ROBERT COHEN
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When I decided to write A Sustained Note of Fury, I really didn’t know a lot about the circus: most of my experience was lost in the mists of childhood – and that experience had itself been limited. I'd visited only two live circuses, and though I liked Right Charlie on the TV (see below), I never took advantage of the full-length circus shows which in those days routinely featured as part of the bank holiday TV schedules; perhaps I instinctively understood that, like opera and football, the impact of circus is severely diminished by televisualisation. So, I had a lot of catching up to do – and I spent three years doing it. Set out below are highlights and lowlights of my |
circus-going career, unreliable memories augmented, in some cases, by diary entries and reviews I wrote for the Brighton Argus. The fact that a number of entries extend beyond 2008, when the play was premiered, may suggest that, somewhere along the way, I kind of went native. Well, maybe so – but I’m by no means an uncritical native: much godawful half-arsèdness have I witnessed on this journey, but it's been more than justified by the frequent excitement of seeing someone do something truly extraordinary, truly death-defying – without the intervention of CGI or even (in most cases) the comfort of a safety net. |
SIR ROBERT FOSSETT’S CIRCUS, Eastbourne, 1973
This was my first experience of live circus, courtesy of Pop Cohen, and my memories of it are limited. I know that there were a lot of animals involved, because we went down to King’s Drive to watch them the day they paraded from the station to the pitch (there’s a couple of elephants there, on the right), but the only act I really remember was one in which two men and a woman in Edwardian dress clopped around the ring on horseback to the accompaniment of selections from My Fair Lady. Looking back I don’t suppose it was a terribly challenging act – for the horses, for the riders or indeed for the punters – but I seem to remember quite enjoying it all the same, perhaps because I was more than a little impressed by the Fair Lady in the middle. No doubt she was old enough to be my grandmother, but that’s the magic of showbiz.
This was my first experience of live circus, courtesy of Pop Cohen, and my memories of it are limited. I know that there were a lot of animals involved, because we went down to King’s Drive to watch them the day they paraded from the station to the pitch (there’s a couple of elephants there, on the right), but the only act I really remember was one in which two men and a woman in Edwardian dress clopped around the ring on horseback to the accompaniment of selections from My Fair Lady. Looking back I don’t suppose it was a terribly challenging act – for the horses, for the riders or indeed for the punters – but I seem to remember quite enjoying it all the same, perhaps because I was more than a little impressed by the Fair Lady in the middle. No doubt she was old enough to be my grandmother, but that’s the magic of showbiz.
ROBERT BROTHERS’ CIRCUS, Eastbourne, 1974
On a recent pilgrimage to Eastbourne Library, I trawled through some ancient copies of the local paper, hoping to enhance my memories of the summer of ’74, when Robert Brothers’ Circus came to town in company with the legendary Coco the Clown. Well, folks, what a picture I found – I only wish I could reproduce it here. The picture was of Coco at a local hospital, visiting one of the girls from the circus; she’d just had a baby. Given the impending circumstances it’s rather a poignant picture – the mother, the baby, the clown in full make-up (poignant and surreal), a testament to the ongoing circle of circus life – as a new generation of circus people springs forth, so the old ones fade from view. Just a few weeks later, Coco the Clown was dead.
I, however, was privileged to see one of his last performances, on a trip to Robert Brothers’ Circus with Mum and Dad and my brother Kerry. Actually, my memories of the performance are a bit hazy (I think there was a plate-spinner involved), but I’m pleased to say I do recall one of Coco’s turns – he and the ringmaster invited some volunteers from the audience to play a game of football, then made them put on giant football boots to do so.
However, our most treasured memory, me and my brother Kerry, is the more incidental recollection of another clown multi-tasking rather ill-humouredly as a salesman of circus memorabilia; standing there with one of those ice cream trays in front of him, he bellowed forth the exclamation “SOUVENIR MASKS!” over and over again in a nasally forbidding northern accent. “SOUVENIR MASKS!” Well, I suppose you had to — “SOUVENIR MASKS!” — I suppose you had to be there. Anyway, Kerry got a monkey mask and I got a skeleton.
And then, as if in the tearful-cheerful blink of a clown’s eye, 30 years pass by, and...
On a recent pilgrimage to Eastbourne Library, I trawled through some ancient copies of the local paper, hoping to enhance my memories of the summer of ’74, when Robert Brothers’ Circus came to town in company with the legendary Coco the Clown. Well, folks, what a picture I found – I only wish I could reproduce it here. The picture was of Coco at a local hospital, visiting one of the girls from the circus; she’d just had a baby. Given the impending circumstances it’s rather a poignant picture – the mother, the baby, the clown in full make-up (poignant and surreal), a testament to the ongoing circle of circus life – as a new generation of circus people springs forth, so the old ones fade from view. Just a few weeks later, Coco the Clown was dead.
I, however, was privileged to see one of his last performances, on a trip to Robert Brothers’ Circus with Mum and Dad and my brother Kerry. Actually, my memories of the performance are a bit hazy (I think there was a plate-spinner involved), but I’m pleased to say I do recall one of Coco’s turns – he and the ringmaster invited some volunteers from the audience to play a game of football, then made them put on giant football boots to do so.
However, our most treasured memory, me and my brother Kerry, is the more incidental recollection of another clown multi-tasking rather ill-humouredly as a salesman of circus memorabilia; standing there with one of those ice cream trays in front of him, he bellowed forth the exclamation “SOUVENIR MASKS!” over and over again in a nasally forbidding northern accent. “SOUVENIR MASKS!” Well, I suppose you had to — “SOUVENIR MASKS!” — I suppose you had to be there. Anyway, Kerry got a monkey mask and I got a skeleton.
And then, as if in the tearful-cheerful blink of a clown’s eye, 30 years pass by, and...
