Sunday Morning with Krishnamurti: The Unwanting Mind

"Such a mind does not demand experience. It cannot ask for a challenge or know a challenge. It does not say 'I am asleep' or 'I am awake.' It is completely what it is. Only the frustrated, narrow, shallow mind, the conditioned mind, is always seeking the more. Is it possible then to live in this world without the more -- without this everlasting comparison? Surely it is? But one has to find out for oneself."

Brooklyn is For Big Tops, People or Not: Boom A Ring Biz Only OK; Cole Bros. Comes Next

I’d nearly forgotten how many major circus events this New York burg has hosted, reaching clear back to the premiere in 1871 of the Barnum, Coup and Costello affair that within a couple of years was spreading two rings rather than one, in effect kicking off the great American three ring circus to follow.

Ringling-Barnum played Brooklyn almost every year from 1919, when those two titles were joined, until 1938, when labor problems may have soured the Ringlings to ever again risking the town. Until then, the canvas tour always began after the Garden dates in the Big B.

I saw the Big Apple Circus in this town in 1986, when it played Prospect Park. Neat location; now UniverSoul Circus, claimed by a local Brooklyn Paper reporter to have grown up here, plays the Wollman Rink at the park in April. And other shows and peopled configurations, among them the Bindlestiff Family Cirkus, also toss clubs and somersaults over Brooklyn turf — or asphalt.

Did anyone stop to consider, and maybe be thrilled by the advent of Ringling Boom A Ring, which marks the very first U.S. tent show with the name Ringling on top of it since John Ringling North said good bye, big top, back in Pittsburgh in 1956? I’d call this typically historic for Brooklyn, a place where my grandmother once turned out corsets (surgical belts) for women needing to prune their figures. Maybe hoping for a date to some circus about to hit town.

Next comes New Cole, due in on July 27 for a seven day splash.

As for that Boom A Ring thing, which I consider perhaps the best American circus in years, reliable sources in the area report that night shows are near full, not so the poorly attended matinees, drawing maybe half houses. Another source believes that Brooklyn types don’t go for the afternoon programs, which strikes me as odd, considering the tent is on Coney, and isn’t/wasn’t Coney island a daytime thing? But then again, as I’ve stated here, it’s hard to imagine a nearly three month stay as reaping turnaway crowds. Still, I’m hoping, for I want to see this show again. Brooklyn is the new Manhattan — if you are big top mad.

The revived Great Circus Parade, on the move this very Sunday, has already been unrevived the next two season likely, say the officials in Milwaukee, citing economic conditions as the culprit. Kelly-Miller Circus, whatever it is they are offering four times a day, is offering it under a gold and purple tent. Is John Ringling North II showing a more flamboyant side, or is this merely a rent-a-tent?

End Ringers, I have: Big Apple Circus manager Don Covington telling a reporter up in Westerly, Rhode Island, that it takes em a full day (8AM to midnight) just to get all 1,700 seats secured. Remember when they could throw ten times that many up in a couple or three hours? Of course, today we enjoy superior seating, each individual chair clearly more comfortable than those on the old Concello seat wagons, Sorry, Art...

UniverSoul, by the way, landed a downbeat review by The Brooklyn Paper critic, Thurston Dooley III. ... Russia, how lucky we are that your political system fell all to pieces: Of Boom A Ring’s 24 performers, 16 are from Russia, and what they seem to miss the most is "banya" -- the Rusisan bath house. But oh, what a show that produce! ... A Milwaukee Journal Sentinal feature story talking up the great cuisine on the old Ringling cook house tent, and how envious I feel. I ate on Wallace Bros., not with embracing affection. Some of it I ejected in the sleeper into a bucket, while the poor band men in other bunks politely stomached my reaction to the gut foundry's latest offering ..

We mustn’t end on such a sour note. What else is there here? Oh, there is this: In L.A., where they just wound up the Jacko wake, there is a show “not your family circus,” called Cirque Berzek. I thought that odd ball troupe had died and gone to a porno wax museum. But they are back at it, seems. “Sexy, scandalous, and whole unsuitable for children."

ok. But how is their cookhouse? No, no, I won’t go there ...


[photos: My grandmother at work, 186 Irving Avenue; me visitng her in the early 1960s in her "railroad flat."]

Big Apple Chopsticky: Fish Eyes in Chinatown to Circus Highs at Coney ...

New York! New York! Yes, it’s a wonderful town, I guess -- when it’s not raining, and if I could only remember the subway to the Gershwin Hotel. The R, David. The R. And if Billy Elliot was only half price. And if those officious Billy Rose reference librarians would only conform to but one set of rules. Olive, come back!

