All My Children: I thought You'd Always Be There. Nothing Lasts Forever, Not Even A TV Soap

Queen of Soaps: Susan Lucci. Will she sign on to a projected continuation of "All My Children" on the internet or cable TV?

What a strange poignant sadness I feel. I haven't watched the show seriously in years, other than looking for Erica a few times a year and then rarely finding her. It was she who hooked me, around 1980, her wickedly subtle sense of humor, I swear. Oh, heck, I'm going to make an embarrassing confession here. I once actually sent her a fan letter, but only because I found her so funny and wanted to tell her so. For a time, they treated me as a fan of their club. I did not respond.

Giving birth so many years ago.

For my money, too many of the show's more interesting characters faded away over the years, leaving us with a lot of rather dull posturing studs and dolls. The clever potting that so once compelled me seemed to slacken off. Two of my favorite characters were Palmer and Opal. Palmer is no longer there, it appears. Opal is.

A great actor: David Canary played both the ruthless tycoon Adam Chandler, above, and his lovably innocent pure-as-sunshine brother, Stuart.

Today I had to watch the whole thing, the Grand Inevitable Finale, and Erica did not let me down. Long-time love, Jack, below, vexed again in his latest offer of marriage to Miss Elusive, finally had the guts to tell her, "Frankly, I don't give a damn!" and head for the door. Erica followed after him, stopped with that plotting gaze in her selfish eyes, and had the last word on the last ABC episode of All My Children: "Watch me!"

Lost in a perennial dating game, Erica forever balking at marriage. Jack has had it.

Just the fact that, after 41 years, it's going off the air feels like the end of an era that I once was a part of, and era that I would still like to feel existed.

It feels like a great big death in a virtual family.

9.23.11

Sunday Morning Musings: Remember the "Aerial Ballet"? It's Back, Bringing Fresh Ideas to Stale Air ...

Time to play taps for single traps?

New life in the air: A duo in Shanghai. Photo by Boyi Yuan.

For a spell of maybe 20 to 30 years, the Felds let it go, and for probably good reason. The aerial ballet, brought to its maturity under John Ringling North, had turned stale and redundant.

Lately, this potentially enchanting form is reasserting its value to the show.

Item: Ringling of late is carving out some wonderfully inventive multi-aerial displays, either intended as aerial ballets or, by accident, taking on their form. The more creative they are, the more welcome.

Item: One of the highlights of this season's Cole Bros Circus of the Stars is its aerial ballet. Like what the Felds are giving us. Johnny Pugh, the same, has the space and he is filling it in a number of ways not uniformly fixed. In fact, the more varied the movements of the individual aerialists, the more interesting are they to watch. You could argue, but what is anybody doing up there that amounts to much? I'd answer, altogether, especially with a variety of movements, their combined efforts create a most pleasing kaleidoscope of poetry in motion.

Item: in the confines of one ring, John Ringling North II offers his four North Starlets, and although they can't compete with the wider spread of action offered on Ringling or Cole, they, too, offer audiences something above the ring decidedly more enchanting than perilous, which may be why the aerial ballet, when presented with inventive flair, may come to actually replace the older era "daredevils." Actually, circus daredevils seem to be on the wane, thanks to their secured counterparts hooked to mechanics whose allusions to danger aloft simply don't fly.

This is my guess: Over the past 20-30 years, as a younger generation took to the fabrics (aka: webs, silks), much of their solo work simply did not generate sufficient excitement. Then came the duos, prominently if I am correct, from China, and also coming out of Cirque du Soleil, who combine strong athletic connections with lovely romantic imagery. They fill the air, unlike the nouveau practitioners of the "static trapeze." In this sense, they, working what they call the "sensual silks, have helped us find a viable new flight pattern back into the air by way of adding more bodies to the display. The result: a new day for the airborne ensemble.

