avoids falling into the usual clichés and dares to explore contemporary narratives that sharply reflect the current state of the dance world. A world where printed programs can be replaced by QR codes and where the traditional stage coexists – and sometimes competes – with viral choreographies on TikTok. Étoile is aware that dancers were hit hard during the pandemic when training was impossible and many were forced to reinvent themselves from home. This tension between the classical and the digital, between tradition and immediacy, runs through the series smartly.
In addition to technological satire, Étoile explores the harsh reality of how art spaces must survive today. Because, although for artists, art is always above money, without funding there is no ballet. This is how we meet the charismatic villain Crispin Shamblee (Luke Kirby), who hides behind a mask of politeness and love for dance. An arms dealer who profits off terrorists and mercenaries, he represents the most painful contradiction: he is the only figure willing to finance the temporary merger of two major dance companies. The dilemma is brutal: sell your soul to the devil or see centuries of artistic tradition disappear. And in that conflict, even the most upright artists end up giving in.
Throughout history, many artists have depended on benefactors to boost their careers. On many occasions, that money, which helps in the creation of ideas that transcend their times, is tainted with blood. With the character of Crispin, the Palladinos are not building a simple morality tale, but a deep reflection on how ethical dilemmas intersect with the need to preserve art.
The plot neither justifies nor simplifies Shamblee’s sins. It shows an uncomfortable scenario where ballet, if it wants to survive, is forced to accept unthinkable alliances. And while that may seem extreme, a comment thrown out by a secondary character puts it all in perspective: “Do people still do ballet?” That question sums up the disconnect. Some might believe the dance form is something from centuries past, while others dedicate their lives to it, and others still invest all their free time to please algorithms with moves descended from ballet.