New York, New York: Why did I ever agree to sample a fish eye in Chinatown? Getting ominously closer to an offer that seemed so amusing at first, now I’m bracing for a breakdown. Might need an ambulance standing by downstairs. Oakland friend Boyi invited me to meet his grandparents down there. Fine. But then I kept kidding him about his taste for fish eyes. And he responded in kind. "I'll have my grandmother make you one," promised he. I smiled. Now I'm cringing. People hearing about my date with exotic far eastern edibles make faces and groan. Big easy laugh, sure. What a clown gag this one would make.

But first, my entrance. Amtrak clangs into the Big Apple less than an hour late on Monday evening. The air is balmy fine upon escape out of schizophrenic Penn Station. Workaday people above a mass of streaming humanity. Merging into the crowd is a rare tonic. No place like. Gershwin is better each time. There's a picture of a young Walt Disney in the lobby. In my room, a huge, very heavy painting of Picaso over my bed, held to the wall only by the wire over hook affair, inspires visions of a cracked cranium. Mine. Stay with me here; I come from earthquake country. So I call the front desk and share my silly unease.

“Would you like us to remove the painting?” guy with French accent asks. How nice, I answer. Yes, please.


Tuesday morning, I meet Boyi and his friend Michelle for a “walk” through Central Park that feels more like a photo-snapping festival. We all live, I have concluded, to produce scrapbooks — or fake admiring facebook friends. Here are some shots. This park of parks, a glorious collaboration between nature and high art, unfolds like a Vincente Minnelli panorama. I envy the homeless here ... We walk miles, it seems, then wander into the Natural History museum, where Boyi’s inner director takes over, casting me into some audacious poses ...

Later, I’m touring a Chinatown I’ve never seen, because it does not look like San Francisco’s Grant Avenue version of a China that never existed. Boyi shows me the scrappy old building in which he and his family lived, all five in one bedroom, after arriving from China in 1998. And that evening, yes, THAT evening is upon me, up there at THAT place where IT is about to happen.

With Boyi translating through two languages, I talk to his charming grandfather, Mr. Yuan, who farmed in the Chang Dong province of China where Boyi was raised, and lived through the cultural revolution. “Everybody survived on one half cup of rice each day,” said Mr. Yuan. “And, they would scrape things off the ground like grass,” added Boyi, “to cook into the rice.”

And then, the moment you've been waiting for. Around a table of trepidation — lovely Chinese cuisine, thank you, Boyi’s smiling grandmother, there it is: THE fish and THOSE eyes. Relief. They are SMALL. Boyi chopsticks one of them elegantly out of its socket and plucks it into his mouth. I follow suit, impressing my friend and chopstick teacher. The eyeball lifts off easily onto my sticks. My eyes nearly closed, I drop the thing into my mouth, bite down and -- relief! It tastes like dirt. Now, I can do dirt. I had feared some strange taste that might have sent me flying out the window, a disgraced dragon crouching shamelessly.

But I feel a hard object. “Spit it out,” instructs Boyi.

Challenge completed. (There's the "eye" on my chopsticks. I am sparing you the stagey horrified look on my camera-unready face.)

On the TV, we are watching a CD of the incredible opening ceremonies of the Beijing Olympics. And I turn to Mr. Yuan, via his translating grandson, and say, “It looks as if God himself directed this Chinese spectacular.”

How lame if not insulting, later I think. I should have said “staged and channeled in by Confucius.”

Next morning, I’m at the Billy Rose section of the NY Public library, pouring over the fascinating papers of one Richard Barstow (there he is) who directed Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey for about thirty years. How passionately attentive was he to detail, and what a master communicator despite his well known ego. The papers reveal the ways of Barstow’s boss, John Ringling North, who came up with many ideas of his own and took an active role at production meetings: “Mr. North wants to use the flash of horses with gold wings that open into rainbows around the track for finish." You like? Here is more: “He once got an idea for a new menage and called me from the Biltmore baths and tracked me down to a drugstore on Lexington Avenue.”

Wednesday late afternoon, I'm gazing at Broadway musicals listed for half price at tkts: Next to Normal, which I had hoped to see, is not even playing tonight. Billy Elliot doesn't need us. Surprise! South Pacific is up there. I'd go again for a better seat than I paid full price for last year. Anything close to the center, I ask the man at window? "No," says he. Okay, say I, ”Toxic Avenger." The man balks. What has he against Avenger? "That's okay," I repeat, "I've already seen South Pacific. If you don't have a good seat, give me one for The Toxix Avenger.” He putters some more on the keyboard. "I have something near the center for South Pacific." Fate intervening? $68.00. That evening, this inspiring revival, with magnificent William Michals standing in for Paulo Szot, and maybe because I hold a superior seat giving me a full view of the acclaimed seashore set, seems in some ways better than last year, all except for an actor named Andrew Samonsky, barely able to play Lt. Cable.

Thursday is circus day on two islands, one called Long, the other Coney, and just in time for torrential rainstorms. Oh, what fun. First challenge, to find the Big Apple one out in a faceless place called East Meadow, into an endlessly deep and empty park called Eisenhower that finally, through an increasing downpour, produces a tent. No signage leading to it. That’s Grandma's circus for you.

