Étoile Season 1 Review: A Balletic Spectacle with Sharp Wit

When two premier ballet companies agree to swap their leading lights for a year, the gesture reads less like artistic generosity and more like a cultural Marshall Plan (minus the guitars). Post-pandemic, with audiences thinned out and endowments under siege, Jack McMillan and Geneviève Lavigne—each tethered to their city’s legacy—must treat their dancers as both ambassadors and assets. Crispin Shamblee bankrolls the operation, a benefactor who might as well wear a powder-blue cape labeled “Philanthro-Villain.”

The series unfolds over eight hour-long episodes that feel bifurcated—Act I’s tentative overtures give way to Act II’s combustible reckonings. Midseason, just as the Nutcracker looms, the narrative pivots so sharply it threatens to send you flying off your seat (or pointe shoe). Time is marked by rehearsals, ticket launches and whispered backstage politics, though occasionally one wishes for actual clock faces.

New York’s rehearsal rooms gleam with industrial chic; Paris’s theaters, in contrast, sigh with centuries of footfalls. The cities aren’t mere backdrops but characters in their own right—urban twins separated at birth. Dialogue switches between English pragmatism and French lyricism, each tongue exposing its speakers’ vulnerabilities. This structural framework—swap, split, repeat—mirrors a larger question: can art survive when reduced to strategy?

Personae in Pointe Shoes

Luke Kirby’s Jack McMillan skitters across the frame with the jittery grace of a man who’s seen the budget report and decided on panic as policy. His neurotic energy—a case study in what I’ve dubbed “executive balletocracy”—yields comic flourishes (a raised eyebrow, a muttered aside) that echo screwball heroes of the 1930s (think Cary Grant without the tux).

His sparring sessions with the board feel like trench warfare over who gets the best rehearsal slot. Opposite Charlotte Gainsbourg, his banter shifts from tactical to tender; chemistry crackles, then sighs, betraying a history that’s more entanglement than reunion.

Gainsbourg’s Geneviève anchors the Parisian troupe with steely pragmatism. She wears her passion for ballet beneath a veneer of diplomat-in-tac-tights (her black silk suits a subtle rebellion). Their past romance surfaces in offhand glances—brief as pirouettes—and suggests that love, like art, demands sacrifice. At times she seems callous; at others, incandescently humane. An enigma wrapped in chiffon.

Cheyenne Toussaint (Lou de Laâge) arrives as an ice queen who’s traded protest placards for pointe shoes. There’s an activist’s fire burning behind her cool gaze—her early arrest scene feels lifted from a climate march. Yet she softens with Susu, the young protégé nicknamed “Midnight Piper” for dancing in borrowed slippers after hours. Cheyenne’s mentorship arc balances iron will with dry wit (a dolphin imitation, anyone?). She proves that vulnerability can be stageworthy.

Tobias Bell (Gideon Glick) is a choreography savant shackled by self-doubt. Permanently wired into his headphones—his Crest-toothpaste lament might as well be a war cry—he embodies culture shock on pointe. His slow-burn rapport with Gabin (Ivan du Pontavice) surfaces in stolen glances and mirrored steps, an understated defiance against the hegemony of perfection.

Mishi Duplessis (Taïs Vinolo) arrives burdened by pedigree: minister’s daughter, “knee-poh baby” in the wings. Her quest for identity unfolds in tight quarters with her cold mother, each rehearsal a power play. Her arc speaks to anyone who’s danced beneath another’s shadow.

Meanwhile, Susu (LaMay Zhang) and Crispin Shamblee (Simon Callow) flit through as wildcard and jester—one fueled by stolen shoes and audacious dreams; the other, a mercurial patron whose smile hides ledger lines. Kelly Bishop, Dakin Matthews and Yanic Truesdale pop in like decorative stage props, each cameo a nod to the Palladinos’ troupe of familiars.