COTTLE & AUSTEN, Guildford, 25th July 2004
Thirty years on, and what a depressing way to start my all-new theatrical project. A birthday outing for my girlfriend Emma, in the company of my sister-in-law Janet and my nephew and nieces, whom we drag along on the pretext that it’s going to be good and that their father’s an idiot for (amongst other things) choosing to lounge about at home. So what do we get? A singing ringmistress who seems to have been parachuted in from a cruise ship (an ’80s cruise ship, at that –Holding Out for a Hero?!?), inept, unfunny clowns, and lots of people doing acts which are notable for their awe-inspiring safety. No, of course, I can’t do what any of those people were doing, but that’s why I was in the grandstand and they were in the ring: I didn’t want to see them doing stuff I couldn’t do; I wanted to see them doing stuff it would be reasonable to suppose they couldn’t do.
Those, at any rate, are my memories of the occasion. However, it’s interesting to note that my diary entry suggests more of a bitter-sweet experience. Certainly the Robert Cohen of 2004 describes the overall experience as ‘rubbish’, but there was apparently some wheat among the chaff, in the form of Russian hula-hoop champion Yana Rodionova, and The Flying Jantsans, who apparently did triple somersaults on the trapeze. As for the crummy clowns, I described them as‘encouragingly third-rate’, presumably because they called into question what certain know-alls had told me as I kicked off the Otto project, to the effect that I couldn’t possibly play a clown without years of gruelling training, so impossibly high was the standard throughout the industry. Hah!
ZIPPO’S CIRCUS, Hove, 2004
When I was little I enjoyed watching a TV show called Right Charlie, the star of which was a clown called Charlie Cairoli. “Right children?” – that was his catchphrase, and the kids would yell back, “Right, Charlie!” Again, I suppose you had to be there, but I was, and it was one of the cultural highlights of my childhood.
Charlie’s TV co-star and foil was a guy called Norman Barrett, who looked like Andy Williams but was actually brother to Michael Barrett, presenter of the BBC’s banal early evening magazine programme Nationwide. Right Charlie, however, was far from banal, fired as it was by the convincingly righteous anger of Brother Norman, who not only endured regular soakings on the show but did much the same as ringmaster at the Blackpool Tower Circus, where Charlie C was the star clown. Fast-forward some 30 years or more; I go and see Zippo’s Circus, fresh from the disappointment of Cottle and Austen, fearful that the blandness of that experience has become the norm among ordinary circuses (as opposed to those posh circuses which hang out at the Albert Hall). I was to be very pleasantly surprised, not least due to the presence at Zippo’s of the aforementioned ringmaster Norman Barrett, once again playing foil to Charlie Cairoli – but not the same Charlie Cairoli, who’d cashed in his custard some years previously. No, this was the erstwhile Charlie Jr, who used to number among the supporting cast on his father’s TV show, but who has now inherited his father’s mantle as well as his name. I feared he might be a painfully pale shadow of the old man, but in fact it turns out that he’s come completely into his own (though the catch-phrase has changed only slightly, from “Right, children?” to “Right, kids?”). Anyway, he gave a wonderful performance, sparking brilliantly off his ringmaster straight-man, allaying in the process my worst fears about the state of circus in the electronic age. Other highlights included Los Marinhos on the Wheel of Death, and, as if I hadn’t had my fill of nostalgia, there was Norman Barrett’s budgie act, as once featured in a weekly spot on Right Charlie.
I went back to see the show again a couple of days later, and came away not with a souvenir mask (though they were selling them), but with a souvenir plate to spin.
When I was little I enjoyed watching a TV show called Right Charlie, the star of which was a clown called Charlie Cairoli. “Right children?” – that was his catchphrase, and the kids would yell back, “Right, Charlie!” Again, I suppose you had to be there, but I was, and it was one of the cultural highlights of my childhood.
Charlie’s TV co-star and foil was a guy called Norman Barrett, who looked like Andy Williams but was actually brother to Michael Barrett, presenter of the BBC’s banal early evening magazine programme Nationwide. Right Charlie, however, was far from banal, fired as it was by the convincingly righteous anger of Brother Norman, who not only endured regular soakings on the show but did much the same as ringmaster at the Blackpool Tower Circus, where Charlie C was the star clown. Fast-forward some 30 years or more; I go and see Zippo’s Circus, fresh from the disappointment of Cottle and Austen, fearful that the blandness of that experience has become the norm among ordinary circuses (as opposed to those posh circuses which hang out at the Albert Hall). I was to be very pleasantly surprised, not least due to the presence at Zippo’s of the aforementioned ringmaster Norman Barrett, once again playing foil to Charlie Cairoli – but not the same Charlie Cairoli, who’d cashed in his custard some years previously. No, this was the erstwhile Charlie Jr, who used to number among the supporting cast on his father’s TV show, but who has now inherited his father’s mantle as well as his name. I feared he might be a painfully pale shadow of the old man, but in fact it turns out that he’s come completely into his own (though the catch-phrase has changed only slightly, from “Right, children?” to “Right, kids?”). Anyway, he gave a wonderful performance, sparking brilliantly off his ringmaster straight-man, allaying in the process my worst fears about the state of circus in the electronic age. Other highlights included Los Marinhos on the Wheel of Death, and, as if I hadn’t had my fill of nostalgia, there was Norman Barrett’s budgie act, as once featured in a weekly spot on Right Charlie.
I went back to see the show again a couple of days later, and came away not with a souvenir mask (though they were selling them), but with a souvenir plate to spin.
