Zumanity

Zero. That's how much gets past the two men behind me. We're sitting in a theater in Las Vegas, watching Zumanity, the new bawdy, naughty Cirque du Soleil show. Fifteen minutes into it--which is to say 14 minutes and 59 seconds too late--they finally grasp the essence of the brassy broad acting as MC. Actual dialogue overheard:

"Hey, that's a dude!"

"It is?"

Sure is, fella: drag queen Joey Arias, your host for the evening. Of course, some disorientation is expected. Cirque, after all, is the modern circus--arty, athletic entertainment that combines acrobatics, contortions and juggling with a sense of spiritual striving into an amalgamation that dazzles, amazes and exhausts your supply of synonyms for bendy.

Zumanity, which coyly bills itself as "another side of Cirque du Soleil," is about love, sex, seduction, the limits of the body and the vast potential of the mind. Not incidentally it's also about blowing up old notions of what the Montreal-based nouveaucircus troupe can do.

Cirque shows have always had a sexiness about them, with those unbelievably pliant bodies wrapped in skintight suits. Zumanity goes to a whole new level. In one act, two female contortionists explore each other in a water tank; magnified by the liquid and distorted by the curved glass, their movements become hypnotic. In another, two balance artists torque themselves into hot positions from an otherworldly Kama Sutra. There are steamy dance numbers and stripteases, along with a little envelope pushing in the form of stylized references to bestiality and autoerotic asphyxiation, and the whole thing concludes with a most artful orgy. At the same time, Zumanity retains the shared traits of all the company's productions: imaginative visuals ("Tissus," an aerial act in which a topless goddess and a midget swing overhead on white drapery, concludes with the drapes twirling into the double-helix shape of human DNA) and little narratives of the human spirit (two men dance-fight in a cage until they kiss, at which point the cage lifts away, freeing them).

"We wanted to explore love in all its forms," says Guy Laliberté, the company's founder and impish guiding spirit. "We wanted to create something in which we can express anyone's and everyone's fantasies and experiences. We wanted to have fun."(concluded on page 135)Zumanity(continued from page 78) MC Arias applauds these objectives. "That's why Guy is the king of the Strip," he says. "He's always pushing."

King of the Strip is a title usually bestowed on whichever casino mogul owns the most neon tubing on Las Vegas Boulevard. This may be the first time it has been used to describe a fire-eating, stilt-walking accordionist. But since the early 1980s, when he coalesced a group of street performers into "the circus of the sun" and got the provincial government of Quebec to underwrite its formative years, Laliberté has proven to be the sort of driven, inventive businessman destined to do well in the new Las Vegas. In the 20-plus years of its existence, the act has evolved into a premium entertainment brand, one that employs 3,000 people, has been seen by more than 50 million customers and generated $650 million in ticket sales in 2003.

In addition to Zumanity, Laliberté's Strip kingdom includes three other permanent shows--the original Mystère; O, performed in a vast water tank; and the troupe's newest show, the Orient-themed KÀ, which adds martial arts, puppetry, video and pyrotechnics to the customary acrobatics and contortions. A fifth production is in the works, and there is a resident show in Orlando and five touring acts.

All that New Agey contorting and juggling has made Laliberté a billionaire, a fact he is la-di-da about with the media. You want to sneer--sure, Guy, the money's not the point, right--except that he does seem genuinely more engaged by creative risk-taking than by his company's muscular cash flow. He still preaches the linked gospels of risk and innovation, plowing up to 40 percent of the company's income into developing new material and performers. To wit: his upcoming Vegas production, a Beatles-themed show that resulted from a meeting with George Harrison at a grand prix race. It is set to open next year.

"Guy was clear about what he wanted," says Zumanity artistic director Ria Martens. What he wanted was "a little edge," as Laliberté himself says. "Hopefully a lot!"

We're at rehearsal. Martens has just finished tweaking a dance number that later, when the performers are wearing considerably less, will help provide that edge. If that doesn't do it, there are the two chubby women dressed in fishnets, juggling sex toys. Or the quartet of zanies who race around the theater, speed-humping anything in sight, including patrons. Critics who grumble that the troupe has sacrificed the audience interaction that's part of its street-busker roots for the sake of spectacle have clearly never seen the revolving lovefest that closes this show. Each night some Martha from Philly and Joe from Des Moines are brought up to join the groping and simulated sex. "I remember one woman who worked at a Catholic hospital," Arias cackles. "I told her, 'Start saying your three Hail Marys,' because she was up there humping this guy."

Not everyone gets into it like that, of course, and there's always someone who walks out. That's fine with Zumanity. "If people leave with an attitude, whether a great one or a crappy one," says Arias, "we did our job."