After the show, unable to thumb down Noah’s Ark, my pedestrian-bus-LIRR-Subway-pedestrian trek back to midtown leaves me totally soaked. Thank God I brought an extra pair of shoes. Into them I slip before taking the N down to Coney and Boom-A-Ring. THIS is the Big NY payoff. The Big One. Sold out that night. Was I clever, months before, grabbing a ten dollar ticket on line, even if Ticketmaster grabbed $7.50 more from me.

Farewell New York! New York! You can put that painting of Picasso back up, and please tell the great artist, I really do love him, just not over my head. Keep Toxic Avenger on the boards and I might come back sooner. And, oh yes, next time with chopsticks, I’m going for the Nathan’s Dog Eye special over rice, with one pachyderm eyelash on the side ...

Helluva town! — even when it tastes like dirt ...





[last two photos: stopping over in Chicago; Aboard Amtrak's the Southwest Chief on the outskirts of Lotus Land two days later]

Boyi’s Big Top Stars: Icons Rise, Icons Fall ...

I like to talk about the circus to people from outside the circus. To people from other places and other backgrounds. Through their eyes, I see things I might not see through my own. Through their eyes, sometimes I gain fresh appreciation for elements I may have overlooked or simply taken for granted.

My friend Boyi, who was raised on a farm in the Chang Dong province of China and is now a college student, never saw a real circus in his country (other than side show-type stunt men working in the open air), and he has seen only one show here — Circus Chimera. The words "Cirque du Soleil" do not ring a bell with him.

But Boyi has a natural appreciation for many elements of circus, he is aware of the Chinese acrobatic traditions, and he has strong independent views of his own, as you shall see, and this I find refreshing.

While Boyi was looking at photographs of circus performers in my book, Fall of the Big Top, I asked him if he would score each on a scale of from 1 to 10. Since some of the photos, like the one of Miguel Vazquez sitting on a trapeze bar, are passive, I tried to give Boyi an idea of what these performers accomplished. But it is important to note, as Boyi himself would tell you, he is reacting only to the images themselves.

Here are Boyi's marks:

Alfredo Codona holding trap bar, body extended upward: Score 8

Barbette’s Bird Cage Girls: Score: 5

Svetlana Shamsheeva and dog . Score: 10. “I love dogs!”

Gunther Gebel Williams straddling tiger atop an elephant. Score: 5 “All he is doing is sitting.”

Bird Millman wire walking high over New York. Score: 10

Clyde Beatty in chair and whip face off with a snarling tiger: Score: 5. “Tiger is not doing anything. I want to see the tiger do a trick.”

Clyde Beatty pecking away over a typewriter: "I'll give him a 10.”

Con Colleano in a dancerly jump over the wire. Score: 6

Unus one finger stand: Boyi studied the photo closely. I explained it to him. He asked, “Is that a globe he is balancing on?” Yes, I replied. Exclaimed he, “that is absolutely amazing!” Score: 10. This was his most enthusiastic response, and I did not want to break the illusion. Should I tell him the truth about Unus? I did. Said Boyi, unphased, “Still a 10.” Why, I asked? “The line.”

Ballet of the Elephants. Score: 10. Most impressed by so many elephants working smoothly together.

Francis Brunn juggling a multitude of objects: Score: 7. Boyi seemed under impressed by so many objects in motion and by, it seemed, a sense of formlessness. If only he could have seen Brunn in action.

John Strong with little dog jumping through a hoop. Score: 7 “for the dog, not the man.”

Soviet teeterboard act . Score: 10

Ring full of dancers posturing at a Soviet circus. Score: 6

Miguel Vazquez sitting on a trap bar. Score: 8. “I see people in the Olympics turning many somersaults.”

Cirque du Soleil teeterboard act from Dralion. Score: 8

Pinito Dell Oro in a free standing forward swing. Score: 6.

Gui Ming Meng with vase on head. Score: 1. “I can do it.”

The Cristianis . Score: 10. Great appreciation for the complexity of animals and humans working together.

Chris Lashua, German Wheel: Score: 5

Lou Jacobs walking a floppy dog. Score: 5

The four Asia Boys in contortion formation. Score: 9. Strong admiration for the intricate coordination displayed.

La Norma, one hand to trap bar, legs extended. Score: 7

Christian Atayde in one hand stand while dog does hind-leg stand on his back. Score: 8

Bonus Comment: Where to see a circus? Perhaps because of the enchantment he felt over a 1954 photo by Ted Sato of the Ringling big top in the nation's capital, framed by trees, Boyi later told me that he is against a circus performing in an arena "where you see movies or other things.” He knows of the technical advantages that are available for circuses indoors, but prefers a tent. “I want to see a circus in a special place, a place I’ve never been before.” He also likes the light streaming in through the peaks of the tent.