MOSCOW STATE CIRCUS, Brighton, May 2005
This was a disappointment. For some reason I’d got the idea that the Moscow State Circus was a leader in the circus arts. Looking back, I think this was a consequence of looking back – specifically to the ’70s and a brief glimpse of one of those bank holiday TV circus broadcasts; I remembered seeing a clown play a tune on a trumpet while a small dog sat up on its rump and whined along. There was also the recollection of a trailer for said TV circus, in which a bear rode round the ring doing somersaults on the back of a horse, and all to the accompaniment of Stevie Wonder’s Sir Duke. Of course I may well have dreamed the whole thing, and I know that animal rights campaigners would gladly see me sawn asunder for cherishing such barbarities, even in my imagination – all I’m really saying here is that I approached the Moscow State Circus with high expectations and was disappointed. I dunno, maybe things just haven’t been the same since the fall of Communism. Well, how do you concentrate a performer’s mind if you can’t deport them to Siberia?
Yes, well, very droll, but again it seems I’m undermined to a certain extent by my former self.
Diary entry for 22nd May 2005: ‘Saw the Moscow State Circus at Preston Park. Not as good as Zippo’s but not bad either – I loved the Slavos swing gymnasts (they also did sensational trampoline stuff), and was won round from my original coolness by the clowns, Foma and Yeryoma.’
CONTINENTAL CIRCUS BERLIN, Princes Park, Eastbourne,
August 2005
Review for Brighton Argus
If, in this day and age, it’s possible for the talentless to become famous purely by getting their faces on TV, it must conversely follow that a lack of TV exposure will make any kind of success impossible.
How, then, do you explain the line of people snaking across Princes Park on Tuesday evening, queuing up to see Continental Circus Berlin? Personally I can’t, but it’s heartening to see an art form thrive without the kind of mass media exposure routinely lavished on, say, the film and music industries.
Circus may not be as sophisticated or glamorous as the aforementioned disciplines, but it can be every bit as exciting. When, for instance, you see a man bouncing up and down on a tightrope then performing a somersault over a row of razor-sharp knives, it’s quite something to know you’re not just watching a computer-generated illusion.
Acts have come from around the world to show off their skills beneath the star-spangled canvas of Circus Berlin’s big top: from Colombia come Los Marinos, chortling at death as they cycle across the high wire and run blindfold round the outside of the giant rotating space wheel; from China come the Oriental Warriors, wielders of sledgehammers to break bricks on heads (their own, it should be stressed); and from Bulgaria come the Ikar troupe, who make it look easy to see-saw up onto the shoulders of someone who’s already standing on the shoulders of someone standing on a fourth party’s shoulders.
There’s also a contingent of performers on loan from the Spanish National Circus, including Nicol, the aforementioned spinner of knife-defying tightrope somersaults, and Michael, who juggles with clubs, hats, ping-pong balls and, at one point, a cascade of five footballs. Nicol and Michael also form two thirds of Los Nikols, a traditional clown act involving music and a large amount of water. To be honest the clowning is not done with the same expertise as the juggling and the knife-somersaulting but, such is the infectious joy of the performers, it really doesn’t matter.
August 2005
Review for Brighton Argus
If, in this day and age, it’s possible for the talentless to become famous purely by getting their faces on TV, it must conversely follow that a lack of TV exposure will make any kind of success impossible.
How, then, do you explain the line of people snaking across Princes Park on Tuesday evening, queuing up to see Continental Circus Berlin? Personally I can’t, but it’s heartening to see an art form thrive without the kind of mass media exposure routinely lavished on, say, the film and music industries.
Circus may not be as sophisticated or glamorous as the aforementioned disciplines, but it can be every bit as exciting. When, for instance, you see a man bouncing up and down on a tightrope then performing a somersault over a row of razor-sharp knives, it’s quite something to know you’re not just watching a computer-generated illusion.
Acts have come from around the world to show off their skills beneath the star-spangled canvas of Circus Berlin’s big top: from Colombia come Los Marinos, chortling at death as they cycle across the high wire and run blindfold round the outside of the giant rotating space wheel; from China come the Oriental Warriors, wielders of sledgehammers to break bricks on heads (their own, it should be stressed); and from Bulgaria come the Ikar troupe, who make it look easy to see-saw up onto the shoulders of someone who’s already standing on the shoulders of someone standing on a fourth party’s shoulders.
There’s also a contingent of performers on loan from the Spanish National Circus, including Nicol, the aforementioned spinner of knife-defying tightrope somersaults, and Michael, who juggles with clubs, hats, ping-pong balls and, at one point, a cascade of five footballs. Nicol and Michael also form two thirds of Los Nikols, a traditional clown act involving music and a large amount of water. To be honest the clowning is not done with the same expertise as the juggling and the knife-somersaulting but, such is the infectious joy of the performers, it really doesn’t matter.
ZIPPO’S CIRCUS, Hove, 19th August 2005
Review for the Brighton Argus
At my undisclosed age, it might be argued, I should really be engaging in more adult pursuits than the circus. Why, for instance, aren’t I down the pub, watching the footie on the big-screen TV, drinking more than I can handle, maybe even pushing a glass into the face of my best friend?
Well, these are all fine things, no question, but you can’t get candy floss at any pub I know. Nor popcorn. Nor spinning plates. Nor souvenir masks.
Besides, the best football this season is to be seen at the circus – at least if you like dogs (which I do). Yes, they’ve got footballing dogs at Zippo’s Circus – footballing Boxer dogs, to be precise, some in Arsenal gear, some in Seagulls kit, but all of them very very keen.
If you don’t like dogs or football, fear not. There’s further animal excellence in the form of Norman Barrett’s budgies and Tom Roberts’ magnificent Palomino horses (who share the ring with the smallest and cutest pony you’re likely to see beyond the hallowed turf of Gamleys).
There’s plenty of human action too – jugglers, trapeze artistes and, of particular note, The Eagles, a troupe of Romanian acrobats whose activities range from the heart-stoppingly dangerous (triple somersaults off a giant swing) to the slap-stickily amusing (a jailbreak scene involving a vaulting-horse and an unusually manly ‘lady’ plucked from the audience).