It's the creative staging that is making the difference, setting apart what's new from what had become too predictable and passe. In addition, this less-adventurous form gives audiences a far less hazardous vision, which I suspect is that they have grown to desire.

Is it time to blow final taps for the single traps? For those flyers who rely on lifelines, yes. The safety wires render their routines false, theatrically interesting at best. Without risk, why the wide swinging arcs? Why the sudden dives away from the bar?

In 1948, Barbette had the girls performing on a dazzling array of aerial rigs in his Monte Carlo Aerial Ballet.

In 2011, the Felds set a consortium of Asians into the air, flying on straps, and the effect was perfectly pleasing. It was novel. Different, Enchanting.

What more can one ask of the aerial ballet? Heck, it could soon become one of the most awaited-for items on the program.

More High-Energy Circus Flash from the Felds: Ringling’s "Fully Charged" Catches Creative Fire from China and Russia Down the Final Stretch

Circus Review: Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey -- Fully Charged
Oracle Arena, Oakland, September 10.
Tickets: $15.00 - $100.00

Whenever you go to Ringling these days, you can almost always count on being dazzled by one or two, maybe several acts of remarkable novelty, usually from Russia or more likely China. You can also count on sitting through action that may leave you wanting, on even having to endure the occasional clunker. You'll be assaulted at nearly every turn by sensory overload from hyperactive lighting effects and periodic firework blasts to blaring ringmaster hyperbole approaching the pitch of a high school rally. All of which can make it feel as if the ballyhoo followed you into the tent and you are still being pitched a circus that you have already paid to see.

Fully Charged, the latest offering from the Feld family, delivers on all the above. So much so, that at times it nearly trips over itself in its excessive theatrical trappings. Curiously, it has been set into one of Ringling’s most schizophrenic floor layouts ever. Those ancient ring curbs (remember rings?) of late usually ignored, are this time around not only ignored for the most part, but conspicuously stacked in sections at the edges of the action where, by tradition, they would have been fully assembled, fully charged. Like recycled relics, they have a new calling this visit: to serve as mini bleachers for the adults and kids, probably from the VIP class, who are ushered out onto the arena floor midway through the first half to watch the show close up, virtually inside of it!

The absence of a clearly defined setting only adds to the impression of a traffic jam of half-baked staging concepts. Gosh, folks, when the entrances and/or exits are sometimes more interesting to watch than the actual acts themselves who make them, give Feld Entertainment credit for their trumping eye-candy. Costume design, full of brilliance, deserves special mention.

Okay, the year is 2011, not 1950. The competition out there is terrific, and that long long circus train bearing the words "Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey" is not being funded by PBS pledge breaks. The Felds must be doing something right, right? They are reaching a viable demographic with both the old and the new.

For my money (a $25.00 ticket), down the initial stretch I found a number of the acts to be rather uninspiring. Include the tigers, hosted by Tabayara; two rings of pleasant liberty horses, and a pair of Russian strong men of moderately toned obesity who manipulate what is claimed to be a telephone pole. They return later in the program to manipulate each other in a rather gauche attempt at team contortion that may leave you wondering whether to gawk or giggle.

Clowning is a mixed bag as well, full of the acrobatic slapstick favored by the Felds over “character.” Outsiders Stanislav Knyazkov and Vasily Trifonov score nicely in their spoofing the strong man turn. Less amusing is clown alley’s efforts to change a huge light bulb, the angle being just trying to reach the bulb, which struck me as a one-note drill with an ill-placed payoff. I kept waiting for them to try unscrewing the damn thing, which they never did, or did I miss something? And then there's the promise of what initially appears to be an old fashioned clown walkaround. But walk it does not. All eight or nine joeys occupy fixed positions around the track, as if frozen in time, each working his bit(s) in morosely lit shadows. Strange.

Of no help to this mediocre first half onslaught is one of the cheesiest musical scores I’ve yet encountered at a Ringling party, which includes a pedestrian title song. New ringmaster Brian Crawford Scott fills a generically directed role with cookie cutter efficiency.

