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CHAPTER 1
EVA
In her last ever appearance ...
I remember the elephants – just. It was a long time ago, and I was very small. But I can remember their legs, as thick and long as tree trunks, with a similar rough, cracked texture, and their big, disc-like feet as they marched along the high street. I remember looking up at their enormous curved sides – which looked black, in silhouette – and seeing each of their trunks holding the tail of the animal in front.
It's odd that I remember them in the street, not the big top. I couldn't tell you what they did in the big tent on my local park, but I remember being there. I remember the strange light beneath the canvas, the trampled mud and grass beneath my feet (because you notice the ground more when you're little; you're much closer to it), the dark red poles and the curved rows of wooden bench seats.
My memories of the show are fragmentary. I remember them clanging together sections of fence to build a cage around the ring and, particularly, a curved, barred tunnel that led through from the edge of the tent. I remember how flimsy those bars looked and how large the gaps between them seemed to be. I remember well the low growl – or perhaps it was a purr or maybe just the rasp of his breath on the chilled air – as a lion with lean haunches and a big shaggy mane ran through the tunnel to the ring. I was on the end seat, and he was very close. What the lions did in the ring, though, I am again at a loss to recall.
Memories of a row of lions sitting obediently on metal stands are from later, although not much later, television specials. Billy Smart's, perhaps, in black and white at Christmas.
The trapeze flyers were and are a blur. I can recall the tiny figures in their glittery leotards, with their swings and platforms glinting in the lights, high above my twisted-back head, in the vertiginous heights at the very top of the tent. But I was too young to appreciate their skill and daring, and their performance was too distant for me to engage with.
Naturally, I remember the clowns more clearly. One was dressed as what I would now recognize as a harlequin, with a shimmering pom-pommed outfit, white face and tall pointed hat. He seemed to be in charge, an aloof figure – a straight man maybe. Another clown wore a floppy brown suit and tramp-like trilby with a mop of orange hair sticking out from under it. He had a red nose like a ping-pong ball and a bucket of water balanced on a broomstick. We knew it was water because he and a pal had spent a lot of time soaking each other with bucketloads of the stuff. I remember the audience cringing back as he tottered towards them, then tripped in his out-size clown boots. But the bucket turned out to be fixed to the broom ... and spilled only feathers or scraps of paper or some such.
They also had a terrific clown car that spluttered around the ring, losing doors and mudguards and backfiring with a firecracker BANG that made my mother jump right off the bench.
After the show we went backstage into another, smaller tent, rich with the tang of dung and hay, where we joined a queue to meet the animals – horses and maybe a camel or two – in their pens. It was a warm and cosy experience, not unlike visiting the police horses in their stables behind the police station on the high street.
We were animal lovers, whether hamsters and rabbits in the pet shop or ducks on the big pond in the cemetery.
Happy memories, then, but distant ones.
That first visit to the circus, at such an early age that I can't even guess at how old I was, was to be my last for decades.
As an older child I was taken to the cinema (the pictures, as we called it), museums, a Dr Who exhibition and even, occasionally, a zoo or wildlife park but never again to a circus. Not that other forms of live entertainment featured much in my cultural life either; it was the television age, and we weren't a theatre-going family.
Occasionally a circus was glimpsed on television, but as I grew older the word became sullied by a general acceptance, in my house at least, that if circuses weren't actually physically cruel to animals (and I can remember a few tabloid exposés that claimed they definitely were) then the idea of performing animals was in itself cruel or demeaning.
Gradually, circus faded, unmissed, from my radar – and I guess not only from mine. When I was a teenager and young adult, people talked about gigs, films, clubs, maybe stand-up comedy or even fringe theatre. But circus? It might have ceased to exist.
So when The Stage, the theatrical newspaper for which I have been reviewing plays, pantomimes and seaside variety shows, asks me to review the Hippodrome Circus in Great Yarmouth I really don't know what to expect. I certainly don't expect the steamy humidity of a jungle, the pungency of chlorine ... and synchronized swimmers.
The Hippodrome, celebrating its hundredth anniversary as a circus venue, is a circular building, with steeply raked tiers of seats encircling its central ring – a Colosseum-like design that has earned it the nickname 'East Anglia's mini Albert Hall'.
As the show resumes after the interval, the red carpet that covers the ring has been removed to reveal glossy light-blue wooden boards. As the Weather Girls' disco hit 'It's Raining Men' fills the auditorium, six girl dancers are doing a 'Singing in the Rain'-style routine in short shiny macs and high heels. They put up their umbrellas as four fountains erupt into life from around the edge of the ring, shooting multiple jets of water maybe twenty feet into the air. It's a great accompaniment to the routine. But as the 'rain' cascades down upon the dancers, isn't the water sloshing around on the boards beneath their feet getting a little deep?