Above all, there’s the star clowning of Charlie Cairoli, a man who lights up the ring simply by walking into it. His ongoing battle of wits with ringmaster Norman Barrett is a particular joy to behold – a joy which is only slightly tarnished by the loud hum of the generators and the two men’s shoddy microphone technique.
That’s the thing about Zippo’s, though: it’s not the slickest circus you’ll ever see, but you’d have to go a long way to find a circus with more heart – and if they want to quote me on that (after editing out the first bit), they’re very welcome.
[By the way, I went to this with my friends Simon and Corinne, who brought their small son Dylan with them. Corinne reported afterwards that she couldn’t remember ever having seen Dylan sit quietly and attentively for so long.]
Review for the Brighton Argus
At my undisclosed age, it might be argued, I should really be engaging in more adult pursuits than the circus. Why, for instance, aren’t I down the pub, watching the footie on the big-screen TV, drinking more than I can handle, maybe even pushing a glass into the face of my best friend?
Well, these are all fine things, no question, but you can’t get candy floss at any pub I know. Nor popcorn. Nor spinning plates. Nor souvenir masks.
Besides, the best football this season is to be seen at the circus – at least if you like dogs (which I do). Yes, they’ve got footballing dogs at Zippo’s Circus – footballing Boxer dogs, to be precise, some in Arsenal gear, some in Seagulls kit, but all of them very very keen.
If you don’t like dogs or football, fear not. There’s further animal excellence in the form of Norman Barrett’s budgies and Tom Roberts’ magnificent Palomino horses (who share the ring with the smallest and cutest pony you’re likely to see beyond the hallowed turf of Gamleys).
There’s plenty of human action too – jugglers, trapeze artistes and, of particular note, The Eagles, a troupe of Romanian acrobats whose activities range from the heart-stoppingly dangerous (triple somersaults off a giant swing) to the slap-stickily amusing (a jailbreak scene involving a vaulting-horse and an unusually manly ‘lady’ plucked from the audience).
Above all, there’s the star clowning of Charlie Cairoli, a man who lights up the ring simply by walking into it. His ongoing battle of wits with ringmaster Norman Barrett is a particular joy to behold – a joy which is only slightly tarnished by the loud hum of the generators and the two men’s shoddy microphone technique.
That’s the thing about Zippo’s, though: it’s not the slickest circus you’ll ever see, but you’d have to go a long way to find a circus with more heart – and if they want to quote me on that (after editing out the first bit), they’re very welcome.
[By the way, I went to this with my friends Simon and Corinne, who brought their small son Dylan with them. Corinne reported afterwards that she couldn’t remember ever having seen Dylan sit quietly and attentively for so long.]
CLOWNS INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL, Weston-super-Mare, September 2005
The stars having portended that the Clowns International conference would come to pass in the town of Weston-super-Mare, home to my friends Paul and Karen, I hitched up my wagon and headed west. Despite not being a member of Clowns International (or even being a clown, for that matter), I was kindly permitted by the organisers to attend some of the events.
Here are some entries from my diary.
Thursday 22nd Sept: Went to the Winter Gardens and hung out at the Clowns International conference. Saw a rather ropey demonstration of circus entrees then a very good magic demo by an American called David Ginn, from whom I later bought a colour-changing scarf. Also chatted to a few out-of-costume clowns and confirmed my theory that clowns at clown funerals (relevant to my play, this) sometimes attend ‘in motley’. A particularly useful encounter was the clown who doesn’t like kids – he claimed there are quite a few; they just do it for the money. Otto, the hero of my play, doesn’t like people, whatever their age.
The stars having portended that the Clowns International conference would come to pass in the town of Weston-super-Mare, home to my friends Paul and Karen, I hitched up my wagon and headed west. Despite not being a member of Clowns International (or even being a clown, for that matter), I was kindly permitted by the organisers to attend some of the events.
Here are some entries from my diary.
Thursday 22nd Sept: Went to the Winter Gardens and hung out at the Clowns International conference. Saw a rather ropey demonstration of circus entrees then a very good magic demo by an American called David Ginn, from whom I later bought a colour-changing scarf. Also chatted to a few out-of-costume clowns and confirmed my theory that clowns at clown funerals (relevant to my play, this) sometimes attend ‘in motley’. A particularly useful encounter was the clown who doesn’t like kids – he claimed there are quite a few; they just do it for the money. Otto, the hero of my play, doesn’t like people, whatever their age.
Saturday 24th Sept: Down to the town centre with Paul and Karen to see the clowns’ parade, which was lots of fun. Back to the house for potato waffles and baked beans. Went out again later to get some candy floss on the seafront and see some donkeys – got there just as they were being loaded into their vans to go home and, once divested of their saddles, they rolled around, scratching their backs on the sand. [if this extract seems of questionable relevance, all I can say is that I’d like to see any clown in the world as amusing as a back-scratching donkey]
Sunday 25th Sept: Down to the Winter Gardens in the morning for a couple of clowning workshops, the first on hat manipulation [fellow students included Clown Bluey, seen on traffic duty during the previous day’s parade], the second on I can’t recall precisely what, though it involved balancing peacock feathers on our fingers. I also found myself teaching plate-balancing to a clown from Slovenia.
Sunday 25th Sept: Down to the Winter Gardens in the morning for a couple of clowning workshops, the first on hat manipulation [fellow students included Clown Bluey, seen on traffic duty during the previous day’s parade], the second on I can’t recall precisely what, though it involved balancing peacock feathers on our fingers. I also found myself teaching plate-balancing to a clown from Slovenia.
