Étoile: What Does it Mean to Put Dance on Screen?
Like many, my introduction to dance didn’t solely rely upon attending ballet performances; it was coupled with a downright obsession with arguably one of the best renditions of a competitive arts show to hit television circa 2005, So You Think You Can Dance. The show featured dancers from all walks of life, competing weekly to be voted on by the American populace to seal their fate as “America's favorite dancer.” At seven years old, I implicitly understood the thrill and purpose of the show: to watch the contestants evolve into the best, most virtuosic versions of themselves. These values weren’t just sewn into the fabric of the show; they lived within me. The series successfully coaxed and nurtured my belief in the promises dance offers: community, self-expression, harmony created between music and movement, and of course, the momentous triumph it is to embody Beauty.
Every Wednesday at 7 PM central, I pranced into my parents' room and jumped atop their bed to watch my favorite show. Sure, there were emotional backstories and partnerships made, but at the heart of it was a joyous devotion to the power of dance and its dissemination across the globe. Their routines embedded themselves in my soft, tiny head so much so that songs like Natasha Leon’s “Bleeding Love” and “Mercy” by Amy Winehouse were some of my first downloads on my iPod. Needless to say, my expectations are high when it comes to TV that revolves around dance- maybe even recklessly romantic, as it single-handedly cemented my fate as an artist who doesn’t just chase the spotlight but routinely reveres it.
When I heard about Amy Sherman-Palladino’s newest dance show, Etoile, I was tentatively optimistic. The pull of Gilmore Girls nostalgia melded with my first love, televised dance — what could be better? As I began to watch, my naive flickers of hope slowly diminished, leaving me in the dark, with more questions than answers. Namely, what is it that makes the dance world so challenging to capture on screen?
Despite the excitement surrounding the cast of technically skilled dancers, boasting principals like Tiler Peck, Unity Phelan, Robby Fairchild, etc., the series was canceled after its first season. While there are salient parts of the show like classic quippy Palladino banter and comedic snippets of dramatized dance performances, I continually found a bemused dissatisfaction creep up on me. Despite the use of such high-caliber dancers in dressing rooms or as scenic backdrops, there were very few clips of actual dancers dancing. Because of this, the series failed to hold my attention the way watching a plain-old rehearsal clip might.
In episode 5, Luke Kirby and Charlotte Gainsbourg’s characters present a dance documentary at Film Forum. They sit in the audience, remarking to one another about how they’ve seen the movie hundreds of times and how much they adore it. In Episode 4, Kirby lies atop his cushy sofa in his office, watching old dance videos of NYCB in a stupor, the videos providing relief, idealism, and hope to the formerly dejected artistic director. It’s immediately clear that the power of dance on screen is a remedy for him, as it is for all dancers. These snippets showcase the creators of the show’s comprehension that dance on screen has inherent value and purpose; however, in the grand scheme, are incapable of translating the principle to the overarching structure of the show.
Étoile attempts to spoon-feed dance to the public whilst simultaneously reducing ballet to punchlines. Instead of trusting the layperson and balletomane alike to follow the bureaucratic conflicts or grasp the dance terminology, the writing opts to overexplain through convoluted comedy. Through watching, I realized how challenging and rare it is for television to truly honor dance and permit the art form to speak for itself. Perhaps my dismay in Etoile is just further proof of how much I continue to believe in the possibility of televised dance.