Now, what do I take away from Boyi's comments and marks?

First, I have long regarded Unus as something of a scared cow, mainly because his act was so ill-structured, with the big item (one finger stand) coming first, making the rest seem somewhat anti-climactic. However, I can't think of a circus poster/litho that totally astonished me upon first sight as much as the one of Unus, when it appeared in Santa Rosa advertising the Big Show's appearance in San Francisco. Merle Evans once told me that Unus was “the best man performer I ever played for.”

Another of Boyi’s likes — the intricate coordination in group gymnastics — gave me pause to consider why the two and three person contortion acts, which to me are on the slow side, are so appreciated in general by the American public.

As for Boyi’s strong endorsement of the Cristianis, there again, from fresh eyes I am inspired to reconsider how I view such an act. I have long focused on the humans, not giving so much thought to the horse. My belated Kudos, horse.

Thank you, Boyi!


[photos, from the top: Bird Millman, circa the 1920s; Svetlana Shamsheeva, courtesy of Bertrand Guay/Big Apple Circus; Ballet of the Elephants, 1942; the Doveico teeterboard troupe, Soviet Union, 1970s; the Cristianis, circa 1940; Unus, photo by Ted Sato -- None of the photos on the sidebar to your right are from my book.]

originally published 5/26/09

Circus in the Classroom: The Unseen Heartbeat of Structure ...

This reply from David Carlyon to my earlier posting, "Recipe for Revival: Tough Love for Troubled Big Tops" is so interesting, that I am reprinting it here in full.

From David Carlyon:

On June 15, in Steps #1 and #8 of “Recipe for Revival,” you put your finger on perhaps the most important element of circus: Structure. Aristotle called it plot, though that means more than the ordinary sense of story. Instead it's the underlying architecture that the audience shouldn't notice but pulls together everything that they DO notice. Another way of putting it is internal rhythm, similar to your point about pacing. With a good structure / plot / internal rhythm, each moment is a surprise and yet somehow seems to flow inevitably from what came before. That's true in good plays, good movies, good dances, and good circuses. (It has interesting parallels to the excitement of sports too.)

That flow doesn't necessarily play on a conscious level. Compare Broadway: People may come out praising a favorite song or great singer or funny comedian but if it's not all tied together well, they're unsatisfied, at a level below thought. It's that flow, based on structure / plot, that excites us, and makes us want to return.

It may also be the most neglected element of circus. I believe Cirque du Soleil made such a smash because it employed structure / plot so well at a time when many circuses ignored it.

It applies to clowning too. I was a Ringling clown out of Clown College, and though some lump us all together (apply the cookie-cutter criticism?) as cookie-cutter clowns, working on the show offered opportunities to learn. And as a clown who became an actor and director, I know that many clown gags fall flat because they simply string together a series of bits, rather than constructing a structure / plot with pacing.

This element is so crucial that a circus could probably overcome concession sales (steps #2 and #3), audience participation (#4), unspectacular acts (#10), or even a story (#12), as long as the structure / plot / internal rhythm is strong enough.

[Carlyon is the author of Dan Rice: The Most Famous Man You've Never Heard Of]

Big Top Bits: Free Vargas Shows for the Unemployed; Kelly Miller Lands a Triple; Cirque’s Naughty Parties ... Big Apple Grandma a No Show ...

Big Tops have heart, plenty of it. We can be proud. Look here: You can see the Greatest Show on Earth under canvas at Coney — the best damn show it’s put on in years — for only $10. New Cole starts at $12, tops off at $17. UniverSoul is $16.50 low, only $26 high. And Circus Vargas, which ranges from $15 to $50, God bless their big top, is admitting all unemployed California residents free ... Now that’s the soul of the sawdust....

Express Mail From the House of Ringling (John Ringling North II): What’s this, I wondered, signing my name and wondering if I’d been summoned to appear in court for daring to question his line of showmanship and long-term producing resolve. What came, instead, was a copy of the program magazine. Give JRN II credit for self-promoting from “proprietor” to “Producer.” The latter word appears on the cover. To a paper up in MA, North, now nearly a seasoned trouper, observed, "The recession has helped the circus. People don't get to go to Disney World, so they stay local, and we bring the entertainment to them." And how do they bring it? JRN II seemed almost boyishly gleeful promising, “there will be a lot of mud and a lot of fun.” So now we know ...

Interviewee North II, advancing calmly, it would appear, up the red wagon ladder, claimed that ticket sales are double what they were the last two years. Could that be so? I returned after a long self-imposed hiatus (briefly) to the Copeland & Combs blog to do some spot checking, knowing that Steve tends to tell-all on the number of warm or cold bodies in the seats. From what I gather, houses have fluctuated wildly from "packed" to one that totaled but sixty nine souls. And there was Steve complaining about so many things, fretting contract renewal talks and making it appear as if his sink gag is down the sink because prop hands are lousy plumbers.

