Quidam was, by my reckoning, the sixth Cirque du Soleil show I’d seen Not because I can’t stop going back – although it is very good – but because it’s always a safe invite for press people who want to take you out.
Last time I went it was to Delirium at the Dome (O2 if you prefer), which was good but felt a bit flat compared to other performances. Quidam was back at the Royal Albert Hall and all the better for it.
Cirque du Soleil never does things by halves. This show, with its 51 cast members, 500 costume items and 200 pairs of shoes, took over the centre of the hall, with a massive metal arch curving up over the stage to hoist the acts high above the auditorium floor.
By far the best part was the young girls with diablos whose comparatively safe act was a demonstration of the kind of skill and speed of eye that puts the rest of us to shame. The least impressive, surprisingly, was perhaps the most dangerous.
Late on in the second half, a woman on a rope way above the audience’s heads performed the most death-defying flips and spins, twirling herself around the rope like a drunk canary falling off its perch. She span so much she couldn’t possibly have walked straight by the time she got down, and her act had so much potential for disaster that she wore a discreet safety harness.
Except it wasn’t discreet enough. We could all see it, and although it was always slack and never took the weight of her falling body, meaning she could have done the act without it, it somehow spoiled the effect. Cirque du Soleil performers don’t generally use safety harnesse – they’re far braver than me – yet there’s no reason why they shouldn’t. They have as much of a right to safety in the workplace as the rest of us, after all.
So why was her applause somewhat muted in comparison to the rest of the cast? What she did was more impressive, yet the presence of that little silver wire somehow made it seem less so.
When a Cirque du Soleil audience claps its hands, is it actually applauding the danger rather than the act itself?
It’s basically the story of a guy suspended from a balloon who floats around a mythical, magical world meeting lots of strange characters. That’s what you see on stage, anyway. What you’re not told – unless you read the programme – is that it’s an allegory. He is a regular, everyday guy who, like the rest of us, has great pressures on his time. And so he retreats into a fantasy, which is where we join him on stage.
