Where theater joins the circus

In the Cirque du Soleil, athletics and artistry combine for a big top show with a hint of Broadway.

By Boston Globe

© St. Petersburg Times,
published August 21, 2001

MONTREAL -- The founders of the Cirque du Soleil didn't run away to join the circus. The circus came to them.

In 1982, a group of street performers put on a small festival in Baie-Saint-Paul, Quebec. It proved so successful that the government gave a grant to the group, which called itself Le Club des Talons Hauts (the High Heels Club). The fire eater, the stilt walker, the clown and their friends were asked to create some kind of special event to commemorate a major patriotic holiday, the 450th anniversary of Jacques Cartier's arrival in Canada.

What the young enthusiasts put together in the town of Gaspe in 1984 was the first Cirque du Soleil. In an intimate big top seating only 800, they merged circus acts, street performance, clowning, dance and music. From the intermingling of those traditions arose something fresh and striking -- and wildly popular.

That modest beginning has led to a $300-million a year international enterprise employing more than 2,100 people. One of the first Cirque du Soleil shows was called "We Reinvent the Circus," and that is exactly what the founders of the company did. They took a fresh theatrical approach to perennially popular feats of agility and skill, and the public went crazy.

A major success in California in 1987, the first appearance outside Canada, made the Cirque an international phenomenon and an anomaly in the world of commercial entertainment. Over 17 years, the group has stuck to its artistic vision while growing into a shrewdly run business, quick to move out of any market where it is not making money.

Today the company is simultaneously presenting seven shows to annual audiences of 6-million people. Three of the shows are permanent installations: two in Las Vegas and the third at Walt Disney World in Orlando. The other four shows were built for touring and travel the world. "Saltimbanco," now in Japan, has reached its 2,500th performance; other shows are currently in Australia and Denmark, and "Dralion" has just arrived in Boston from a sold-out run in Chicago.

Cirque's international headquarters in Montreal is a $60-million facility that houses functions and activities formerly spread out over 16 locations: the business offices; the conference rooms; the costume shop, with more than 150 sewing machines and cutting tables; the dyeing room, where white Lycra awaits its colorful destiny.

The buildings also house the studios, which range from a simple black box to vast, hangarlike spaces. Here is where the Cirque auditions and trains new performers; develops waterproof makeup for its aquatic show and state-of-the-art technical equipment for its acrobats and aerial artists; and plans, designs and rehearses its productions.

Through the hallways pass the energetic young staff and performers; Cirque personnel invariably refer to performers as artists. Nobody stares at artists wearing full costume and makeup standing in line in the cafeteria.

Looking back

Guy Caron, one of the original creators of Cirque du Soleil and the director of "Dralion," sits down to chat in his office. His puckish face and personality are those of the clown he used to be nearly three decades ago.

"It was all very simple at the beginning, just a group of people who were having fun, believing in what they were doing. We worked 20 hours a day, and would you look at us now!"

Cirque du Soleil made a couple of early decisions that helped speed the way to its success. One was not to use animals, a practice that has since become controversial. In the beginning, this was not a matter of principle, according to Caron. "We simply didn't know how to manage animals."

The second decision was, Caron says, "to put the show, not the individual artist, in the front; the show is the star. Each show may have its own name, but it is also always the Cirque du Soleil."

Talent show

More than 500 performers are active in Cirque shows, though 40 or 50 of them leave every season.

Welby Altidor is one of the company's talent scouts. His job is to travel the world looking for acrobats, dancers, singers and clowns.

"The world record for juggling is nine balls. So my fantasy is that I will find somebody on a street corner juggling 20!" Altidor says. "But you know, even that wouldn't be enough. Records are made to be broken. What I am looking for is someone who can keep me interested. An artist has to have a story to tell, something intangible, a certain sensibility, a personality, a quality of emotion, a soul."

Sometimes Cirque du Soleil is casting for roles that are as specific as any in a Broadway show. There's a character in "Dralion," for example, who must be a martial artist, a dancer and a skilled stick manipulator. But the director and casting staff are not looking for a photocopy; they want someone who can bring the imprint of his or her own personality to the role.

About 40 percent of the Cirque's performers come from circus or other artistic training; about 60 percent are recruited from the world of athletics. Eight Olympians are performing for the organization.

Bring on the clowns

Several times a year, classes of 40 to 50 young athletes come for four months of studio training in Montreal; they live on a training salary -- and hope. About 70 to 80 percent of them will find a place in one of the Cirque's shows.

Working with both physical and artistic trainers, they develop the artistic sides of their personalities and learn how to present their accomplishments to the public. As a graduation exercise, they design their own new routines on a set theme; this year the theme was Bilbo the Hobbit.

At one end of the room, two artists are working on trapeze catches; there's no net below them, so when someone is dropped, he falls into a deep pool filled with 250,000 foam cubes that cushion his landing.

It is time for six young acrobats of diverse national origins to display their new trampoline-and-wall act for the assembled staff. The trampoline stands next to a black wall, 16 feet high and broken by three tiers of windows. Five of the acrobats are dressed in black, with white makeup, and they look like cat burglars; the sixth (Bilbo Baggins?) looks like a normal, towheaded kid in shorts. All of them are wearing professional wrestling shoes, which will give them the traction they need for climbing the wall.

The performers bounce from the trampoline to the "roof," dive back down, vault into and out of windows, run up the wall, twist, flip, turn and somersault in the air. At the end, the good guy wins over his enemies, and the performers, back on the ground, give one another high fives.

They're happy; they've run away to join the circus.

© St. Petersburg Times. All rights reserved.