You can have your bloviating intellectuals, your politicians, your fat CEO’s; I want none of those—give me just one Cirque du Soleil performance, such as the one we saw yesterday, Quidam, and I am convinced we deserve to be here, after all.
No doubt, I was seduced, transfixed; no doubt there was something familiar there in all of it too—from the appearing and reappearing central icon, the Magrittesque Quidam —headless figure in an overcoat, umbrella opened above, bowler hat in hand— to the roaming groups of dehumanized and vaguely threatening figures in white biohazardish suits (Chiennes Blanche), to the long processions of grief-laden slaves (my impression), the lost-and-longing airplane man, and, overall, a little girl’s dream of life, love, fascination, and play, all of it resonating with truth. One thing is certain—Quidam is art, where one finds wholeness—a balance of male and female, light and dark, dread and hope, grief and joy, body and soul. You leave the theater simply glad for your life...unless you are a six-year-old whose daddy, on the way out, had just —unknowingly— trashed the popcorn tub you were planning on making into a house...in which case, you are boiling mad and not likely to forgive him for at least an hour. ; )
Coincidentally, the little girl character in Quidam is named Zoë.
Thank you, Julie and Steve, for such a wonderful gift—tickets to Quidam, San Diego.