The dancers skip off and the music changes to the thunderous drama of the opening theme from the film 2001: A Space Odyssey – which is also the music Elvis used to open his Las Vegas shows. Lights strobe and swirl around the darkened venue, distracting us, while the fountains continue to pour gallons of water into the ring, the surface of which has become a boiling cauldron beneath the ceaseless torrent.
When the lights and music finally still, the floor of the stage has disappeared completely. There's just blue water, from the middle of which six swimmers, in caps and goggles, suddenly leap like dolphins, ready to commence their synchronized routine.
A hundred years after its instigation by showman George Gilbert, the Hippodrome's party-piece transformation scene from circus ring to swimming pool has lost none of its magic. It even gets a smile and faintly disbelieving shake of the head from my host Peter Jay, the venue's current owner, despite the many times he has seen it before.
'It's hard to imagine what it would have looked like by gaslight in 1903,' says Jay. With a laugh, he adds, 'It might not have smelled very nice because they didn't have any filtration and they had elephants and horses performing directly above the water!'
Ah yes, the elephants. Peter used to have them. He talks fondly of how they would take their exercise out on the beach and go for a swim in the sea between shows. Like many circus owners, however, Jay dispensed with animals a decade or more ago. As one of the art form's leading modernizers his decision was pragmatic.
'People, and especially the press, can never think about circus without wondering whether it's got animals. Should it have? Shouldn't it have? Are they well looked after? They've always been fantastically looked after as far as I've seen. But now, without animals, it's an easier product to sell because there's no discussion about that.'
What Jay delivers instead of horses and lions is spectacle. He dresses circus up with an exciting blend of ear-splitting chart music, nightclub lighting and MTV-style dance routines – not to mention his fountains and swimmers. But behind all the razzle-dazzle are human circus skills that rely on one thing alone: the almost unbelievable skill, strength and bravery of the men and women who perform them.
Closing the first half of the show are perhaps the most daring per formers of them all, the nut-brown, wire-muscled Valez Brothers on their enormous rotating Wheel of Death. How to describe the towering apparatus upon which they risk their lives twice daily? For the risk is real. Experienced performers have slipped and died doing this act. Imagine a windmill with two tapering sails, each about eight feet long and constructed from two layers of criss-crossed shiny metal, like the hollow gantry of a crane. Now picture a man-sized hamster wheel attached to the end of each sail ... and the whole contraption revolving around its centre, the uppermost wheel rising nearly thirty feet into the air as the lower swishes just above the ground. While the lights flash and sweep around the arena, and chilli-pepper-hot Latin music blasts out madly, the Valez Brothers run around the inside of these two revolving hamster wheels and then around the outside.
Actually they don't run. They dance and leap. They jog backwards. They do handstands. They take huge bounds into the air as the wheel spins away beneath their feet, rejoining it with a clang, their weight and motion making it revolve ever faster.
My breath is held and my heart is in my mouth just watching, as I marvel at the apparent recklessness with which they flirt with death. One missed footing, one misjudgement, would mean a fall, a broken bone or worse. But these boys don't just ignore the danger, they embrace it; they love it.
Several times they use their balanced weight to stop the wheel so that it is completely horizontal or at 'ten to four'. Their black hair slicked down with oil and their brown chests glistening with sweat, they bare their teeth in the widest of grins as they swivel their hips in time to the music, revelling in their own daring. Whistling and shouting, Mardi Gras style, they slap their hands together, encouraging us to clap along. And then they're off again, leaping and running, perpetually seeming so close to missing their footing, but always making it, half a heartbeat from disaster, as the wheel rolls on.
It's as I watch the Valez Brothers that I first become fascinated with the circus breed and the mysterious glue that binds them to their life of peril. They are, there is no doubt, a breed apart. Somewhere between show business and sport, but standing apart from both, they seem to exist for no other purpose than to make the impossible possible.
I don't get to ask the Valez Brothers why they do what they do, although in truth I don't need to, because I can see the reason in their grinning eyes and teeth; no drug could give a man such a high.
But I do talk to Eva.
Eva Garcia performs on the aerial silk. It is a graceful act, equal parts artistic and gymnastic, a gravity-defying ballet performed in the air high above our heads. Climbing two broad but fine bands of silk that hang from the roof of the Hippodrome, she throws figures and strikes poses, letting go with her hands and trusting her weight to the silk as she rearranges it in loops and coils around her waist, a knee or ankle.
Eva is a stunningly attractive woman, whose green eyes and exotic features are evidence of her mixture of Spanish, English and Irish blood – and, perhaps more than anything, circus blood. Her suppleness in her red-and-white costume belies her thirty-eight years. In the spotlight, to the stirring music of the Hippodrome's closing theme, 'Time to Say Goodbye', she makes her routine look effortless.