To be fair, before the interval we have been amply engaged by a winning three-act display of juggling; kept more than awake by the high wire exploits of the Danguir Troupe (if only they weren’t placed along the side of the track, depriving decent sight lines to hundreds of patrons); and given a few goose bumps, I charitably suppose, by a double wheel of death essayed by the Fernandez brothers. By the way, when might this strained ritual be sent on a sabbatical?

Cherry pie charisma? I'll bet this guy comes from a prominent circus family. Photo by Showbiz David

Yes, a bad photo, but look at all those stray lonely ring curbs.

Okay, onto the good news. After a 25 minute intermission, the show finally takes off and delivers, brimming with inventive action and gusto that makes what has already passed seem even more passe.

With the entrance of the Yakubou Troupe of strap aerialists, the show bolts off into a bold creative arc, and the band responds effectively with excellent scoring. The ambitious Asians fill the air with captivating flight patterns. Their tricks might be simple, but they’re fresh to the eye and therefore eye-opening. A visual knockout. Heck, the whole thing felt to me like Barbette-meets-Cirque-du-Soleil- on-acid; it felt like Ringling years ago when production and ring artistry were more perfectly merged and balanced. Another last half highlight are the 20 lithe acrobats of the Tianyicheng troupe from China who work on “bounce stilts” leaping over and around each other, and tossing basketballs into hoops with clever collaboration. Yes, like it or not, even under the big top, China seems more and more poised to rule the world. American “circus schools,” and what are you doing these days?

Elephants win the crowds affection behaving charmingly not inside the ignored rings, but around their residual imagery. And, finally, a third powerhouse rush of true circus energy is thrown up by the Negrey ground acrobats from Russia, who worked on Ringling's Boom-A-Ring! — a socko ending to a show whose final frames catch fire. Literally too, for a part of the blaze is fueled by Brian Miser’s melodramatically staged Human Fuse, a nifty upgrade to the old cannon trick.

As I said in the beginning, under the wearying sledgehammer spell of the Felds, there are crowning benefits. As disorienting as this opus can feel, there is much to recommend here, especially for today’s moppet market raised on sound bytes and flashing i-gadgets.


Overall rating (out of 4 stars tops) 3 stars

Showbiz David explores how circuses are scouted, produced, directed, sold to the public, and too often disingenuously "reviewed" in his forthcoming book, Inside the Changing Circus: A Critic's Guide.

Two TV Land Icons of Rare Indpendence Return: Simon Cowell Next Week, Bill Moyers in January

I've skipped American Idol lately; It's big hook for me was always, "what will Simon say?" Even then, I only tuned in sporadically because the show is so padded with promos and background stories. And when they dumped emotional Paula, the perfect foil for Simon, it felt like an unnecessary death in the family. Then they brought in all those weird replacement judges; there is something about long stringy hair on an aging androgynous rock musician that gives me the creeps.

Simon returns to the air next week, along with his judging pal Paula, to kick off his new show, The X Factor, and I'm watching.

Better yet, Bill Moyers, who retired from his PBS Friday night slot not so long ago, is coming back, but not exactly on PBS, though his program will be available in syndication for local PBS outlets.

Can you imagine: PBS, a veritable non-stop parade of tired old rock and roll tributes aired over and over again, and all manner of self-help gurus, hasn't an hour a week to spare for one of TV's best-ever journalists? Shame on you, Pledge Break Society!

If the local PBS station that I have sent money to does not pick up Bill's show, not one more cent will they ever get from me. Actually, it's high time that the U.S. Treasury Department, what's left of it, pull all funding for PBS, which was founded to serve as an "educational" network." What an embarrassing joke it has become. Just the other night on CNN, I witnessed a marvelously revealing Tea Party debate moderated masterfully by Wolf Blitzer. I still believe in the free market.

