The Dead Clown, and Other Circus Stories

Little Bean Sinks Into Her First Cirque du Soleil

Nearly curtain time at Corteo.

There’s a moment early in the show where two giant trampolines, disguised as beds, are pulled next to each other and the performers - acting like children - bounce happily from bed to bed doing flips and cart wheels.

We are at Corteo, Cirque du Soleil’s colorful and bittersweet performance of the lost clowns, and it is Little Bean’s first real professional production outside of the kid shows or Disney events. All week, she’s been hedging her bets - What if I don’t like it? What if I’m bored? What will the music sound like?

But as the troupe bounds gracefully from bed to bed and the music swells, I glance at my daughter and notice that she is literally on the edge of her seat, nearly standing. She notices me looking at her and bends in close to my ear.

“When we get home,” she whispers, “I’m going to do this on my bed.”

And so we’re off. Corteo has her. And that’s BEFORE the balloon rides, and gym swing chapter, and the angels flying from the rafters.

One of the show’s highlights, a performer floating off into the audience!

To be clear about this, I’m no reviewer and everyone knows Cirque du Soleil is in a class by itself. There’s no critical response to the show that I could add that would matter. It was, well, awesome. A spectacle. These are human specimens in the very peak of their physical and mental capacity. On the way home, we had a conversation about who are more athletic - Cirque du Soleil performers or Olympic athletes. I’d put my money on Cirque du Soleil.

I just kept staring at a particular performer as his stomach appeared to have a dozen abs, and I just didn’t think human bodies did that. There was this other moment when one of the female performers, who maybe weighed 90 pounds, lifted her male partner all the way to the ceiling. And yet another moment when four gymnasts were swinging fully around on each of the sides of a square high bar - one tiny miscalculation would send all of them crashing into each other.

In short, I feel like it’s best for me to not think too hard about the massive amount of time and work required to pull this stuff off. Honestly, I can’t even begin to imagine.

Hanging from the chandeliers.

So instead, I want to focus on this little moment, almost an aside, when two small, rolling robots come out on stage to shine lights on the performers. From where we were sitting they looked like little Eiffel towers with lights at the top and they booped and beeped like Wall-e or R2D2.

Remember, this is an old European country production with sad Fellini clowns and bearded men in vests clasping each other’s shoulders. The central theme of Corteo, which is Italian for “cortège” or procession, is of a long-time clown watching his own funeral take place along with a series of flashbacks to his past life. I mean, the main character eventually pedals off to the heavens at the end accompanied by angels.

And yet, robots. At the end of the segment, the robots get away from their controller, who has to chase them around the stage as they whistle and shriek, while the children in attendance howl with laughter. Later, Little Bean said this was her favorite part of the show. Not the swinging or the flips or the little person floating on the balloon. The Eiffel tower robots.

How smart and how charming.

I recall an Oscar Wilde quote when asked about theatre as art. He said, “I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being.”

Showing off her mad skills.

And as I watch my daughter watch the performance, I see a lot of good reflected in her eyes, an opportunity to be momentarily startled by what humans can accomplish; a sort of tangible celebration of color and light, and muscle and will.

I wonder if she’ll take any of this with her to swim class, or Ninja gym. Where will this experience be stored?

Later that evening, as we tuck ourselves into the living room to watch the snowfall outside, I catch her watching a show on her tablet, the music filtering into the kitchen. “What’s that?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Matilda.” And after a short pause, says, “Not the musical, a theatre play.”

I believe the clowns would approve.

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