Back to the Kelly-Miller program magazine, wherein you’ll discover the relatively modest Mr. North II assuming a more confident air – good photo – but he'll heed to replace the cowboy hat with a JRN Homburg. He offers a cool welcome and the classic closing of his uncle, “Thank you and Au Revoir.” I’ll be waiting and watching to see what he comes out with next year. Already this season comes a big flying trapeze break through for flyer Renato Fernandes , who finally turned a perfect triple into waiting hands! ...

I sat there at the amazingly wonderful Boom A Ring, watching the gorgeous white tiger act while all the while preoccupied with this: okay, but can those cats do what the Casey McCoy hind-leg walking cats do in silky smooth tandem? No they did not. And so onto the next cage display I go. Wanta see if I was right in discovering a wonderful bit in cageland that I can’t recall having seen before. Another tiger trainer, I think, ridiculed me over my McCoy toast ...

Cirque’s naughty parties, feted by billionaire big top mogul Guy Laliberte and attended by the likes of Sir Paul M., about which a book of tasty rumors just hit the shelves, reports Henry of Edgar. The rich with an itch are switching in and out and on and off to sample the rented flesh on display and there for the taking, so go the reports. Mr. L, from what we learn, has a penchant for serial affairs. Hmm, wonder if that K-M party of 69 really was meant for the Lalibere Let's-Get-Acquainted tent? Okay, it’s all so smutty, why should we even be bothered? I’m outta there ... Just give me another good circus, Mr. Producer, and you can have another whatever, but not on me....

Big Apple Wormy: This touted organization, so in love with itself, is woefully lacking in some of the basics, about which I am launching an open-ended rant. They still do not offer a warning on their website that the morning shows are truncated, which meant that when I saw them in East Meadow, I did NOT see Grandma sing or dance, with or without a walker, in the rain. This sort of wilful misinformation borders on fraud, and I just might send back my ticket for a full refund. I do not care how established they are. While on the subject of incredible incompetence, the BAC front door remains amateur night at the circus. Two young people who look like student volunteers puttering as slow as snails. Ringling at Coney, with only one more ticket taker, moved the crowd thru with smooth pro dispatch. Ah, the free market place. I’m a quaint believer in what is left of it. BAC: Anybody from Hugo, Oklahoma could whip your constipated front end into shape within hours. (Photo, above, of Christian Atayde Stoinev, a talented kid who deserves more than a chorous boy role in this show)

Covington Connected, send in the end ringers: Ringling-Barnum to enter Staples Center late by a few hours, deferring to the Michael Jackson Memorial. Rumors that elephants and clowns will join the Jacko wake were nixed by a RBBB spokesperson, stating the circus will not be a part ... That vaguely ambitious horse show down in Texas called most recently Artania has shuttered. When will horse show impresarios wake up to the bleak realities of such ventures? ... CDS indoors. Why oh why are they sending Saltimbanco into arenas? Hurting for cash? Tampa Times performing arts critic John Fleming ruing the loss of a certain spark, missing the tent too ... Calling the acts “lackluster.” ... Baraboo’s “Doc” Dewel chirping in, about to hit his natty nineties and still fingering lightly across the mighty organ keyboard at the Al Ringling Theatre ... Circus World Museum, 50 years old this year, reporting a big bounce in biz, nearly 25% percent more people moving through the gates. Go, CWM! ... Coney Island and Ringling: a Hot dog contest pitting the pachyderms with people ... UniverSoul Circus in Tennessee taking in 84 guns in exchange for circus tickets ...

To Copeland or not to Copeland -- that is NOT the question, David ...

Big Apple Circus Dizzy – “Play On!” Gets Lost in the Music

Circus Review: Big Apple Circus
Eisenhower Park, East Meadow, Long Island
June 18

Somewhere near the end of this year’s offering, I felt a strange sense of disorientation. I had just endured an acid rock drumming exhibition (which roused the crowd and struck me as oddly out of place) and was about to witness the Rodion Troupe, a group of pole vaulters from Russia, decked out in flowing white. Talk about musical whiplash and time warp — as if suddenly you are whisked back into the old Soviet Union at the circus watching a preciously choreographed number -- after being dragged through the loud seedy sixties. And I wondered as I sat there, where have I just been — and where am I going under this tent?

Alternately co-starring the audience, this year’s fizzy effort contains the usual good-natured elements of a typical BAC program: Grandmas’s charming intrusions; the safer animal acts by PC standards — horses and dogs – that tend to escape PETA’s wrath; and a general spirit of touchy feely audience engagement that borders in my skeptical view on pandering. But then again, I prefer the “virtuosity” of the individual artist, to which outdoing founder/artistic direct Paul Binder has long passionately alluded.

