It was sometime in middle school, though I can’t remember my exact age, that I was first introduced to Misty Copeland. At the time, the fig labeled “dancer” still swayed in my fig tree of desires, and in an effort to reach it, I indulged in anything relating to the topic. Copeland’s 2016 memoir, Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina, found its way into my hands. With a quick checkout from the school library, I read and read; absorbing her knowledge and turning it into my own. I remember feeling seen in her words and motivated by her passion. She wanted to be great, and she wanted to be remembered. The brilliance was blinding, and my love for the art form strengthened, but only momentarily. Like the cultural zeitgeist of modern times, with growth, ballet became overlooked. But unlike some, my admiration still lingered.  

 I knew that under the pointe shoe, lay a reality of bloody toes rubbed raw from the fabric. I understood that to exist within the arts meant to completely offer yourself to others, whether they choose to watch or not. And I learned it all from Misty. 

 Almost 10 years later, during the release of A24’s film Marty Supreme, Copeland returned in my perspective carrying her earned aura of greatness. As a way of promoting the movie, photos of cultural figures dawning the official “Marty Supreme bomber jacket” circulated the internet. Copeland just so happened to be one of the chosen figures.  

 Only a few weeks later, Timothée Chalamet, the lead actor in Marty Supreme, joined Matthew McConaughey at Variety and CNN’s “town hall” at the University of Texas. In their conversation, both actors discussed cinema’s prevalence, one that Chalamet took at the expense of comparison. A comparison that directly belittled a voice that had promoted his own. 

 “I don’t want to be working in ballet or opera where it’s like ‘Hey, keep this thing alive, even though no one cares about this anymore,’ he said. “All respect to the ballet and opera people out there,” he follows, an attempt to sugar-coat the loaded statement. 

 In the realm of online domains, opinions, like Chalamet’s, become all-consuming. I once heard this dynamic explained with an analogy of liking pancakes or waffles. No matter which side you pick, you’re wrong. An “I like waffles” is returned with a “Oh, so you hate pancakes?” and the space for explanation is non-existent. We are loyal to things we love, and that love can be blinding.  

As I read online discourse pertaining to Chalamet’s remarks, some agreeing with the actor, most, however, finding them entitled, I found myself divided. I mean, I like Timothée Chalamet. I’ve watched him go from an underground actor, into an Oscar-nominated heartthrob. And just like Misty, I’ve admired Chalamet’s strive to be one of the greats.  

 But like the discussion and opinions from behind the screens, the young actor’s passion now titters on all-consuming. Accessibility has been mistaken for success, and in a battle for longevity that nobody is winning, an ego inflates. To be great, Chalamet needs an underdog. Though, I doubt Misty ever needed one.