Finding the magic

From Free Street to Commercial in search of the circus

by Tanya Whiton

Okay, so I went to the circus. What’s the big deal?

The big deal, according to most of my chums, is that Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey’s “Greatest Show on Earth” forces wild animals to live in cages and do retarded tricks in concrete floored arenas.

Point taken.

But while I’m dubious about the entertainment value of a blonde in high heels whipping a pride of rare tigers with names like “Ghandi,” “Tibet,” and “Assam,” I was curious, nonetheless, about the rest of the show: the trapeze artists, the high wire act, the clowns. I wondered if the weird, itinerant magic of the circus — as it is portrayed in movies and books — actually exists. I was fascinated by the moving metropolis of trains, buses, campers, and trailers that inhabited our city for the entire week the circus was in town. And I wanted, most of all, to be amazed, though I denied it in conversation.

That old “bread and circuses” ploy of distracting public attention from government action seems to be working quite effectively via the major television networks, I argued. So shouldn’t I see what’s going down under the real Big Top?

And would it be so wrong if I ate a Snow Cone while I watched?

An indicator of Ringling Bros. political stance was a decidedly patriotic flair to the opening parade, which consisted of marching gals in spangly stars and stripes, American flags unfurling from the ceiling, and elephants draped in mantles embroidered with bald eagles. Albino camels, miniature ponies, and what appeared to be alpacas all humped along to the opening number in various permutations of red, white, and blue. They were led (of course!) by a mildly creepy ringleader, who resembled a taller, leaner Robert Downey Jr. — speaking with Robert Preston’s affectations.

I was forced to question my own set of assumptions about the sort of showy patriotism the evening commenced with, however, as the night wore on; Ringling Bros. circus represented the highest degree of cultural diversity in a live performance I have witnessed to date. Acrobats, equestrians, aerialists, and bicycle gymnasts from Bolivia, Argentina, China, Bulgaria, Russia, and Mexico took to the ring for each successive act, creating an example of this country’s actual diversity that big star spangled spectacles often fail to illuminate.

ACT I: “In the tradition of Buffalo Bill, a congress of rough riders.”

Horses are trotted in from either side of the arena, diminutive riders sitting arched in their saddles. They begin to circle their steeds in the center ring, moving faster and faster, until horses and riders resemble a living carousel, galloping at an angle nearly diagonal to the floor.

I felt something like envy, watching them. The circus posits that not only are extraordinary human feats possible, but also that extraordinary relationships can exist between humans and animals — an idea your average kid is pretty enthralled by. I’m still enthralled by it. However, I also think that your average kid can understand the difference between domesticatable animals and wild creatures, and the accompanying moral question about whether it’s fair to use wild creatures in a show.

ACT II: Two Bolivian aerialists and a gymnast from Moscow.

In the outer rings, two women are suspended off the ground by cords attached to their hair. They swoop around with giant, iridescent wings, juggle fire, and hula multiple hoops around their bodies, which remain poised, though dangling in space. In the center ring, a man winds himself all the way up into the rafters using his own elegantly spinning body and arms. The effect is of three beautiful live marionettes, manipulated by an invisible hand.

ACT III: “Witness a unique bond between one woman and the animal kingdom — please welcome Zara and her Amazing Tigers!”

Pockets full of steak, Zara enters the ring, coaxes the tigers from their cages, and (whip in hand) persuades them to sit up, lie down, and roll over.

The spell of the previous acts is broken, and the sanitized cruelty of corporate style entertainment — “Just Clowning Around: Priceless” — slips through the gaps in the chain link fence that surrounds the beasts. Why would anyone want to see something that mighty sit up and beg?

I hoped, briefly, that there might be an incident — a bad tiger.

ACT IV: Walking the high wire.

Four men in white top hats and tails climb up the rigging of a double high wire under two bright spotlights. They jump rope and leap frog over each other, pretend to lose balance and miraculously, don’t. When they walk down the diagonal wires to the floor, there is a feeling of genuine suspense — the sense that somehow paying close attention to their stunts will keep them from falling.

On the last night of their performance, I walked down to the train yard on Commercial Street to see the circus load up and leave town.

Industrial lights from the oil yards across the Fore River shone through the open doors of the train, and voices could be heard echoing from the miniature camper/tent city that had been erected alongside the tracks. Through each window I could see signs of travelers trying to make themselves at home, train cars transformed into living rooms and kitchens. The show itself, with its smells of fruit punch and exotic dung, the breathtaking grace of the trapeze act, and clowns filling in spaces between numbers, seemed almost incidental to this life that was strung along between cars. This was the circus I’d read about and imagined — where shabbiness could be transformed into magic strictly by human effort. No wild animals required.

Tanya Whiton can be reached at twhiton@prexar.com.