Fyodor Bondarchuk’s TV project, written by Paulina Andreeva, has been pitched as a doorway into the real fears, desires, and ambitions of the actresses who populate its world. Public statements describe it as a story that could overturn viewers’ assumptions about the lives behind the performances. Yet the series largely reinforces the conventional arc: fame remains elusive for many, and only a few catch a lucky break. The show largely confirms the predictable pattern rather than subverting it.
Actresses unfolds in three acts, a structure some may grin at given Andreeva’s prior work. The narrative impression leans toward somber realism, tracing a span from 2014 to 2020. Time passes, but the participants’ lives fail to undergo meaningful change. A handful stage loud comebacks, others fade away, and some never ignite in the first place. The drama tends to reduce the character knots to echoes that are resolved only in the offscreen, muffled space behind the stage lights.
That is not inherently problematic for a biographical slice that doesn’t deliver a traditional upward arc; audiences do show interest in these portraits. Films like Sam Mendes’ Empire of Light hint at the aging echoes of cinema’s past, a mood the series sometimes captures. The drawback, however, is that Actresses does not quite live up to its title. The show hints at a feminist throughline in its scope, yet it opens with an extended focus on Hera, a figure who recedes as the central action unfolds around Polina, Alena, and Oksana rather than staying anchored with Hera. The main stories appear to orbit these three protagonists first, with other personalities appearing in a supporting role before returning to the margins.
In the opening sequence, Hera exits the scene for good, and her absence continues to cast a long shadow, effectively anchoring the series as a history about the women themselves. The narrative then introduces a few additional, somewhat clumsy male figures who seem to pull attention away from the central actresses and toward secondary drama. The result is a shifting focus that often distracts from the very lives the show intends to illuminate.
Paulina Andreeva’s writing raises questions about the author’s stance toward the audience. If Actresses is meant to express a certain desperation within the female experience in a high-profile, competitive field, and if it seeks to lay bare the relentless push to achieve something in a world that often rewards the margin rather than the middle, then the series can be read as achieving that aim. Bondarchuk’s involvement, a partnership seen by some as a support for a feminist argument, adds a layer of thematic tension, particularly in a cultural moment where nostalgia for the past remains a powerful draw for viewers. The musical selections and performances evoke a sense of memory associated with the era and with the era’s iconic figures, echoing a feel that is both intimate and indulgent.
The challenge for Actresses is that it seems reluctant to center sexism and gender bias as driving forces within Russian cinema and theatre. Instead, the mood often shifts toward a romanticized portrait of a glamorous, unpredictable life, where beauty and notoriety can coexist in surprising ways. The effect is a show that feels both lavish and evasive, where the most dramatic truth may lie in how vividly the characters perceive their own circumstances rather than in the structural critique of their industry. In the end, the drama signals that it is acceptable to walk away, yet the possibility of return lingers, inviting viewers to reconsider the balance between spectacle and substance.