Ballerina

The Choreography of Vengeance

The central tragedy of the *John Wick* universe has always been its suffocating inevitability. It is a world where every debt is collected, every marker is called, and the only exit is death. *Ballerina*, directed by Len Wiseman, attempts to pirouette within the narrow narrative sliver between *Parabellum* and *Chapter 4*, asking a question that haunts all franchise expansions: Can the satellite shine without the star? The answer, delivered through a hail of shattered porcelain and flamethrower fire, is a breathless, imperfect "yes"—though the film often feels like it is dancing in shoes that don't quite fit.

Wiseman, best known for the sleek, leather-clad goth-opera of *Underworld*, is an intriguing, if occasionally discordant, choice to inherit the neon-noir baton from Chad Stahelski. Where the mainline *Wick* films operate with the mythic silence of a western, *Ballerina* is noisier, scrappier, and decidedly more anxious. The visual language shifts from the high-contrast, comic-book primaries of Wick’s world to a colder, steel-grey and purple bruising. It suggests a universe that is not just dangerous, but actively decaying.

At the center of this decay is Eve Macarro, played with feral commitment by Ana de Armas. If Keanu Reeves’ Baba Yaga is a glacier—unstoppable, cold, massive—de Armas is a brushfire. She lacks Wick’s monk-like stoicism, replacing it with a trembling, tear-stained rage that feels desperately human. The choreography reflects this shift brilliantly. Eve does not move with the economized efficiency of a master; she scrambles, she bites, she uses the environment like a cornered animal.

There is a standout sequence involving the smashing of dinner plates that encapsulates the film's distinct energy. It isn't the "gun-fu" ballet we expect; it is messy, domestic chaos turned lethal, a rejection of the "cool" factor in favor of raw survival. Later, when the film escalates to the much-discussed flamethrower set piece, the screen erupts in an orange fury that feels cathartic, burning away the cool blue cynicism that often plagues modern action cinema.

However, the film struggles to escape the gravitational pull of its parent series. The narrative beats—orphanhood, training montages within the Ruska Roma, the hunt for a high-ranking villain (Gabriel Byrne’s Chancellor)—feel like covers of a song we know by heart. The presence of franchise stalwarts, including a cameo by Wick himself, serves less as a bridge and more as a reminder of the void left when they exit the frame. The script occasionally collapses under the weight of its own lore, prioritizing the "rules" of the High Table over the beating heart of Eve’s personal loss.

Yet, *Ballerina* succeeds because it understands that in this world, performance is everything. Eve is training for a recital of violence, and the film treats her vengeance not as a mission, but as an art form she must master to survive. It is a jagged, imperfect entry, lacking the pure architectural perfection of *John Wick: Chapter 4*, but it possesses a scrappy soulfulness. It proves that while John Wick may be the ghost that haunts this machine, there is still blood—warm, messy, and alive—pumping through its veins.