Here is the problem, I think: Of all the production elements at a circus, none has quite the same power to unify a dispirit assemblage of acts into a seemingly unified format as does music. So, how disappointingly ironic that Play On!, in its deference to music in many of its forms, should reap the unintended consequence of disunifying the action. I could never quite get a grip on the show. For example, that gratuitous rock number is made even more annoyingly irrelevant by the failure of the directors to link it to any real circus act, which might have been revelatory.

Or was it all the rain outside? Perhaps I needed a libretto, although I did not detect any trenchant underlying message. The clowning cut-ups were amusing for the most part, and the individual acts, though surprisingly slender in number, held their own fairly well, one by one. Overall, however, this was that moment when somehow the whole feels less than the sum of the parts.


Indisputably top of the class are the terrifically disciplined juggling LaSalle Brothers, who put out a tight, fast moving display of acrobatic maneuvers while keeping the clubs in motion. These guys are easily the show’s highpoint. Almost as notable, though in a softer vein, are a surprising entry from China, the Nanjing Duo. A beautiful young girl in toe shoes executes exquisite positions and on-pointe work on the shoulders of her steady male partner, all of it with a shimmering composure. And what a perfectly polished finish. During exit, they walk backwards out of the tent in a graciously posturing manner as finely crafted as their routine.

For me, the band was at its best riding jazz charts, as when it matched the idiosyncratic movements of low wire dancer and contortionist Sarah Schwarz. She is a cool creative figure, but, like the show itself, short on the bigger items that can seal the deal.

A pair of new funny faces belonging to Glen Heroy and Mark Gindick pack enough facetious punch to keep us interested in their returns, although I could have used less audience — or shill — intervention.

The Cortez flyers flew. As seems to be a troubling trend these tepid days, the triple specialist missed, fell, and did not try again.

I went hoping-expecting to see Grandma dancing in the rain, which she didn’t. And I want my money back. And, while on the subject, considering how much inexplicable power Barry Lubin wields over the show from directorial input as production consultant to marketing to performance time, his Grandma strikes me still as both an asset (she can be very funny — loved the portable ventilator she pulled out for an oxygen fix during a hokey dance contest) and a liability. Grandma, also played by Matthew Pauli when Lubin is out vacationing or fund raising, epitomizes a company perhaps too settled in its ingrown rituals. There is a staid air here of adherence to a particular mind-set.

Ringmistress Carrie Harvey, who appears now and then, is a bright shining presence who needs to be better placed in the show as a focal point.

In summation, by Big Apple standards, Play On!, directed more in the form of a variety show by Steve Smith with a deference to clowning and finding ways to engage the audience in silly ring play, is a small apple.

Overall Rating (out of 4 stars max): * * 1/2

Pop Icon to Freak Show ... A Jacksonian Death Self-Destined ...

Who was Michael Jackson? Talented boy singer lucky to connect with the right songs at the right time?

Pop music icon who turned himself into post-stardom side show to sustain the public’s attention?

Even I am amazed at the adulation given his death, a death that hardly surprised me, for I could see it coming for years. But when you look at people the world over mourning Jackson's passing at the age of 50, you have to admire his powerhouse talents as singer and dancer to craft a music that would encircle the globe and give it a shared beat. Perhaps this is his greatest legacy.

I recall, silly as it seems in recall, the L.A. disco scene in the 1980s, dancing to some of Jackson's best tunes. And the best ones electrified us all. Billy Jean. I still have my only and favorite Jackson album, Off the Wall, which lifted disco to art. Maybe better than Thriller – an album more rock than disco, that I never purchased. Jackson was then wisely changing with the times, but he could not keep up forever. Few artists can. Moreover, every new album is more about the strength of the new songs than the established singer. Had Jackson lived, perhaps, like the unlikely Rod Stewart, he might have prolonged his recording magic by touring the Great American songbook.

In years too soon, the Gary, Indiana native would begin a bizarre Barnumesque decent into a willfully destructive transformation from young cute kid to androgynous cross-cultural charmer –- to creepy cosmetic transsexual.

And finally -- the side show never ended -- to what struck me as a creature from outer space trying to look like an earth-version of a female. We gawked at the face. Some said the nose was detachable. In a sense, the soul somewhere underneath it all was detachable too. What a gruesome spectacle of Twilight Zone plastic surgery. I had to turn my eyes away. Did anybody ever have the guts to tell him the truth?

Was he a child molester? I am not at all convinced. Under those bed sheets, affection may never have crossed the line, but the untoward imagery he fostered, sleeping with young boys, was incredibly stupid. I don’t think he cared. He was lost in his own celebrity.

Most of the Jackson defenders forget about the great songwriters, without whom Jackson would never have reached epic performance levels. Singers do not hit the heights without the songs. Jackson landed his fair share, and they sent him into orbit. So did his phenomenally creative choreography.

On a radio program here in the Bay Area, a local pop music critic surprised me by asserting that Jackson had not really enjoyed commercial star power for over 20 years. And yet, his name had never died. He managed to keep it on the tabloids by all of his weird pranks -- the child he dangled out a window; his marriage to Elvis Presley’s daughter; his flaky no-shows and his increasingly freaky face. And, finally, his headline-grabbing appearances in courtrooms pitting litigious American greed against depraved American celebrity.

