The sight of the blue- and yellow-striped tents brings a thrill of heady anticipation. I’m suddenly reminded of my last visit, a vivid recollection of me and Phil standing outside in the brisk fall weather, puffing down our cigarettes as fast as possible, fingers stiff with cold. Strange to think that I haven’t been a slave to nicotine in over two years. Even stranger to realize that it’s been three years since I’ve been entertained by the flexible folks of Cirque de Soleil.
This time, the weather’s a bit warmer — though still nice and crisp — and I’m a little older, a little more jaded, and a lot less tolerant of the merch tent and the $5 hot dogs.
But the show … the show is so good that being wedged against my neighbor like a sardine in a can almost seems okay. Trapeze artists and acrobats and dancers and gymnasts are transformed into fantastic creatures that walk, crawl, slither, glide, lurch, stroll, amble, march, stride, toddle, totter and pace the stage. They emerge from a bamboo jungle, or climb thin shafts and sway to the beat of lively Romany-inspired music played live by a virtually invisible seven-piece band.
There’s too much to tell and too little time and I have no patience, knowing I’ll have to revisit my visit in a few weeks. So we’ll leave it at that.
Would I recommend it? Absolutely. Would I pay to see it again? If I wasn’t a broke ass motherfucker, yes. Will I come back for future shows? Without a doubt. In fact, the spouse equivalent and I are discussing a mini-vacation to Orlando to see La Nouba, an absolutely scandalous notion as it involves willingly giving money to Disney. But we like a good show and we’re always looking for a reason to get the hell out of town, so why the hell not?
This article appears in Nov 30 – Dec 6, 2005.