ZIPPO’S, Hove, August 2006
The absence of Charlie Cairoli was keenly felt on this trip. Suddenly the flimsiness of so much on offer became glaringly apparent – the unambitious nature of a horse act that once delighted me; the shabby something-for-the-dadsiness of the inept girl dancers; the lazy escapades of the young man who’s still coasting dangerously along on the big-deal kudos of being the country’s youngest clown. I went along with Peta, who’ll be playing Mrs Otto, and I couldn’t escape the feeling that in trying to be positive and enthusiastic about the experience, we were actually trying harder than some of the performers. Yes, Norman’s budgies were tip-top as always, and Renaldo the Clown worked his arse off, but not even the thrill of being recruited to take part in one of his routines (pretending to make a silent movie – I played a matador who ends up getting shot by the bull) could allay the sense of disappointment and could-do-betterness.
I had breakfast with Renaldo a couple of days later, at Marocco’s on Hove seafront, and he was kind enough to let me pick his clownic brains for an hour or more. When I told him of my intention not only to write a play about a clown but also to play said clown, he was extremely encouraging, dismissing the notion that clowning was an exclusive, impossibly pure art, demanding a lifetime’s commitment and at least half a lifetime at mime school. Renaldo, if I remember correctly, was a latecomer himself, having started his career in advertising before chucking it in to join New York’s Big Apple Circus and learning on the job. I scribbled down a lot of useful advice that afternoon, but he distilled much of it down to three crucial elements: 1) Love what you’re doing. 2) Make sure you find it funny. 3) Make sure you can make it funny for the audience.
The absence of Charlie Cairoli was keenly felt on this trip. Suddenly the flimsiness of so much on offer became glaringly apparent – the unambitious nature of a horse act that once delighted me; the shabby something-for-the-dadsiness of the inept girl dancers; the lazy escapades of the young man who’s still coasting dangerously along on the big-deal kudos of being the country’s youngest clown. I went along with Peta, who’ll be playing Mrs Otto, and I couldn’t escape the feeling that in trying to be positive and enthusiastic about the experience, we were actually trying harder than some of the performers. Yes, Norman’s budgies were tip-top as always, and Renaldo the Clown worked his arse off, but not even the thrill of being recruited to take part in one of his routines (pretending to make a silent movie – I played a matador who ends up getting shot by the bull) could allay the sense of disappointment and could-do-betterness.
I had breakfast with Renaldo a couple of days later, at Marocco’s on Hove seafront, and he was kind enough to let me pick his clownic brains for an hour or more. When I told him of my intention not only to write a play about a clown but also to play said clown, he was extremely encouraging, dismissing the notion that clowning was an exclusive, impossibly pure art, demanding a lifetime’s commitment and at least half a lifetime at mime school. Renaldo, if I remember correctly, was a latecomer himself, having started his career in advertising before chucking it in to join New York’s Big Apple Circus and learning on the job. I scribbled down a lot of useful advice that afternoon, but he distilled much of it down to three crucial elements: 1) Love what you’re doing. 2) Make sure you find it funny. 3) Make sure you can make it funny for the audience.
CIRQUE SURREAL, Brighton, May 2007
Review from Brighton Argus
According to the Cirque Surreal press release, “Circus is dead – vive le cirque!” It’s an appropriately surreal concept, given that “cirque” is the French word for “circus”; I couldn’t help wondering, though, if the slogan might betray a certain sense of embarrassment on the part of the producers, a lack of courage in their circus convictions.
They’ve certainly gone to great lengths to enhance and broaden the circus experience – fabulous lighting and costumes, dancers from around the globe, “surreal” design (in the form of the Dalí-esque backdrop), and what they claim is a strong dramatic theme. Dress it up how you like, though, a circus is a circus – and circus stands or falls on the quality of its acts. On this basis, fortunately, Cirque Surreal stands very, very tall.
Highlights are hard to pinpoint, as there are so few lowlights, but I’ll have a go. There’s Desire of Flight, a Ukrainian duo who soar balletically through the air, defying death and/or horrible injury on the aerial straps. From Bulgaria come the Silfodilini, who stop the hearts of the watchers far below as they gambol blithely around the Wheel of Death. Then there are the seemingly impossible achievements of China’s Lui Jai Jai and Miao Chang Wei; ballet is clearly hard enough as it is, but it’s even more impressive if you can do a pirouette while standing on your partner’s shoulder – or even head.
My personal favourite, though, was the clownery of the Frères Taquin, from Belgium, in particular their music box routine, which harnessed laughter to physical precision and threw in just the tiniest shudder of spookiness for good measure.
Like most of their colleagues, the Frères Taquin do their work with a pleasure and a pride to which you can not help but warm. I heard someone say, the other day, that work is only work if there’s something else you’d rather be doing. On that basis, the performers at Cirque Surreal must consider themselves to be doing far more than just a job.
Review from Brighton Argus
According to the Cirque Surreal press release, “Circus is dead – vive le cirque!” It’s an appropriately surreal concept, given that “cirque” is the French word for “circus”; I couldn’t help wondering, though, if the slogan might betray a certain sense of embarrassment on the part of the producers, a lack of courage in their circus convictions.
They’ve certainly gone to great lengths to enhance and broaden the circus experience – fabulous lighting and costumes, dancers from around the globe, “surreal” design (in the form of the Dalí-esque backdrop), and what they claim is a strong dramatic theme. Dress it up how you like, though, a circus is a circus – and circus stands or falls on the quality of its acts. On this basis, fortunately, Cirque Surreal stands very, very tall.
Highlights are hard to pinpoint, as there are so few lowlights, but I’ll have a go. There’s Desire of Flight, a Ukrainian duo who soar balletically through the air, defying death and/or horrible injury on the aerial straps. From Bulgaria come the Silfodilini, who stop the hearts of the watchers far below as they gambol blithely around the Wheel of Death. Then there are the seemingly impossible achievements of China’s Lui Jai Jai and Miao Chang Wei; ballet is clearly hard enough as it is, but it’s even more impressive if you can do a pirouette while standing on your partner’s shoulder – or even head.
My personal favourite, though, was the clownery of the Frères Taquin, from Belgium, in particular their music box routine, which harnessed laughter to physical precision and threw in just the tiniest shudder of spookiness for good measure.