Moyers' sobering reports on the most critical issues facing American life, on politics and culture, international affairs and the American war machine, are virtually unmatched. He makes smarmy Charlie Rose look like Ed Sullivan.

As for Simon and his tart lip, he has a rare gift for saying so much in so few words. Bill, more intellectually expansive, keeps alive the probing spirit of Edward R. Murrow.

Now, if somebody (a computer hacker, maybe?) could only reincarnate Jack Paar and David Susskind, I'd be totally happy in TV Land.

What John Strong Teaches Me About Circus Performance Showmanship

I was lucky in my boyhood to see circuses so imaginatively directed, from Polack Bros. to Ringling-Barnum, to -- yes, the tiny John Strong Circus that played the Sonoma County Fair in Santa Rose for free. How I looked forward to this diminutive delight!

In my forthcoming book, Inside the Changing Circus, there are two chapters that, now I realize, are related. One, "Directing the Impossible" (about the circus being the most difficult form to direct because of how abstract the acts are) appears early in the book. The other, "High Wire Critic," in which I advocate a certain path for reviewing a circus, is the penultimate chapter (ho, ho, you with your dictionary and thesaurus -- have fun looking up "penultimate"!)

What was I saying and where was I going with this?

I envy the circus fan who can enjoy the acts themselves without being bothered or swayed by all of the elements that can turn a random lineup into a cohesive driving performance. I can't. I go looking for presentational values -- the showcase -- as much as I do for the individual artists who supply the critical content.

And so it is always a new challenge for me, facing each new show.

There's a tension I feel in considering the balance between raw content (the acts) and performance showmanship (how they are linked, costumed, scored, paced, presented as a whole).

And how does John Strong fit in here? Remembering him, I was struck by a late-breaking mini-epiphany laying in bed this morning (sorry, just had to use that "e" word). JOHN himself was the production. HIS sparkling presence. HIS smile. HIS hokey mannerisms. HIS announcements. How he would chirp, "Got a great hand, Dixie!" after a lady performed the most basic trap act ... "Hey, Rainbow, listen to that applause! They loved your shenanigans!"

And if you he saw you sitting there in the audience, what a big deal he would make out of it. He once, discovering my skinny figure in the seats, introduced me as if I were the Secretary of State. I was all of maybe 17 years old.

From the simple to the sublime, ever since English equestrian Philip Astley added acrobats and clowns to his horse riding exhibitions to reverse flagging business, the circus has presented itself to the public as a performance. The Europeans did little other than to run the acts one at a time, with a ringmaster stepping into the ring between each, same old same old, to issue an announcement. Stodgy Old World reliable.

We Americans had performance showmanship in spades, and we still do. The Russians possessed it as well. And now, of course, those infuriatingly brilliant mortals up in Montreal.

Maybe because Barbette was on the scene when I, barely into my teens, fell for the big top, I was conditioned to expect production splash.

Summing up a review with a starred rating: A great exercise, for in struggling to commit, I am forced to re-examine my notes. I always list the acts on a piece of paper, next to each, something indicating my reaction. "*"= tops. "so-so" == well, you know what. Keep going back to the list, it's my anchor. No matter how great or lousy was the production, the acts must take precedence.

Sort of.

Did I say "directing the impossible"? Okay, let me add, "reviewing the impossible."

Hopelessly addicted, I plead guilty. Blame Barbette. Heck, blame John Strong.

9.13.11

Sunday Morning with F. Beverly Kelley: The Strange Tale of His Season Trumpeting for Ben Davenport's Notorious Dailey Bros. Circus

In the right hands, this unlikely association between a gentleman press agent and one of the circus world's most notoriously crooked operators might make for a great film (we are, yes, still waiting for a great circus film). Gradually or maybe not so gradually, F. Beverly Kellley, hired by Ben Davenport to direct his Dailey Bros. Circus press department in 1948, comes to sample evidence all over the lot, front and back, of rampant grift. Whether he expected it or not, he comes clean about this issue in his sporadically informative book, It Was Better Than Work.