Choreographing Dialogue: Tone and Tempo

From the first scene, Sherman-Palladino’s fingerprints are unmistakable: corkscrew banter and pop-culture toss-offs that ricochet like mercury in a teacup. (I might call this “lexi-choreography,” a term for dialogue that pirouettes at breakneck speed.) Running gags—think board-room one-upmanship over whose dog has more followers—sit alongside intimate mother-daughter duets, where every line hints at unspoken history.

Female dynamics hold particular sway. These women trade quips with the precision of a pas de deux, forging alliances that feel as authentic as old-world sisterhood yet spark with modern edge. Their conversations are a study in contrasts: fierce solidarity one moment, gentle vulnerability the next.

The series navigates whimsy and weight with a surprising deftness. Office pratfalls—tights on backwards, ballet-slipper thefts—lighten scenes that might otherwise cradle the art form’s brutal physical toll. Still, jokes never undercut the gravity of dinged bones or shattered ambitions; humor becomes a kind of emotional first aid.

Then, halfway through, the tonal shift arrives like an unexpected coda. Episodes four through six veer into darker territory—twists dropped so abruptly they can feel random, yet they inject fresh momentum. Time markers remain coy (what month is it, again?), which occasionally muddles stakes but also evokes ballet’s own elastic sense of time—suspended, then snapped back into sharp focus.

Architecture in Motion: Design & Direction

The series treats its venues as co-stars. Lincoln Center’s vast foyers breathe polished ambition (a nod, perhaps, to grand postwar optimism), while Palais Garnier’s gilded halls whisper echoes of 19th-century decadence. The Opéra Comique—less famed, but no less storied—offers a quieter authenticity, as though ballet’s democratization rested on its less opulent stage. (I call this “heritage framing,” where camera placement negotiates between reverence and relevance.)

Inside these “living” backdrops, the interplay of light and space becomes a philosophical argument: can art survive in glass-and-steel behemoths as convincingly as in century-old stone? Wide Steadicam sweeps across rehearsal studios evoke a bureaucratic ballet—dancers arranged like cogs—while full-stage framing during performances restores a communal grandeur, recalling Eisenstein’s montage theory in living color (albeit with fewer intertitles).

Costuming and props execute a parallel dialectic. Bruised pointe shoes—sputniks of sacrifice—sit beside immaculate rehearsal attire that resembles corporate casual (a subtle critique of ballet’s commodification). Period details—a ticket stanchion from the 1950s, a vintage gas lamp in a Parisian alley—anchor the story in a temporal palimpsest where past and present cohabit uneasily.

Directorial shifts accentuate these tensions. Scott Ellis–helmed episodes feel like arias: measured, almost operatic in pacing. By contrast, Palladino’s own segments pulse with “dialogue kineticism,” rapid cuts that mirror her signature speech rhythms. The transition between these modes can jar—yet that dissonance underscores the series’ central paradox: classical art under modern duress.

Ultimately, the show’s visual grammar situates ballet within a broader sociocultural choreography, prompting us to ask whether beauty demands stasis or if, like the camera itself, it must remain in ceaseless motion.

Movement, Melody & Metaphor

The series treats its choreography like a political manifesto: classic Tchaikovsky pas de deux (the old guard) collide with Copland-inflected moderne (the insurgents). One moment, you’re swept into a white-act reverie; the next, angular contemporary leaps crackle with defiance (I’ve started calling this “stylistic insurgency”).

Staging favors long takes and ensemble tableaux—no sweaty close-ups to fetishize pain. When the camera lingers on a corps de ballet, you sense communal struggle rather than a single prima donna’s spotlight. Highlight reels arrive sparingly—one breathtaking pas de deux here, a thunderous group finale there—so when they land, your jaw actually screams.

Sound design plays its own pas de silence. Orchestral underscores swell like suppressed emotions, then abruptly give way to diegetic rehearsal tracks: the scrape of pointe shoes, the teacher’s sharp counts. In certain scenes, silence reigns—just hollow wings and echoing footfalls—reminding you that absence can be as potent as crescendo.