In the cold light of a Great Yarmouth morning, Eva reveals the life of hard knocks and loneliness behind the glitter.
'There are a lot of good things about the circus,' she says in her strong Spanish accent. 'But then there are a lot of bad things. It's very tough, mentally and physically. You really have to love it to live in the circus.'
Already that week Eva had suffered bruises because the humidity was making her hands slip on the silk. Earlier in her career, injuries had forced her to change from a wire-walking act in which she performed back summersaults no other woman attempted. Yet, despite the scars, dis locations and operations, and the danger she is too superstitious to talk about, the modest, warm-hearted performer has no intention of giving up a life she has led from the age of seven and which has been in her family for over a hundred years. She has, in fact, just ended a nine-year relationship in favour of a nomadic existence travelling all over the globe, often driving alone at night with all her worldly possessions in the caravan behind her.
'He wasn't in the business and he could never handle me going away for months at a time. But I couldn't give up my life. I'm still too young.'
Estimating she has another ten years of performing ahead of her, Eva says the main change in circus during her lifetime has been in the area of presentation.
'The music, the lights, the costumes are all part of the act. If I still had the wire-walking act nowadays, I would present more and wouldn't do as many hard tricks.' With a laugh, she concludes, 'You still have to have good tricks, but these days you don't have to kill yourself.'
It's a good quote, and it comes out in The Stage the following Thursday. Whether Eva gets to read it, however, I don't know. The day after the interview appears, Eva falls thirty feet during her act. She dies instantly.
In shock and grief, the Hippodrome is closed for the weekend. But in circus, as in show business, the show must go on. For the rest of the season the Valez Brothers continue to dance and jump and gyrate on their rotating Wheel of Death. Vladislav, 'The Man Who Can Fly', grips thick straps in each fist, twists them two or three times around his steely wrists and soars like Superman through the glittering fountains.
Meanwhile, all along the prom, Eva gazes with a Mona Lisa smile from the gaily coloured posters that depict her in one of her poses on the silk. Her unreadable eyes silently remind us that there is no computer-generated trickery in what her colleagues do, nor are the risks they take for our entertainment anything less than real.
The word bravery is bandied about lightly in the arts. Often it refers to nothing more daring than an unusual choice of song. For the circus breed it is a nightly way of life and, sometimes, death.
CHAPTER 2
BACK TO THE HIPPODROME
Where better to find out what makes circus people tick than in the ghost-filled backstage corridors of Britain's oldest circus building?
'Circus Circus.' The red neon sign writes itself, flashes twice, blinks out, then writes itself again. Below it, tinny music spills out across Great Yarmouth's promenade.
The sign isn't advertising a circus. The single-storey, glass-fronted building is home to another of the brightly lit slot-machine arcades that line the prom in a gaudy approximation of the Vegas Strip: the Flamingo, the Silver Slipper and the Golden Nugget.
Stand far enough back, however, across the road, past the car park and the Victorian toilets on the edge of the esplanade, and above the 'Circus Circus' sign you can glimpse the central two of four domed terracotta towers, their once vibrant orange hue now dulled by time and grime. Between them you can just make out, in once golden, now faded yellow letters on weathered green tiles, the words that identify the towers as the uppermost part of a real piece of circus history, the Yarmouth Hippodrome.
Before circuses roamed the country in tents, many towns, and certainly the major cities and holiday destinations, had their own permanent circus building where shows were staged for weeks or months at a time. The most prestigious was Hengler's Grand Cirque, which stood on the site now occupied by the London Palladium. The last still used for its original purpose is the Hippodrome.
Before the amusement arcade was built in front of it, the Hippodrome faced the seafront across an open square. The grandest of the seven circus buildings that once graced the resort, it tempted holiday-makers with huge wooden cutouts of dancing bears and white-faced, red-nosed clowns. Today the narrowness of the road behind the amusements makes it hard to stand back and appreciate the faded grandeur of the pillared art nouveau frontage, designed by Ralph Scott Cockrill, the son of the local borough surveyor, in 1903. But still the crowds come, queuing the length of the little road to see performers from around the world testing their skills and bodies to the limit in the most physically demanding arena of show business. Inside, the entire history of circus seems to hang in the shadows of corridors lined with framed posters advertising shows from before the war, dark concrete stairwells and cramped toilets unchanged in a century.
'If these walls could talk ...' marvels the tanned, white-suited, shaven-headed roller-skater Miguel Peris in his chirpy Essex accent. 'Houdini worked here. Charlie Chaplin, they think.'
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Circus Mania"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Douglas McPherson.
Excerpted by permission of Peter Owen Publishers.
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