Kelley's Alma Matter was Ringling-Barnum, starting out in 1930. During his years with the Big Show, Kelley landed two major National Geographic stories, got Merle Evans and the band onto the Fitch Bandwagon Radio Program, and penned a winning slate of magazine articles tied to his employer's famed circus. Of course, the name of the circus no doubt opened numerous doors for Kelley that might otherwise have stayed shut.

Why he left Ringling in 1947 is one of numerous questions Kelley oddly fails to address. This book is a major disappointment, considering who wrote it, what he knew, and what the book might have been. Possibly at this late time in his life, he lacked the health to give it his all. Or maybe all of those who looked helpfully over his shoulder while he typed away simply failed to challenge his rambling narrative.

During his Dailey days, Kelley observed evidence of old-time circus grift. And, to his credit, he writes about it, which is really why I dug into the book, intrigued to see what he might have to say, if anything, about the issue. Ripping customers off at rigged gambling games or over three shell monte. Slippery fingers all over the lot. On the show itself, red lighting and slot machines conveniently located near the spot where, nightly, staffers were paid, a shrewd move to maximize the immediate return of the payroll back to the payroll. But, yes, yes, yes, old Ben was such a great guy to those who worked for him.

A clever decision was made to keep all of the unpleasant stuff from Kelley's official knowledge of circus life. "I never entered the tent where it took place. This was so that if and when I might be asked ... I could honestly say that I had never seen any dishonest games."

The year was 1948. Kelly was, for reasons never made clear in his murky tome, in between Ringling -- and Ringling. He landed impressive national coverage for Ben by taking a little baby elephant to the Republican national convention. The boffo PR breaks, however, did not lift biz over what it was the previous tour. In an end-of-the-year interview in The Billboard, Davenport still judged the contribution of his Class A press agent a plus, because, as he reasoned, the economy took a dive in '48, and so Kelley was valued for his "helping us keep even with last year."

Declared the big top boss, "Getting Bev was the smartest move I ever made." Kelly had brought with him at least one other ex-Ringling flackmaster, Frank Morrissey. "We hope they will be with us for many years," said the man who hired them.

Well, they weren't. Kelly did not return in '49, nor does he shed much light on why. One can only imagine him rethinking the season just past and asking himself, "Is this what i really want to make of my life life?"

Davenport made hay the next year, in '49, ripping and tearing like he were on a thieves holiday through Canada. In '50 when he returned, Canada failed to to show up at his ticket windows. And that dismal rebuke of 1950 marked the last season for one of the most corrupt circuses that ever hit the sawdust trail. To my knowledge, nobody has since tried to revive the Dailey Bros. title.

Never mind the messy details. Ben Davenport, somewhere, is enshrined at the Sarasota circle of infamy.

And why did F. Beverly Kelly last only a single season? "I had left the Dailey show at the end of the 1950 season." That's all he has to say, although his experiences on the dark side of the midway likely dissuaded him from singing on for another tour. From there, he went to work for Cole. Bros. And then, he drifted back to Ringling-Barnum during the show's slow stumble to big top oblivion in Pittsburgh.

This book is so ill-structured, so lacking in details. Bev tells us nothing of his last years with Ringling in 1954-1955, when there was so much drama to write about. And very little about all of those riotously entertaining Ringling family power wars of the flaming forties.

It's like listening to a friend chat about his life, wandering back and forth between circus gigs and theatre PR work, shifting gears suddenly mid-chapter for no coherent reason, ignoring whole sections of his life with Ringling. He could have said so much more. I wish the right editor or friend could have been there to make the right suggestions.

Bev was a gentlemen through and through, a gifted writer who turned out wonderful magazine stories, graced with inspiring captions. and an even greater human being; I feel nothing but profound respect for the man. I must yet give the well-selling book he co-wrote with Emmett Kelly, Clown, a visit.

