Don’t be alarmed if you meet a Chinese acrobat, a Russian contortionist or a Mexican juggler around town this month. In a procession of 52 trucks, Cirque du Soleil’s newest show, Varekai, recently rolled into Houston. Cast and crew lugged 1,000 tons of equipment, including Cirque du Soleil’s signature blue-and-yellow tent — the Grand Chapiteau — which they construct anew each time they move. “Once we get somewhere, we like to stay for a while,” jokes staffer Chantal Blanchard.
If you were raised on an annual dosage of Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey, Cirque du Soleil will blindside your idea of tented entertainment. It’s been around long enough now — 20 years, to be exact — that its shows and style have become a franchise, complete with DVDs, T-shirts and corporate sponsorships. But Cirque du Soleil remains unique: Its amalgamation of fantasy, mystery, superhuman trickery and plain-old song and dance could be as close as this world gets to another one.
Perhaps that’s because Cirque du Soleil is defined by its complete disregard for borders: Its roots sprawl across continents. Its French-Canadian creator was once a fire-eating, stilt-walking accordion player. Varekai‘s director was once a penniless circus boy in Greece. The entire circus features 3,000 employees representing 40 nationalities and speaking 25 different languages.
Varekai (the word means “wanderer” in the Romany language of the gypsies) is based loosely on the mythical tale of Icarus, the overzealous Greek boy who flew too close to the sun on waxen wings. In the myth, he burns and crashes, but in Varekai, he lands in an enchanted forest. A host of bizarre, fantastical creatures teaches him life lessons on his way to being reborn.
Their lessons involve stunts that would deliver the average lecturer several broken limbs. Russian swings launch acrobats across the stage. A contortionist folds herself while balancing atop two canes. Aerial hoops and strips suspend writhing performers in the air. Two brothers play “Icarian games,” in which one lies on his back and juggles the other with his feet. (“It doesn’t sound as nice and pleasant as it is to watch,” says Blanchard.)
The most amazing thing about Cirque du Soleil, though, is that its shows are so completely wrapped in fantasy that all the trappings of a conventional circus — from emcees to safety nets — are blended into the dreamworld. You forget that it’s actually people doing these things, and it’s only when you spot your children trying to put their feet on their heads the following day that you’re jolted back to reality.
But the high-flying miracles of Cirque du Soleil do not overshadow the details that make a circus. Distinctly un-Bozo-like clowns, for example, regularly emerge to juggle, tumble, and spill things and themselves. Intricate choreography (Varekai features a solo on crutches) offers precision to match the grandeur. One could say that only animals are missing, but 130 costumes, completed after 30,000 hours of work, make for a menagerie perhaps more entertaining than elephants and horses.
It’s a panglobal panoply; it’s a feat of phantasmagoria; it’s a really good trip. Viewers are regularly stymied when asked what Cirque du Soleil is. In fact, Cirque du Soleil may be best defined by what it’s not: anything else.
This article appears in Jan 6-12, 2005.