Rise

The sound of a career ending shouldn't be a thunderclap; in Cédric Klapisch’s Rise (En Corps), it’s a sickening, quiet pop. We’re at the Paris Opera, watching Elise, a prima ballerina at the height of her powers, realize her boyfriend is cheating on her through the stage curtains. Seconds later, she hits the floor. It’s a double fracture—emotional and physical—and the doctor’s prognosis is a death sentence for a 26-year-old: she might never dance again.

I watched this while recovering from a particularly aggressive flu, and seeing someone successfully navigate a physical crisis while I struggled to reach for the Gatorade felt strangely aspirational. It’s the ultimate "pivot" movie for a generation currently obsessed with the "Great Resignation" and the "Side Hustle." In our current moment, where we’re all constantly re-evaluating if our pre-pandemic career paths actually make us happy, Rise feels like a warm, sweaty hug that tells us it’s okay to burn the old map.

The Beauty of the Real

What immediately separates Rise from the Black Swan school of ballet-as-horror is the casting of Marion Barbeau. She isn't an actress who took a three-month crash course in barre work; she is a real-life première danseuse at the Paris Opera Ballet. This choice is transformative. In an era of seamless CGI and de-aging, there is something revolutionary about seeing the actual tension in a dancer's calf muscles and the genuine exhaustion in her eyes.

When Marion Barbeau moves, the camera doesn’t have to hide her feet or cut away to a double. We see the grueling reality of what it takes to be "perfect," which makes her eventual transition to contemporary dance feel like a genuine liberation. Most dance movies are just Step Up with more weeping; this is Step Up with a PhD in human resilience.

Klapisch, who has spent his career documenting the messy, interconnected lives of Europeans (most famously in The Spanish Apartment), avoids the "tortured artist" tropes. Instead, he leans into the ensemble. We follow Elise to a residency in Brittany, where she joins a catering crew for a contemporary dance troupe. It’s here the movie finds its heartbeat. It’s less about a "comeback" and more about a "becoming."

The Klapisch Collective

The supporting cast is a "who’s who" of modern French cinema, providing the comedy that keeps the drama from becoming too self-serious. Pio Marmaï and François Civil are absolute scene-stealers. François Civil, playing a quirky, slightly-too-intense physiotherapist, brings a frantic energy that balances Elise’s quiet stoicism. His character feels like a nod to the wellness-obsessed culture we live in—he’s trying to fix the body, but he’s also kind of a mess himself.

Then there’s Denis Podalydès as Elise’s father, a man who communicates mostly through silence and disappointment. Their relationship is the emotional anchor of the film. It isn't a flashy, shouting-match type of conflict; it’s the realistic, low-grade friction of a parent who doesn't know how to support a child whose world has collapsed.

The inclusion of real-life choreographer Hofesh Shechter (playing himself) adds another layer of contemporary authenticity. The scenes of his troupe practicing are filmed with a grounded, earthy energy. There’s no glitter here, just sweat and the sound of bare feet hitting the floor. It represents a shift in the cultural conversation about art—moving away from the rigid, aristocratic perfection of the past toward something more communal and raw.

A Soundtrack for the Now

The score is worth the price of admission alone. It’s a collaboration between Hofesh Shechter and Thomas Bangalter (one half of the legendary Daft Punk). In a post-Daft Punk world, hearing Bangalter’s influence here is a treat. It bridges the gap between the classical and the modern, echoing Elise’s own journey. The music doesn't just sit in the background; it drives the narrative, pushing Elise toward a new way of inhabiting her own skin.

Rise was released as audiences were trickling back into theaters post-lockdown, and its success in France (outperforming many big-budget Hollywood imports) speaks to its resonance. It captures the feeling of a world that has been collectively injured and is trying to find a new rhythm. It’s a film that respects the discipline of the past but isn't afraid to let it go in favor of a messy, vibrant future.

The movie doesn’t give us a tidy, "happily ever after" ending where all the problems vanish. Instead, it gives us something better: the sight of a woman who has found a way to move through her pain rather than just around it. It’s a beautiful, life-affirming piece of contemporary cinema that reminds me why we go to the movies in the first place—to see ourselves reflected, even if we can’t hit a perfect pirouette.

By the time the credits roll, you’ll likely find yourself stretching your hamstrings or looking up local dance classes. Rise avoids every "troubled artist" cliché to deliver something that feels earned and genuinely joyful. It’s a rare drama that leaves you feeling lighter than when you started, proving that sometimes, the best thing that can happen to you is your original plan falling apart.