For those who’ve never set foot in a studio, the show sidesteps jargon by trading diagrams for dialogues. Mentor-mentee moments—Cheyenne guiding Susu through arabesques—serve as mini-masterclasses, where form meets feeling. It’s technical enough to earn a nod from insiders, yet clear enough that you don’t need a glossary to appreciate a grand jeté.

Occasionally, this balance falters. A midseason sequence indulges in so much flash that it risks losing narrative pulse. Still, when dance, music and meaning align, you glimpse how art can reflect societal rhythms—each beat a commentary on ambition, exile or solidarity.

Tensions Beneath the Tulle

Art and commerce spar like rival dancers. Jack’s boardroom pleas for ticket targets echo a mercantile drumbeat that threatens to drown out Tchaikovsky’s strains. Ballet becomes a market commodity—footfalls counted like quarterly earnings.

Displacement scars identity. Cheyenne in Manhattan, Tobias in Paris—they’re cultural cosmonauts cast adrift. Mishi’s label as “nepo-baby” (her mother’s patronage a gilded cage) contrasts with Susu’s barefoot ingenuity, forcing us to weigh privilege against grit.

At the heart is mentorship as inheritance. Cheyenne’s stern guidance of Susu could be dubbed the “second-act renaissance”—a passing of metaphorical torches. Jack’s fragile coaching of Tobias reveals that legacy demands both empathy and authority. Meanwhile, Bruna’s hammer-and-anvil approach to Mishi underscores how maternal rigor shapes artistic will.

Elsewhere, filial love thrives in rivulets. Bruna’s icy counsel thaws only when Mishi stages her autonomy—proof that tough love can seed self-determination. These mother-daughter duets resonate beyond the studio, mirroring generational clashes across history (the suffragettes vs their tethered daughters).

Romance lurks in the wings. Cheyenne and Gael drift like distant pas de deux—drawn together, yet too under-rehearsed to captivate. Tobias and Gabin, however, glide in sync, their slow-burn allure suggesting that devotion sometimes requires a gradual lever. Emotion in every plié.

Framing the Footnotes

The series sometimes sinks into a kind of chronometric fog—temporal markers feel scarce, making the passage from Nutcracker season to spring pointe work feel elliptical rather than sequential. A few explicit dates or even passing on-screen calendars would cut through the haze.

Romantic threads struggle for rehearsal time. Cheyenne and Gael’s history unspools in last-minute plot pirouettes that undercut emotional stakes. By contrast, Tobias and Gabin benefit from a “slow-unfold” approach—a reminder that intimacy resists snap edits.

With a cast this large, minor characters risk vanishing like unseen corps de ballet members. Better ensemble choreography—rotating spotlight scenes or mini-arcs—could ensure every dancer leaves an imprint (not just the marquee names). The midseason tonal swerve feels like two different shows spliced together. Some viewers may relish the jolt; others will long for a steadier rhythm.

Ideal for Palladino completists and ballet buffs, “Étoile” offers rich layers for repeat viewing. Casual audiences might sample standout episodes or curated dance highlights to stay engaged.

Full Credits

Directors: Amy Sherman-Palladino, Daniel Palladino

Writers: Amy Sherman-Palladino, Daniel Palladino, Dany Héricourt, Thomas Ward, Jen Kirkman, Isaac Oliver

Producers and Executive Producers: Amy Sherman-Palladino, Daniel Palladino, Dhana Rivera Gilbert, Scott Ellis

Cast: Luke Kirby, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Lou de Laâge, Gideon Glick, David Alvarez, Ivan du Pontavice, Taïs Vinolo, David Haig, LaMay Zhang, Simon Callow, Yanic Truesdale, Kelly Bishop

Editors: Tim Streeto, Zana Bochar