Like most of their colleagues, the Frères Taquin do their work with a pleasure and a pride to which you can not help but warm. I heard someone say, the other day, that work is only work if there’s something else you’d rather be doing. On that basis, the performers at Cirque Surreal must consider themselves to be doing far more than just a job.
PAULO’S CIRCUS AMERICANO, Brent Knoll, December 2007
Yet more circus-related fun out west with Paul and Karen, this in the unusual surroundings of a garden centre in Brent Knoll, near Weston.
The best thing about Paulo’s was the excellent clownery of Kakehole the Clown, in particular his routine with Popol the musical clown. It was also a pleasure to re-encounter Los Marinhos, still running the Wheel of Death with gay abandon, and still pretending to slip and nearly fall from the high-wire when we know they could do the whole thing in their sleep. Pity about the preponderance of corny references to fads from other branches of popular entertainment – the apprentice clown’s Vicky Pollard impression was fairly embarrassing, and the guy on the aerial straps was hampered, I felt, by being obliged to dress up as Spider-man. I appreciate that having ‘Spidey’ on the posters will have put some extra bums on seats, but crucial to any circus act is the rapport established with the audience, and it’s hard to establish such a rapport – however impressive your aerial skills – when your eyes are concealed behind pieces of silver plastic. What really made me squirm, though, was the attempt to cash in on the popularity of the Pirates of the Caribbean films. Whereas the first half’s fill-in spots were mostly handled with great efficiency by Kakehole, the second half was punctuated by episodes in a pirate adventure, acted out gamely by members of the company while a gravelly-voiced narration blared out incomprehensibly from the speakers. It’s traditional in the circus for everyone to help out with everything, but if I’d been a member of the team at Paulo’s, I’d have rather cleaned out the portaloos than signed on for the pirate crew.
Yet more circus-related fun out west with Paul and Karen, this in the unusual surroundings of a garden centre in Brent Knoll, near Weston.
The best thing about Paulo’s was the excellent clownery of Kakehole the Clown, in particular his routine with Popol the musical clown. It was also a pleasure to re-encounter Los Marinhos, still running the Wheel of Death with gay abandon, and still pretending to slip and nearly fall from the high-wire when we know they could do the whole thing in their sleep. Pity about the preponderance of corny references to fads from other branches of popular entertainment – the apprentice clown’s Vicky Pollard impression was fairly embarrassing, and the guy on the aerial straps was hampered, I felt, by being obliged to dress up as Spider-man. I appreciate that having ‘Spidey’ on the posters will have put some extra bums on seats, but crucial to any circus act is the rapport established with the audience, and it’s hard to establish such a rapport – however impressive your aerial skills – when your eyes are concealed behind pieces of silver plastic. What really made me squirm, though, was the attempt to cash in on the popularity of the Pirates of the Caribbean films. Whereas the first half’s fill-in spots were mostly handled with great efficiency by Kakehole, the second half was punctuated by episodes in a pirate adventure, acted out gamely by members of the company while a gravelly-voiced narration blared out incomprehensibly from the speakers. It’s traditional in the circus for everyone to help out with everything, but if I’d been a member of the team at Paulo’s, I’d have rather cleaned out the portaloos than signed on for the pirate crew.
MOSCOW STATE CIRCUS, Brighton, May 2008
Sort of a team-building exercise, this, for the Otto the Clown crew – only the team wasn’t there in its entirety – Peta Taylor (Mrs Otto) had a prior engagement at Glyndebourne. Shame, really; her thoughts would have been particularly interesting to hear, given that she saw the Moscow State Circus some 25 years ago IN MOSCOW. Apparently there were some chickens involved, though she can’t remember in precisely what capacity (maybe she imagined it, like I probably imagined the bear doing somersaults on horseback – see above).
My own prior experience with the MSC was a mere three years ago, and that lukewarm experience (see above once again) armed me with very low expectations on the occasion of this return visit in the company of our director, Johnny Worthy.
If we were expecting to be disappointed, however, we were to be disappointed. The standard of the acts was very high, in particular the crossbow act Popazov, the swing and seesaw antics of the 11 Puzanov, a breathtaking ballet/acrobatics hybrid called Adagio, and the clownic activities of Valik and Valerik. The only surprisingly underwhelming experience was the human cannonball Astronov (no less underwhelming for the fact that he’s apparently Russia’s last exponent of this noble calling).
Sort of a team-building exercise, this, for the Otto the Clown crew – only the team wasn’t there in its entirety – Peta Taylor (Mrs Otto) had a prior engagement at Glyndebourne. Shame, really; her thoughts would have been particularly interesting to hear, given that she saw the Moscow State Circus some 25 years ago IN MOSCOW. Apparently there were some chickens involved, though she can’t remember in precisely what capacity (maybe she imagined it, like I probably imagined the bear doing somersaults on horseback – see above).
My own prior experience with the MSC was a mere three years ago, and that lukewarm experience (see above once again) armed me with very low expectations on the occasion of this return visit in the company of our director, Johnny Worthy.
If we were expecting to be disappointed, however, we were to be disappointed. The standard of the acts was very high, in particular the crossbow act Popazov, the swing and seesaw antics of the 11 Puzanov, a breathtaking ballet/acrobatics hybrid called Adagio, and the clownic activities of Valik and Valerik. The only surprisingly underwhelming experience was the human cannonball Astronov (no less underwhelming for the fact that he’s apparently Russia’s last exponent of this noble calling).
ZIPPO’S, Hove, 16 August 2008
Last circus visit prior to the première of the play, this time with the full team – Johnny Worthy, Peta Taylor and myself. It was a marked improvement on my last experience of Zippo’s a couple of years back – but I was drawn in no small measure by the news that they'd shipped in some new talent from Spain, in particular Los Nichols, the clown trio which I’d seen with Circus Berlin in Eastbourne three years ago (see above). They were again excellent, and there was also top fun from Yvo and his dog, and a lady called Marina who did jaw-droppingly impressive things with hula hoops.
