Rachael "Raygun" Gunn scored zero points at the Paris 2024 Olympics. That performance — three rounds of breaking that spawned endless memes, an impression on Jimmy Fallon's late-night show and a parody musical — now has its own Netflix documentary, Raygun: Breaking Badly, part of the streamer's Untold series.

The film reconstructs how Gunn, an Australian b-girl, reached the Olympics at all. According to the documentary, she faced limited competition at the qualifier and squeaked through with a decent enough showing. Then reality set in. Gunn realized the Olympic judges would mostly reward power moves, never her strength, and anxiety took over. After scoring zero in her first two rounds in Paris, she pulled out the oddball moves her husband and coach had choreographed as an homage to Australia — including the now-iconic kangaroo pose.

"Watching the documentary, it's clear she knew she wasn't ready," says Ivan "Flipz" Velez, a longtime b-boy who judged some of the final qualifying rounds for Paris. He spoke to Dance Magazine four days after the documentary debuted, having already watched it four times, trying to make sense of how Gunn slipped through the cracks.

On one level, it is hard not to feel sympathy for Gunn, who endured severe online abuse and harassment simply for dancing. Others found her performance not just silly but offensive — particularly because Gunn wrote her PhD dissertation on breaking. "How do you have a doctorate and you lack the simple knowledge of the ABCs of breaking?" Velez asks. "Did you even study the culture?"

Tiffany Bong, a hip-hop dance artist and assistant professor at the University of Southern California, says the Paris moment remains a lightning rod. "When my students hear about the Olympics and breaking," she says, "they still all think of one thing: Raygun."

Not everyone in the breaking community chose to engage with the film at all. Multiple artists contacted by Dance Magazine declined to watch it, or said they did not want to give more oxygen to the Raygun narrative.

Bong raises a sharper objection. "You have a woman who's not from the original community, who's benefiting from culture from Black and brown communities — people that are still alive today," she says. The global platform Gunn has received since the Olympics, including the documentary itself, could instead have shed light on the pioneers of the art form, Bong points out.

Some b-girls and b-boys worry that mainstream audiences will now treat not just Raygun but breaking as a whole as a joke. "It's an erasure of the culture, and it's really heartbreaking," Bong says. Yet she also notes that breaking has survived and adapted through 50-plus years of expansion, commercialization and appropriation, and she hopes the community can turn the Raygun phenomenon to its advantage. "I feel we've been given a setup because right now, the visibility is pretty high," she says.

Breaking will not appear at the next summer Olympics in Los Angeles, but it could return in 2032 — in Australia, of all places. As controversial as the sport's Olympic debut was, Bong hopes it gets a redemption round, with more intention behind who is placed in the judges' seats and leadership positions.

Velez is not worried about lasting damage. "The culture is thriving and has always thrived underground," he says. "Not one person, not one b-girl, not one Olympic game can suffocate this culture, this community." With the 2032 Brisbane decision pending, the question the documentary leaves open is whether breaking's next Olympic chapter will be led by the community that built it.