How lucky I was to have met him, once in person, across the street from the Geary Theatre in San Francisco where he was working on the PR advance for a play -- many years after that strange season when America's most literate press agent worked for the country's most corrupt circus owner.

What a match. Lights! Action! Roll the cameras!

First posted 9.11.11 

Sunday Morning on the Dying Greens: "We play until we can't play any longer, then we just have to leave."

Their numbers are dwindling down to a precious few. One hundred members twenty years ago, I'm told. Now, only 25. When I first discovered them forty years ago, I was entranced by the spiritual sheen of the game. By its soft silent music. Sunshine and grass. The graceful roll of large bowling balls aimed at a small white ball on the other side.


And now, the greens are mostly vacant of competing passengers. Some days, only one game consisting of six players. Five years ago, I'd see three games in play, side by side -- maybe four.

We're at the Oakland Lawn Bowling Club. Some seasons back they gave up on trying to recruit me, when I kidded about maybe posting a sign on my lone bench that would read "Do Not Disturb. Spectator Only." Perhaps I had come to treasure the quietude of patiently watching this very low key form of competitive exercise. Perhaps it helped carve out a minimalist corridor in my soul.



When bowlers come from other Bay Area cities to compete, the greens come alive. The game looks healthy. Then, they all have to wear traditional white.



The young bowler in blue, Jonathan, is a rarity. His dad is a zealot at the game, a near crack-up in his addiction to winning. Jonathan's two younger brothers now also play. In the picture below, there he is six or seven years ago. He's been known to trump a whole lineup of seasoned players decades older than he!





A pity they've been unable to interest younger players. Even sadder is their apparent inability to replenish their dying ranks with older age candidates. Time and time again, when somebody walks by expressing curiosity, that person is handed an information sheet and shown a friendly face. Time and time again, I do not see any of those souls again.



Two generations joined in a common passion.



They each have a rhythm. In my private mind, some are my pet players. But any bowler who is having a good day will charm my attention and respect.



The refreshingly offbeat bandanna bowler (the title I gave him, known only to myself) came for a season or two, down from Canada, I heard, where he played the livelier Italian game of boccie ball. Some days, his friend(s), who struck me as disco drag queens, would saunter dizzily onto the scene to watch, and what a bizarre challenge that was to normal lawn bowling decorum. But the Bandanna Bowler was a good sport, though once, after taking a call on the green, he aborted his participation, dashing over the fence and off to the club house to fetch his bike and peddle away to another destination. I should ask somebody sometime whatever happened to him.


When last week I told Georgia, the lady bowling off, above, how sad it was to see only one game in progress, she agreed. Just across the street there is a high rise for senior living of some kind, and she can't understand why none of its residents will take up the game. She watches the ranks gradually shrink away, owing mostly to health and aging problems. Her late husband was an avid lawn bowler. "We play until we can't play anymore, then we just have to leave."

At Last! A Little Respect for the Ringling Museum of ART -- Yes, I Said "Art" ... Also: Circus Wages & Risks; Enter the Chinese Daredevils

How pure it felt to hear the words, "The Ringling Museum of Art" unmolested by the grasping inclusion of "circus." No, I am not an anti-circus fan, but I am a respecter of the lovey grounds and the architectural wonders, however garish, willed to the State of Florida by John Ringling, whose vision it was to build and promote a real art museum.

It's been a long time since the "art" part seems to have gone it alone, which was what, in the beginning, Mr. Ringling intended. Just as his brother, Albert, intended would be the exclusive fate of the marvelous grand opera house he built in Baraboo, known to most of you as the Al Ringling Theatre (Are you there, Doc Bob?).

Pledge Break Society (PBS) cameras recently visited the courtyard of Ringling's horseshoe shaped gallery on a lovely summer evening, there to take in a soft performance by the very young opera star, 10-year-old phenom Jackie Evancho, though perhaps not yet a strong enough voice to sustain an entire evening on Great Performances, so I did not stay fully tuned.

