Yesterday evening, my father had arranged for tickets for the Russian State Circus, which were having their tour-premier not to far from where my mother lives, so we decided to all go. While, initially, I had thought I’d never gone to see a circus before, my father told me that I had seen one in France, when I was all of three years old. So for all intents and purposes, I’d never been to a circus. Now, when I hear circus, I immediately think of Carnivàle, and gipsies, and tigers and the trapese, tight-rope walking and clowns. Either that, or Cirque du Soleil, and while the latter far more…perfect, I guess, I’m guessing it doesn’t have the old world charm of an actual full-on circus.
Because it was the premier, Oleg Popov – for those of you haven’t heard that name, he is the uber-clown, the primordial clown against which all other clowns are measured – was there, flown in from Germany, where he lives. He got a standing ovation from the audience, and he didn’t even have to preform.
I was a little disappointed at the lack of wild animals (they only had an elephant, some massive, fuck-off large horses from Kazachstan, and a yak – Yeah, and actual yak! – who acted as the foundation on which some lithe, Mongolian chick did some crazy acrobatics), but I was told that the circus has two shows, both seasonal, and that the wild animal acts are all in the summer-show, since dragging these animals around during winter is a drag on them, as well as their caretakers. Not to mention the performers. Would you want to do a tiger-taming act with a 400 pound tiger who’s cranky because of the cold weather it has to reside in? Can anyone say Sigfried and Roy?
I could tell you about the acts I saw, and how amazing even the simplest of acts was, but what I’d rather tell you, is how I was so impressed with how imperfect it all was. It was real, you know? Trapese people fell, and fucked up. The guy on the suicycle slipped on occassion. The clowns improvised with people from the audience who were too emberassed to participate properly. It wasn’t rehearsed, shot fifteen times, edited, polished up, Photoshopped and sent across the airways to reach the passive-as-fuck audience at home. It was real. It was funny, it was cool, yet imperfect. All these artists knew that they could screw up at any moment, and they all had little routines that they did if and when they did, sort of as a comical apology to the crowd, before trying it again.
It’s a shame that circusses (circi?) are dying. Even during opening night, yesterday, the tent which could probably seat about 800 people, was only 80% full…and they were giving away free Russian beer and snacks, fer crissakes! While most of the acts have evolved together with the rest of the world (they have daring motorcycle acts as well now), you can still almost smell the sawdust on the floor, you can still almost pretend like this is 1892, and the people performing before you are Roman gypsies. Imagination and nostalgia are very closely linked, it seems.
