Bill Fitzhugh

ON STAGE WITH CIRQUE DE SOLEIL
by
Bill Fitzhugh

Ahhh, the allure of the circus. Step right up and witness captive lions stripped of their magnificence as they are whipped by an idiot costumed like an albino Liberace! Behold the awesome power of mighty African elephants trivialized by a goon in a stove- pipe hat! Examine the collection of freaks guaranteed to give children a permanent mental block when it comes to dealing with the handicapped! "Anyone want to run away and join the circus?!" I don't think so.

On the other hand, I have long believed that Juvenal was right when he noted that people could be distracted from their lives by the games of the circus. For me, final proof of this came one recent Saturday afternoon when I found myself on stage with René Bazinet, the ringmaster and head clown of Cirque Du Soleil.

The first clue that something was afoot should have been when the usher looked our tickets, said, "Uh oh," and took us to a seat so close to the stage that I sat sideways to prevent splinters from lodging under my kneecaps. Once seated, I shrugged off the "uh oh" assuming it meant I was destined to be doused with water in some classic clown routine.

The distractions began immediately as I attempted to divine how the oddly set stage could present the magical event I had heard so much about. After all, it was nothing more than a brightly painted round platform partially covered by a sizable sheet emanating from an industrial-sized air duct. Not exactly Barnum and Bailey.

Then the lights went down, the music came up, the sheet disappeared into the pipe, and a parade of characters unlike any I've ever drempt of drifted onto the stage to the strains of enchanted harmonies. The lights, music, and costumed performers converged to present a world Walt Disney might have concocted after a dozen martinis, a bit of peyote, and a "Road Warrior" film festival.

THE SMELL OF THE GREASEPAINT

Early in the second half of the show, Rene Bazinet, the Main Clown, was on stage peeking behind imaginary doors when something suddenly spooked him, causing him to bolt across the stage and into my lap. "Uh oh, " I thought, "there's a sweaty clown in my lap. " So this is what the usher meant.

The next thing I knew, I was standing at center stage, holding this clown's hand. At this point, self-consciousness gave way to hysterics and I began laughing so hard I nearly went blind.

It turned out I was going into one of the invisible rooms with this joker, and the room we entered was evidently filled with fruit-bearing trees.

Rene picked two imaginary bananas from an imaginary banana tree and gave one of them to me. He peeled his and took a bite, indicating I should do the same. However, not wanting to mis-peel my fruit and look the fool, I slid the banana into my pocket, and got quite a laugh from the distracted masses.

Rene responded to my improvisation with a disapproving look that made me panic. Trying to make amends, I retrieved the banana, peeled the sucker, and took a bite. with that, I was back in the game.

Rene then sashayed to center stage where he ceremoniously dropped both our banana peels before returning to my side and indicating I should watch him. But there was no need for that; I knew what was expected of us at this point. "Hell, we're clowns," I mused, "and we've got to go slip on those peels."

Rene went first, then it was my turn. Five nonchalant steps and zwip, bang! Flat on my back. One of the best amateur pratfalls in amateur pratfall history. The crowd went wild.

There was confidence in Rene's eyes when he helped me to my feet. This clown knew he had something to work with, so we strapped on imaginary holsters filled with fictitious six-guns and I got a quick lesson in how to handle those puppies.

Rene threw one of his guns in the air and caught it in his holster. I followed suit and, bingo, six-gun in the side pocket. Rene then pitched both of his sidearms skyward and just as easily caught them. Then it was my turn --I hurled my weapons, they soared gracefully (trust me) before landing neatly one, two, whump, whump...right back in the holsters. Or so I thought.

Mister bigshot funny-guy rolled his eyes conspicuously before swaggering over and picking up my second six-shooter which, it turns out, I did not catch. "Hey, I'm new at this,' I thought, "so shoot me if I don't catch both guns on my first try. Besides, if I don't stop laughing and catch my breath soon, I'm going to be dead anyway."

In addition to being a clown, Mr. Rene Bazinet evidently also reads minds because he then decided we would play "Shootout At The Cirque Du Corral."

Rene strode to the far side of the stage and turned to face me. We began circling, arms akimbo and fingers fidgeting, prepared to find out who was the fastest fool in the west --a quick draw contest for clowns leading to certain, if fictitious, death.

Rene waited for me to make the first move. And he had to wait a long time because I had no idea I was supposed to draw first. When he finally gave me an exasperated look, I got the clue. So I pointed behind him to make him turn around. (Sometimes the oldest trick in the book works; that's why it's in there.) The moment he turned, I squeezed a shot off, BANG! Got him. But before he died, Rene managed to get a shot off too and I went down like a sack of oats -- dirt nap time for a dead clown.

The crowd loved us and we lay on the stage milking the wild cheers for a minute. Rene then helped me to my feet and we returned to center stage to absorb the ovation. My fifteen minutes of fame was over.

When the show ended, people came over to shake my hand; they said I had been wonderful. One woman found my performance so amusing she thought I was a shill and said she kept expecting the other clowns to rush onto the stage and strip off my clothes, revealing tights underneath (something that might be fun for me to try at home).

Rene Bazinet had never said a word to me, but I felt like we were old friends by the time it was over. Unfortunately, my date had been too stunned to take a picture and I was too dumbfounded to ask. Perhaps if he reads this, Rene will invite me down for a photo op, or maybe he'll send an autographed eight by ten glossy, "To Bill -- As Chaplin said, 'What a sad business is being funny.' If you'd like to run away and join the circus, keep us in mind." And you know, now that doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

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