But my spirit floated back to a time when I'd enter through the art museum itself, rather than take the tour, as is now the case, past the Tibbals tents and the Tibbals tributes -- perhaps because that's where a Sarasota bus dropped me off. After an obligatory amble through the Rubens, I'd of course wander across the grounds to my favorite spot, a little round French-looking building so discretely tucked amidst the trees -- a little circus museum of refined ambiance -- as if to say, yes, this too was a part of Mr. Ringling's life, just in case you might want to take a little look while you're here. It contained in the back the inspired backyard scene of old Ringling wagons resting on a lot under a simulated early evening sky, by far the most enchanting circus exhibit I will probably ever experience in my life. Credit, silence please, the great curator Mel Miller and his trusted assistant, Joe McKennon -- the man who fessed up to his own role in the land grabbing campaign when he penned Rape of an Estate.

No longer, of course, is it there, for the bureaucrats whose destiny it is to end up running such monumental gifts of death must forever tinker, gut and rethink and rebuild, expand and glorify in order to keep their jobs and add to their powers.

OK: the fun stuff (I know, I've said all that stuff enough already!!!): People who talk freely about circus pay scales (yes, vaguely) sometimes say things that surprise us. Here is clown Steve Copeland, telling the Aurora Advocate how he enjoys the tenting life, compared to those huge arenas, and the comforts it brings him, and then THIS: "The pay is better here than at RB&BB" Now, should we be impressed? Or just happy that, at Kelly Miller Circus, perhaps Steve is getting a decent pay check as opposed to a starvation stipend from the Felds, those "saviors" of the circus who saved it on the backs of countless young Clown College grads eager, for a few moments in the Ringling sun, to entertain the world for peanuts ...

Danger, Be Gone! I only ask, you only decide.... About peril above the ring, from which circus owners are sheepishly retreating, and why? Seems there's a new generation of "aerialsits" willing to go it cold (sans mechanics) only if the pay is right. To Zoe Gorman, who scripted the insightful account of her days traveling with and interviewing K-M staffers, came this sarcastic snap from her Aussie tutor, the "enthusiastic and brusque" Nikki Ogle when the subject of the safety harness worn by Ogle came up: "They don't pay you enough" for the fanciest risks, explained Nikki. ... That's a new angle. Me wonders what the going rate is for a single trap artist to shuck lifelines aside. READ ON!

UPDATE, 9/2, 12:00 PST: Nikki Ogle responds: According to her comment that I have posted, during her interview with Zoe Gorman, the following statement of hers did not make it into the story: "there is not enough pay in the world for me to take that risk." I have reread the Toledo Blade story; in fact, what I quoted her as stating on the issue is exactly all that was printed.

Enter the daring young Chinse man on the high wire: Some guy I saw on a TV news clip scaling a cable 300 feet above the ground, slipping and sparing his life by grasping the wire, etc. Those acrobats are flexing their muscles and magic in so many new directions, pushing daringly skyward while inside the U.S., the "static trapeze" is tepidly on the rise.

Enter Life. Yes, that's who visited me here recently, not the Big A, but Life, a few chic steps above Sir anonymous, who speaks sparely, "I like your site to see." Hmmmm, not a commercial for some other site. Not a rant. Just Life. In reply to a post back there about the hazzards of illustrating a circus book ... Thank you, Like. Sounds like you enjoy exercising your vision ... Do drop by again, tepidly, if you still please ...

New Big Apple Circus Boss Wears His Power with Grace, Cool Confidence ... Reveals Shows Ahead ... Sawdust-Stealing Rodents to Join the Cast

New Big Apple Circus boss watches the show in Stamford. Photos by Kathleen O'Rourke/Stamford Advocate

At last, we are starting to see his face, hear his voice, get a feel for his vision. Guillaume Dufresnoy, in public interviews, comes across as suavely confident, an authentic leader with a passion to sustain Big Apple Circus standards and keep each year’s show fresh

“I really want each production to be different from the year before,” he told the Stamford Advocate's managing editor John Breunig last month during the circus’s appearance there.

