Right now, as these very words are being published, Letna Park in the Czech Republic’s capital city Prague is playing host to the Letni Letna Circus Festival, this year in its 21st edition. I have just returned to the UK having attended the first few days of this year’s festival, and if you’re in Prague or near it, perhaps my words will encourage you to pay this festival a visit. If not, perhaps they’ll create an appetite to plan a trip there some other year. One way or the other, I hope I can mentally transport you to the colourful, raucous, joyful place that is the Letni Letna Circus Festival. Let’s start with the city itself (via a brief detour)…
In Martin McDonagh’s iconic 2008 film In Bruges, a hitmen boss (played by Ralph Fiennes) sends two of his men to Bruges, a medieval town in Belgium. He has ordered one of them to kill the other, and this trip is a sort of a ‘last meal’ he wishes to offer the doomed man. Yet the man in question does not seem to like Bruges at all — a reaction which irritates and offends Fiennes’s character to no end:
‘It’s a fairy-tale f***ing town, isn’t it?’, he says. ‘How can a fairy-tale town not be somebody’s f***ing thing? How can all those canals and bridges and cobbled streets and those churches and all of that beautiful f***ing fairy-tale stuff, how can that not be somebody’s f***ing thing, eh?’
I am reminded of this quote as I walk the cobbled streets of Prague, passing by many churches (and just as many synagogues) and crossing the Charles bridge over the Vltava river. I have been to Bruges, and to Prague, twice each. In fact, this marks my third visit to Prague. And, as beautiful as Bruges is, I am convinced it’s Prague that is the real fairytale town of Europe:
From the legend of the Golem of Prague, said to still be sleeping in the attic of the Altneuschul – the oldest European synagogue still operating today; to the stunning, gothic church in the Old Town Square, which is said to be Walt Disney’s inspiration for Sleeping Beauty’s Castle. From puppet stores offering traditional Czech marionettes to late-night eateries churning an endless supply of the street food Trdelník — an originally Hungarian spit cake in the shape of a chimney which can be stuffed with many delicious, sweet fillings.
When I visit the Old Town Square to see the legendary Astronomical Clock in action, I overhear a tour guide tell his group that the clock has been voted the second most disappointing tourist attraction in the world (the first, apparently, being a certain painting hanging in the Louvre). Once again I am reminded of In Bruges, and find myself thinking that Prague’s tourists – like that doomed man from the film – are missing out so much by not appreciating the beauty of a fairytale town.
Though small, and lacking bells and whistles, the clock is a masterful work of craftsmanship where many different moving components work in harmony. Every detail has been carefully planned and executed, every element chosen for a reason and made to coordinate with the others. The clock, like this very city, shows us how a whole can be greater than the sum of its parts.
In short, let me tell you: I am a lover of fairytale towns, and Prague is definitely ‘my f***ing thing’.
I am only here for a weekend, but I am dead-set on making the most of the festival. I plan – and succeed – in watching five shows in the span of three nights (would have been six shows if it wasn’t for a delayed flight, damn you Ryanair!). International headliners hailing from France and Taiwan have come here for the majority of the festival, performing almost every night; but it is the quick-changing roster of Czech shows that offers viewers a wonderful, diverse look into the Czech circus scene. Some are even co-productions, such as She Is Not Me – a festival commission that brings together eight Czech contemporary circus artists with directors from the French company Cirque Aïtal.
But She Is Not Me will play after I have already returned home. I am disappointed to miss it, as it sounds very much up my alley. Reminiscent of America Ferrera’s powerful monologue in last summer’s blockbuster film Barbie (much less swear-filled than In Bruges, but just as entertaining), the festival program states that She Is Not Me seeks to ‘point out the daily rituals and troubles that almost every woman faces. You need to be as beautiful and successful as possible, but at the same time keep your own personality.’ I enjoy a feminist circus premise, and would have loved to see this show.
Luckily there is another show that runs whilst I’m in town offering a similar premise: The Taiwanese company Eye Catching Circus, one of the festival’s headliners, is here with their show #Since1994. The show promises audiences ‘a restless, stereotype-busting group portrait of a handful of women under 30 struggling to maintain their own balance in today’s expectation-laden society.’
The start of the show shows promise. A dark stage, then all of a sudden flashlights held by the artists turn on to illuminate their bodies. I’m intrigued by what their costumes suggest: red lines drawn freehand on skin-coloured leotards have me thinking at first that I’m actually looking at old scars upon their skin – A cesarean operation? Open heart surgery? The leotards, with their red veins, remind me of the Japanese art of Kintsugi and I get excited – will they play with the idea of a body that has suffered and broken and risen from its struggles as something worth appreciating? Blood, sweat and tears worth their weight in gold?