Last circus visit prior to the première of the play, this time with the full team – Johnny Worthy, Peta Taylor and myself. It was a marked improvement on my last experience of Zippo’s a couple of years back – but I was drawn in no small measure by the news that they'd shipped in some new talent from Spain, in particular Los Nichols, the clown trio which I’d seen with Circus Berlin in Eastbourne three years ago (see above). They were again excellent, and there was also top fun from Yvo and his dog, and a lady called Marina who did jaw-droppingly impressive things with hula hoops.
MOSCOW STATE CIRCUS, Weston Playhouse, Weston-super-Mare, March 2010
Two years on, and still the circus bug was with me, even if the theatrical agenda had moved on a way (I was soon to premiere The Trials of Harvey Matusow, a one-man show about McCarthyite America). So, with my friend Karen I headed for the Weston Playhouse, where the Moscow State Circus (yeah, them again) were in residence with a show called Legenda.
This was one of those circus events with a linking theme, and in the best tradition of such shows, the theme proved entirely perfunctory. It had potential, no question, for the linking theme was the life of Grigori Rasputin, the controversial clergyman and alleged "lover of the Russian queen" (to quote Boney M). And therein lay part of the problem: how do you do a family show about a man who could have shagged for Russia in the Modern Olympiad, and who ended up being murdered several times over, having to be poisoned, shot and dunked in a river before he finally expired? The answer seems to have been by making things as vague as possible. Instead of fully utilising the facts of Rasputin's fascinating life (he was, whether by design or otherwise, one of the last nails in the coffin of the Russian monarchy), the MSC settled for having one of the acrobats come on between acts and spout nonsense through a bushy fake beard – "I used my dreams to transcend the dark forces", he intoned at one point, to general bafflement.
There were of course an abundance of superb acts along the way, but their qualities shone despite, not because of, the attempt to incorporate them into the story of "Russia's greatest love machine" (Boney M again). They missed a trick, too, with the best act in the show: an illusionist whose Lovely Assistant changed dresses INSTANTLY on several occasions before our very eyes. Brilliant – but what a shame the escapology element of the act wasn't tailored to the show's overall theme: given the way Rasputin actually died, how wonderful it would have been if it was the Mad Monk himself who had emerged from underwater captivity at the end. Oh well, you can't have everything. Where would you put it?
Two years on, and still the circus bug was with me, even if the theatrical agenda had moved on a way (I was soon to premiere The Trials of Harvey Matusow, a one-man show about McCarthyite America). So, with my friend Karen I headed for the Weston Playhouse, where the Moscow State Circus (yeah, them again) were in residence with a show called Legenda.
This was one of those circus events with a linking theme, and in the best tradition of such shows, the theme proved entirely perfunctory. It had potential, no question, for the linking theme was the life of Grigori Rasputin, the controversial clergyman and alleged "lover of the Russian queen" (to quote Boney M). And therein lay part of the problem: how do you do a family show about a man who could have shagged for Russia in the Modern Olympiad, and who ended up being murdered several times over, having to be poisoned, shot and dunked in a river before he finally expired? The answer seems to have been by making things as vague as possible. Instead of fully utilising the facts of Rasputin's fascinating life (he was, whether by design or otherwise, one of the last nails in the coffin of the Russian monarchy), the MSC settled for having one of the acrobats come on between acts and spout nonsense through a bushy fake beard – "I used my dreams to transcend the dark forces", he intoned at one point, to general bafflement.
There were of course an abundance of superb acts along the way, but their qualities shone despite, not because of, the attempt to incorporate them into the story of "Russia's greatest love machine" (Boney M again). They missed a trick, too, with the best act in the show: an illusionist whose Lovely Assistant changed dresses INSTANTLY on several occasions before our very eyes. Brilliant – but what a shame the escapology element of the act wasn't tailored to the show's overall theme: given the way Rasputin actually died, how wonderful it would have been if it was the Mad Monk himself who had emerged from underwater captivity at the end. Oh well, you can't have everything. Where would you put it?
MOSCOW STATE CIRCUS, Preston Park, Brighton, May 2012
Another selection of often remarkable acts linked by a perfunctory storyline: this time 'Babushkiy Sekret' or 'Grandma's Secret', which saw the clowns Valik and Valerik engaged on a quest to find the treasure smuggled out of post-Tsarist Russia by the eponymous grandmother.
The lack of a ringmaster seemed more than ever a problem in this show; no doubt it saves money when touring from one country to another – a series of voice-overs in different languages would have to be cheaper than employing a series of differently-tongued ringmasters – but these voice-overs are no substitute for some kind of human tour guide, especially when they do nothing but boom out gibberish. The introduction was particularly bizarre: while children chattered away, understandably unaware that the show had started, Mr Gibberish boomed out a potted history of the Russian Revolution which, though potted, seemed to go on so long that I wondered if we were going to touch on the Stalinist purges.
When Mr Gibberish wasn't booming out his sage thoughts, the air was rent consistently with loud, thumping music which brought to completion a presumably unintended sense of detachment between the audience and the performers. A pity, for as I say, there was some very impressive work going on beneath the loud superficials. My favourite act was the balancing act wherein a man stacked up a growing number of chairs, doing handstands on the growing pile until it grew tall enough for him to retrieve the loftily-suspended chair in which was hidden the secret to Grandma's treasure. And what an anti-climax: the treasure, pronounced Mr Gibberish, was in fact this here circus, a gift for all people to enjoy for all time – or something along those lines.
Another selection of often remarkable acts linked by a perfunctory storyline: this time 'Babushkiy Sekret' or 'Grandma's Secret', which saw the clowns Valik and Valerik engaged on a quest to find the treasure smuggled out of post-Tsarist Russia by the eponymous grandmother.