The kinky allegations thrown against Jackson over his intimate relationships with young boys turned out to seem as flaky as the defendant himself. On trial, Jackson the showman mined America's insatiable appetite for the perverse. Illicit touching of his male teenage buddies? It was just about sharing a "warm glass of milk," he maintained. And maybe it was. Whatever happened in Never Never Land, be prepared for a barrage of tell-all books, fiction or fact. The post mortem circus of rumors and innuendos has just begun. What surprises me the most is how shocked shocked shocked the American public acts over his death.

Michael Jackson alone was responsible for his self-indulgent life style. Oh, what fame can do to the delicate. Elvis Presley, a bloated Vegas curiosity propped up by pharmaceutical pimps, finally fell apart and checked out at 42.

And now, Jackson’s inevitable death brings to the streets millions of tearful fans. Perhaps they all lived in the hope of a triumphal return in London. Somehow, I can't quite feel their sadness, maybe because I can't imagine the artistic redemption I suppose they dreamed of for one of the most eccentrically flamboyant pop artists who ever lived. His sudden passing allows him at least to exit the world minus the tainted legacy of a failed -- or aborted -- comeback.

Time has long since passed over Michael Jackson. But our memories have not let him go. Or, I should say theirs. Oh, Michael, so many years ago, when you looked like a real human being still, you were a thriller.

Call it “Greatest” Again – Ringling-Barnum Rebounds on Rich, Robust Return to the Big Top

Circus Review: Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Boom A Ring!
Brooklyn, New York, June 18.
Tickets: $10 to $65 – Now through September 7

What a difference a tent makes. And a live band. And the right acts. And the right direction. And the absence of so many things that never should have been there. What a giant difference, indeed. Somehow, Ringling in the mode of simple looks better than it has in years.

In fact, one ring under a tent may turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to circus chief Kenneth Feld.

One ring is apparently forcing (or inspiring) him to narrow his focus down to the essentials, down to a taut deference to the acts at hand, and the acts at hand in Boom a Ring! merit the sleek, no-nonsense format they have been given. Mr. Feld has devised a program of remarkable depth, diversity and luster – a program free of the extraneous production gimmicks and frills that have grown oppressive over the years.

Gone, at last, are so many tired old artifacts of ritual: that creaky rolling platform from which the ringmaster boomed “Children of all ages!”; kiddies pulled out of the audience onto rumbling floats, waving at us during pedestrian specs; cutesy video screen irritants, opening parades as thinly veiled promos for the circus, half-baked "story" lines, audience participation ad nauseum, and, well — I will politely refrain from naming everything. You fill in the blanks. Miracle of miracles, they are all GONE.

Seen opening night in its Coney Island premiere, Ringling’s Gold Unit proved to be a fine-tuned circus machine, endowed with a host of top-drawer talents full of inventive sparkle, wisely directed to move forward and to keep moving forward. This is the most professionally produced circus I have seen in years, and what a treat that alone is. Thrillingly to the point, skillfully paced, with crisp clean transitions, and an outstanding musical score that hits the mark. Opening and closing ensemble splashes are picture perfect.

The live music is produced by but six or seven musicians. The band has been liberated out from under that morose cage-like covering, out where it can be seen. These young players prove once more that nothing can replace a living breathing source of music at the circus.

Acts? At least five of them are tops in their respective fields, and one of the performers, if he does not already hold Monte Carlo Gold, should. The big contributors include a captivating juggling threesome, unnamed in the program or on the website, who work around and over a table; Diana Vedyashkina’s absolutely delightful little Daschund Dogs (a natural tie-in for Nathan’s up the street); dancing elephants who can even shake their booties; the exhilarating Negrey Troupe of ground acrobatics; and a comedy cyclist, woven through the performance, who gives the program tremendous sophistication.

His name is Justine Case, a character from Australia who courts a French accent and a need to vent his amusingly messed up life in the mode of a stand-up comic. Case is, indeed, about the greatest circus comedian-performer I’ve ever seen. He enters on a bike with suitcase in hand, immediately grabbing our attention. And he works wonders on a wild variety of wheeled configurations while monologuing on. “Maybe the French can help the Americans a little,” he quips early in the party, wryly referencing the overpowering reach of that Montreal monster. Case’s quirky humor is adult without being inappropriate for the younger set. I say to Monte Carlo: Just send this genius the Gold, no appearances necessary.

Has Feld erred in any way? To be sure, there are arguable missteps that fall short of the overall excellence in motion, weak segments that might prevent Boom A Ring! from reaching its full potential as a hot word-of-mouth must see. Most critically, opening night went on without the high wire services of Los Scalos. This turn, still featured in a video teaser on the Ringling website, looks amply exciting, just the sort of an episode to deliver a degree of air power to match all of the terrific clowning, acrobats, and animal antics on the ground. And this show needs more in the air.