In the end, perhaps I should not have set my expectations of their dramaturgy so high. The show works best when it aims for humour rather than serious examination of gender moulds: an act that toes the line between grotesque and entertaining, where the artist is visibly overtaken by severe menstrual cramps (a very serious issue, as many of those who experience such cramps can attest). She pulls out red scarves from between her legs, one after the other, like a bizarre homage to the famous clown trick of pulling out a long chain of scarves from the mouth. Another highlight is a drag act, where the artist has audience members brush their hair (“Ouch! No! Not like that!”), put lipstick on their lips (with very little precision, naturally), and help them stumble up to the stage on stiletto heels (a contraption so precarious that they frequently require a helping hand in real life too).
The promise made in the program that these women will be ‘challenging traditional notions of femininity’ falls short for me, and in a similar way to other circus shows I’ve previously watched which aim to do the same (both for femininity and for masculinity). The company ‘show’ these stereotypes at their extreme – an impressive foot juggling act, for example, technically gorgeous and entertaining, is introduced with its artist playing femme fatale in a sexy short dress, moving with hyper-sexualised body language, and giving suggestive looks and winks. By setting up the act with a stereotypical performance of femininity, is the ensuing display of motor dexterity supposed to feel like a breaking of that stereotype? If this is the intention, it does not deliver for me. The ‘challenging stereotypes’ part may be left to the imagination, but I appreciate the valiant effort to tackle an incredibly complex topic.
The next production – Surnatural Orchestra and Cirque Inextremiste‘s PIC – does fulfill its promise of ‘a dizzying show where no one’s feet stay on the ground’. It is a large-scale show: large cast, nonstop live music, flying acrobats, paper planes, running around and audience interaction and chaos and ruckus and cacophony, an absolute overload of the senses. The most successful component of the production is the use of the orchestra as moving pieces in the show itself. Not sitting in their orchestra pit but running around on stage, depositing their instruments with audience members, supporting the trampoline, and overall being inside the show rather than on the outskirts of it. Yet once again I find myself leaving the tent thinking the effort is valiant, but the result hasn’t quite hit the spot for me. The chaos was a bit too much, both in volume and in repetition. I would have preferred ‘dizzying’ to remain a metaphor, rather than an actual physical sensation I left with.
After two international shows that don’t give me the magic I was hoping for, I find myself looking forward to watching some local Czech talent. Two Czech shows play during my stay: Cirk La Putyka, one of Czech Republic’s most prominent contemporary circus companies, with a remount of their early success La Putyka; and Cirko Hopley’s Teacrobat, a small independent show. The completely different characteristics of these shows excite me – large cast v. one person, established company v. a new player – and I look forward to the insight they might give me into the Czech circus scene.
I have seen Cirk La Putyka before and seem to have had a positive impression. But again this production does not match what I remember of the company’s capabilities. The dramaturgical logic escapes me as the show is set in a pub, yet the rules of that world are constantly broken: What kind of pub has a huge trampoline ‘bed’ behind the bar? Why are there birds inside the pub, let alone as props that are never used in any of the acts? And for some reason, a patron turns into a puppet and the puppet is then torn apart. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. After my first three shows I admit I’m having a minor identity crisis. Am I the problem? Have I become too picky with circus shows, too judgmental, too particular? Perhaps, after so many years of watching, studying, performing and analysing circus, I have become too entangled with what I know that I can’t see beyond? Am I missing some new, current trends? Have I lost touch with my industry?
Prague is a fairytale town and circus is magic. I came here hoping to see shows that would transport me to other worlds, that would make me forget for a moment the reality outside the tent. But it is here, in the festival, that I feel the fairytale magic of Prague has melted away and been replaced by the real, raw, sweaty reality of making circus in August. In a literal sense: it is so sweltering that audiences are fanning themselves with the programmes in a futile attempt to cool off, and I can see droplets of sweat dripping from the foreheads of the acrobats and drenching the backs of their shirts. But metaphorically too, I feel nothing yet of the magic and awe that circus has the power to deliver. It’s all too visceral for me. I’m tired of the heat and the humidity and of the circus that has failed to uplift me above it all.
I escape to the juggling tent and re-find my joy with balls and clubs. I teach some local kids to spin plates, and the twinkle in their eyes when they ‘get it’ is exactly what I’ve been missing. They have just found circus, and they feel its magic. Will I see any of that magic onstage before I depart?
I walk into the tent hosting Teacrobat. The premise of the show is simple: one acrobat in his kitchen, baking a cake over the course of 45 minutes. This is the smallest circus tent I’ve ever been to, an intimate setting for maybe 70 audience members. It’s an afternoon show and the small tent is packed tight with kids and their adults, and yes, we’re all schvitzing. But quickly after the show begins, we all seem to forget about the heat. Programmes-turned-fans are put down, children giggle and gape at the tiny stage, set so near that one could reach out and touch the artist. Onstage, Michal Mudrák is tinkering in his kitchen: He hangs upside down from a kitchen counter, swinging over the audience as he aims flour, water and eggs into a mixing bowl beneath him; he balances pots and pans; stacked boxes of kitchen essentials turn into handstand canes; and at the end of it, voila – a cake has been baked! The kids rush onstage to get a slice as Mudrák wipes the sweat off his brow, and his own five-year-old child joins in to help daddy serve.