The lack of a ringmaster seemed more than ever a problem in this show; no doubt it saves money when touring from one country to another – a series of voice-overs in different languages would have to be cheaper than employing a series of differently-tongued ringmasters – but these voice-overs are no substitute for some kind of human tour guide, especially when they do nothing but boom out gibberish. The introduction was particularly bizarre: while children chattered away, understandably unaware that the show had started, Mr Gibberish boomed out a potted history of the Russian Revolution which, though potted, seemed to go on so long that I wondered if we were going to touch on the Stalinist purges.
When Mr Gibberish wasn't booming out his sage thoughts, the air was rent consistently with loud, thumping music which brought to completion a presumably unintended sense of detachment between the audience and the performers. A pity, for as I say, there was some very impressive work going on beneath the loud superficials. My favourite act was the balancing act wherein a man stacked up a growing number of chairs, doing handstands on the growing pile until it grew tall enough for him to retrieve the loftily-suspended chair in which was hidden the secret to Grandma's treasure. And what an anti-climax: the treasure, pronounced Mr Gibberish, was in fact this here circus, a gift for all people to enjoy for all time – or something along those lines.
CIRCUS WONDERLAND, The Dell, Peacehaven, 4th August 2012
Socialism may be dead where those Muscovites come from, but at the Circus Wonderland it seems the workers own the means of production. That's a circuitously smartarse way of saying Circus Wonderland is a new venture founded by two clowns, Popol and Kakehole, whom I first saw with the Circus Americano five years back (scroll up for reference, if you please). Having greatly enjoyed their performance back then, I therefore felt obliged to make a pilgrimage to Peacehaven, in company with my friends Curtis and Emily. A good time, without question, was had by all.
Back when I first saw Popol, I recall being a little underwhelmed by his multi-tasking work as ringmaster, but here at the helm of his own circus he seems much more at home in his MC's role, warmly encouraging both his fellow performers and the audience surrounding them. The warmth is infectious; perhaps the smaller-than-usual scale of the circus tent lends itself to a feeling of cosiness, but over and above this there's an all-pervasive sense of friendliness and enthusiasm – and the enthusiasm applies both to the company's in-ring star turns and their more mundane housekeeping duties outside the ring. Such warmth and enthusiasm, in my experience, are by no means a given.
Favourite moments included Miss Gabriella's double pirouette on the Russian bar and Denis Remner's Tarzan act, but the most abundant joy is in the interactions between Popol the white-faced musical clown and Kakehole, the auguste (I think that's the correct technical term) whose raison d'être is to undermine his partner's pomposity. Pointy hats off to Popol and Kakehole, two examples of that phenomenon now all-too-rare – the truly funny circus clown.
Socialism may be dead where those Muscovites come from, but at the Circus Wonderland it seems the workers own the means of production. That's a circuitously smartarse way of saying Circus Wonderland is a new venture founded by two clowns, Popol and Kakehole, whom I first saw with the Circus Americano five years back (scroll up for reference, if you please). Having greatly enjoyed their performance back then, I therefore felt obliged to make a pilgrimage to Peacehaven, in company with my friends Curtis and Emily. A good time, without question, was had by all.
Back when I first saw Popol, I recall being a little underwhelmed by his multi-tasking work as ringmaster, but here at the helm of his own circus he seems much more at home in his MC's role, warmly encouraging both his fellow performers and the audience surrounding them. The warmth is infectious; perhaps the smaller-than-usual scale of the circus tent lends itself to a feeling of cosiness, but over and above this there's an all-pervasive sense of friendliness and enthusiasm – and the enthusiasm applies both to the company's in-ring star turns and their more mundane housekeeping duties outside the ring. Such warmth and enthusiasm, in my experience, are by no means a given.
Favourite moments included Miss Gabriella's double pirouette on the Russian bar and Denis Remner's Tarzan act, but the most abundant joy is in the interactions between Popol the white-faced musical clown and Kakehole, the auguste (I think that's the correct technical term) whose raison d'être is to undermine his partner's pomposity. Pointy hats off to Popol and Kakehole, two examples of that phenomenon now all-too-rare – the truly funny circus clown.
ZIPPO’S, Hove, 23rd August 2012
Two circii in a month! This time in the company of Ms Jenny Rowe, who was unlucky enough to get press-ganged into the movie-making act of the Delbosq Clowns – very much like the act into which I was recruited by Renaldo a few years back: I was a matador on that occasion; Jenny had to play Princess Leah. Funny one, that – the act, I mean, and not in a funny-ha-ha kind of way. People seem to enjoy it, but I wonder if the greatest enjoyment is had by the people involved in it. Must ask Jenny about that. By and large, it was actually a really good show, highlights including Gabriel the Gaucho doing some great stuff with his bolas (Argentinian cowboy apparatus, I believe), trampolining clown Roman Stefanyuk, and the Sensational Lucius Team being, well, frankly quite sensational as they zizzed their motorbikes around the inside of the Globe of Death.
Two circii in a month! This time in the company of Ms Jenny Rowe, who was unlucky enough to get press-ganged into the movie-making act of the Delbosq Clowns – very much like the act into which I was recruited by Renaldo a few years back: I was a matador on that occasion; Jenny had to play Princess Leah. Funny one, that – the act, I mean, and not in a funny-ha-ha kind of way. People seem to enjoy it, but I wonder if the greatest enjoyment is had by the people involved in it. Must ask Jenny about that. By and large, it was actually a really good show, highlights including Gabriel the Gaucho doing some great stuff with his bolas (Argentinian cowboy apparatus, I believe), trampolining clown Roman Stefanyuk, and the Sensational Lucius Team being, well, frankly quite sensational as they zizzed their motorbikes around the inside of the Globe of Death.