Liina Aunola, who cuts a recklessly expressive figure, makes the biggest impression aloft on a cloud swing, if only she were not tethered to lifelines. Many of our so-called “aerialists” today don’t even try to hide their marionette strings, in full view snapping on the wires as if to be getting ready to go to work and clock in. What a shame. “What are those wires for,” I heard somebody whispering behind me, as is always the case. Still, Aunova’s tempestuous persona, even with her pretending, reminded me of the older bolder era when sawdust divas made perilous poetry swinging high and wide – and free.

A belabored perch act by Valentin Dinov and Borislava Vaneva involving one of them peddling a small bike up and down in a half-moon shaped track was so anchored to wires as to make it pointless. And one might ask if the tediously drawn out crossbow exploits of Martti Peltonen are worth a couple of audience pleasing payoffs.

Most conspicuously questionable is another aerialist, the hefty Vicenta Pages, who follows her perky stint directing a gorgeous class of white tigers with a buxomly (to put it discretely) work out on roman rings. Ms. Pages’ arduous attack, in fact, made me fear that under its weight the tent structure might lose integrity and end up in our breathless laps. I’d recommend that she stick to her day job with the tigers and leave the rings to lighter wings.

Boom a Ring! also offers the wheel of death as well as three motor bikes whirling inside a cage while a woman stands perfectly still in the middle of it all. Another rich discovery are the gifted comedy duo of Stanislav Knyazkov and Vasily Trifonov, who add more fresh seasoning to the comedy mix. And the show soars down the finish line with a fabulous exhibition of ground tumbling by the Negrey Troupe. What a sendoff! Then comes a quick and concise last splash by the company, as perfectly precise and sleek as, overall, the show itself. Director Philip William McKinley (or Mr. Feld directing Mr. McKinely – whomever) deserves high marks for merging the elements with taste, brevity, and buoyancy.

Will Boom-a-Ring! turn the corner on Coney, helping to revive an aging seaside park while making a strong mark of its own at the ticket windows? I’d say they have an uphill battle on their hands. Other then Cirque du Soleil, American shows have rarely if ever done well across extended engagements, and I’m not sure that all the vital signs are in place here to win over healthy houses from a very fickle iPublic.

Nonetheless, Kenneth Feld may find the inspiration he needs to forge ahead in the same robust direction, with a resolve that I am convinced he never felt while straddled to his short-lived artsy, Cirque du Soleil-envious Barnum's Kaleidoscape. Here he is on the populist ground that he is at his best working. So, indeed, he may hatch a brilliant new concept for tented Ringling tours. And how ironic it would be were the Feld family, who falsely claim to have “saved” Ringling by moving it from the tents to arenas in 1957, compelled to move it back from whence it came.

How long has it been since we have witnessed such top-flight showmanship under canvas? In a single ring, the Big Show struck a powerful note of authortiy, looking, acting, and feeling whole again. And the word “greatest” seemed more fitting than it has in too many seasons. Better still, the Felds are offering the customer a decent chair at Boom A Ring! for as little as ten dollars. Now that must count as the best damn live entertainment bargain on the planet.

The Ringling brothers should be smiling up on the big lot. It’s a circus through and through.

Welcome back, Big Bertha.

Overall rating (out of 4 stars max) * * * ½

[photos, from top: Ensemble number; Stanislav Knyazkov; Justin Case; Liina Aunola; the Negrey Troupe -- all photos from Boom A Ring program magazine]

Happy 25th, Cirque du Soleil!

June 16, 1984 -- June 16, 2009: You are 25-years old this year. You went from an upstart kid eating fire, walking on stilts, juggling clubs and clowning your way into a global giant. You took the world. You have thrilled, challenged, confused, let us down and lifted us back up many times over.

Here are some photos of you in your precocious youth. Such sweet images of a troupe of Canadian street performers turning their talents and vision into one of the most remarkable circus empires the world has ever known ...

The first Cirque du Soleil logo, above, designed by Josee Belanger, 1984. The images in black and white are of La Fete Foraine in 1983, the precursor to CDS, described by CDS as a gathering of street performers "inspired by the communal spirit of the 1960s."











The first Cirque du Soleil tent, 1984.

Director Franco Dragone in rehearsals, 1993.

25 Cheers to Guy Laliberte, fearless founder and Cirque King!

[all photos from the Cirque du Soleil website]

MIDWAY FLASH ... MIDWAY FLASH ... Ringling-Barnum Rebounds on Rich, Robust Return to the Big Top

NEW YORK, June 18. Opening to sell-out crowds under canvas, Ringling strikes a powerful note, daring a simpler approach in a single ring. Read all about it in the days to come when Showbiz David reviews Boom-A-Ring at Coney Island.