As I watched Mudrák’s show I was reminded of a clowning lesson taught to me by Avner Eisenberg, aka Avner the Eccentric: ‘Find simple ways to accomplish complicated tasks, and complicated ways to accomplish simple tasks.’ Mudrák has done just that. In fact, he balances an entire show on that very principle. Baking a cake – a pretty simple task, yet made complex and intricate using acrobatic and theatrical ideas. Mudrák has successfully created a lighthearted, entertaining, sweet show that brought joy to kids and adults alike, using a simple concept with a complex interpretation. Finally – here’s that magic I’ve been looking for!
After the show has finished (and the cake has all been eaten), I sit down to chat with Mudrák about his circus journey as a Czech artist. His partner is a violinist, he tells me, and they used to have a duo act – acrobat and classical musician – that would get booked by various circuses and variety shows, and they toured many cities with it for 14 years. When their son was born, Mudrák said, they were looking for a change:
‘I was thinking I really need to start something that will give us independence. We have lots of experience with tents, and I like the work around the tent – it’s real circus work, I love it. So I made the tent in a factory, special order – all the seats, the technical equipment… The theme too. I wanted to create something all people will like, universal in its language, a balance between traditional and modern circus. Because I admire how traditional circus works – they usually have no financial support from any government or ministry of culture, and so they have to do a show that audiences will like and come to see again and again. My director came up with the idea to make the cake, and we created the show step-by-step. Now we have our own transport, our own tent, our own caravan – all we need from the festival hosting us is electricity! This way we made it easy for anyone that wishes to book us. Independence! ‘
Finally, I admit, I have saved the best for last: Entre Chiens et Louves, by the French company Cirque Le Roux. A stunning love letter to time travel, cinema, and the appreciation of that which came before us. Three time periods are cheekily played with in the show: the Victorian era, the swinging sixties, and the now. The three are presented side-by-side in the opening act, and throughout the rest of the show continue to draw close, grow apart, and finally intertwine.
Historical accuracy is rarely adhered to, but this serves as a good example of the power of dramaturgy done right: in the other shows, I was bothered when the show violated the rules of the world they themselves created; here the stage world was established early on as exaggerated, theatrical, flexible – not an attempt to faithfully recreate a Victorian waiting room or a sixties lounge, but a kooky, daring and otherworldly representation of their collectively imagined spirits.
The time periods serve as a background and a jumping point for the ensemble to explore the limits of their own creativity – and some of the visual experimentations are truly delightful: a Russian bar act where the acrobatic bases embody the physicality of old-time horses; a contortion act performed whilst climbing a wall adorned with what can only be described as glory holes (a phenomena that did not begin in the sixties but certainly enjoyed peak popularity during the age of free love and no-strings sex), where the ensemble’s arms and legs provide footholds for the contortionist to scale the wall.
At some point the visual delights are so rich, so enticing, that I forget all about the time periods and the cinematic undertones – or indeed about anything other than the elevated beauty of Good Art. One striking image after another has me captivated, thrown into a fairytale that’s not attached to any periodic style, rather rising above time and standing outside of it.
Entire rows of wheat are stacked and provide soft tones to two beautiful acts that echo with queer undertones: two of the women softly sing and dance with each other, gently lifting and placing each other down with infinite, gentle care; and two of the men on handstand canes, working in perfect harmony to mirror each other but also frequently touching, intertwining limbs, create a strange visual creature that remind me of Plato’s ‘children of the sun’, masculine creatures with two faces, four hands and four feet.
The grand finale takes place on a pendulous structure comprising two parallel Chinese poles, which spins and swings around like a windmill. The entire ensemble hop on and off the contraption, playing with gravity and with centrifugal force. Indeed, playing with the very notions of up and down, push and pull, balance and chaos.
It is stunning. It is visual poetry. It is transcendent.
At the end of the show, in a Q&A session, the company’s founders tell us that this is their third show, and that all three were hosted here at Letni Letna. The festival’s support seems to have played an important role in the professional growth of this relatively young company, and has become a home to return to again and again.
Thus I leave Letni Letna, and Prague, thinking about the importance of such spaces: Spaces that believe in programming local art – be it a large company like Cirk La Putyka or a one-person-operation like Cirko Hopley; spaces that highlight homegrown talent whilst also showcasing artists from around the world; that give a stage to finished work but also encourage and support collaborations and new work in-development.
This is, perhaps, the real magic here – not the circus tricks onstage, not the mediaeval architecture found on Prague’s streets, not even the air-conditioner pumping cool air inside Cirque Le Roux’s tent. No. The real magic is people who believe in art, in artists, in art-making. People who make it a priority to support circus, program circus, fund circus, attend circus, uplift circus artists… In our profit-driven, cynical world, such people sometimes feel as unreal to me as fairytale characters, and I return home comforted and energised by a weekend full of living proofs that such magic is as real as Prague’s fairytale aesthetic. As real as the sweat shed and shared by Letni Letna artists and viewers alike, and, like the city – and circus – itself, a magic that is greater than the sum of its parts.