“This year is all about movement and dance. Next year will be all about imagination and dreams ... it will be set in a fantasy land. The year after that will be a period show set in the 19th century (a little Toby Tyler, please!) ... and the one after that will be contemporary.”

Dream Big!, Dufresnoy’s next opus now in rehearsal in Walden, NY and slated to uncork at Dulles Town Center in Dulles, VA, on September 22, is sporting a slightly enlarged menagerie, in which we make take some heart. Per pithy press copy, they've recruited a “capybara and porcupine to perk up the sawdust party!” (Fancy lingo for rodents)

Sounds like the sort of subtle staging imagination I found, to my high delight, at last season's Dance On!, Dufresnoy's first fully produced effort for Big Apple. Indeed, in that luadable outing, I glimpsed ample reassuring evidence that Paul Binder’s protege is fully up to the task of extending the Binder-Christensen legacy well and wisely into the future, assuming, of course, that the organization can restore some of its lost dates once the show leaves Gotham, and re-energize corporate funding.

Born in Bordeaux, France, Dufresnoy caught the circus bug in his boyhood. By the time he was a young adult, no longer was he looking up at aerialists, but now, one himself, down upon audiences looking up at him. By 32, aching shoulders inspired Guillaume to a career make over. He joined the Big Apple Circus in 1990, performed for only a season or two, and then served as performance director. In 1997, he landed the general manager job. Thirteen years were spent as a “wingman” to Paul Binder.

About that strangely ill-defined recent three-part PBS Documentary that left more than a few of us slightly depressed, said Dufresnoy to Breunig, “They did not make it better or worse than it is ... This is a tough life.”

He likes talking to circugoers to get their feedback, and he watches nearly every show, especially near season’s end when younger artists can start to go dull. “They are kids ... We have to battle to keep them from getting ragged.”

Of particular concern to the new boss is the dominant kiddie demographic so integral to American circus promotion. “What we have not been yet able to convince people is you don’t need a kid to come to the circus. I come from Western Europe, where going to circus is something you do on Saturday night with friends the way you to go the movies or go to the theatre. And that is rarely the case here.”

Big Apple’s new artistic director seems to have his priorities perfectly in order. "You cannot rely on production values and themes to satisfy an audience. You must rely on having great acts. And a great act is a great act is a great act.”

Paul Binder should be proud.

Showbiz David Hits Over One Thousand Page Views in a Single Day ...

That was yesterday, a record for this blog, which reached its five-year anniversary the day before, on August 24.

Lots visit. Few comment.

30% of the eyes are from foreign shores.

Almost nobody "follows." There were 3 for a long time. Recently, the number soared to 7. Perhaps if their names and mugs were strung, somehow, on the sidebar, others would join out.

Most missed visitor is the late Henry Edgar.

Most tolerant visitor, putting up with Showbiz David's critical reviews despite not always agreeing, is kid Harry of Kingston.

The Top three viewed posts of all time on this blog

[a possibly highly misleading stat due to the linking back through saved searches] are:

1. Two views of Carson & Barnes Circus (personal reviews by two followers)

2. Circus Review: Loosening Up, Cirque du Soleil (Kooza) Flirts with the Power of True Circus

3. New Circus Rising in China: Star Acrobats Add Aerial Exploits, Novel Twists, Dazzling Direction and Music; Privately Funded-Produced Another Boon.

Of those who leave comments, special honors to:

The most brilliant visitor: Anonymous.

The most stupid visitor: Anonymous.

The most courageous visitor: Anonymous.

The most cowardly visitor: Anonymous.

The most flattering visitor: Anonymous.

The most profane visitor: Anonymous.

The most faithful visitor: Anonymous

Thank you, Anonymous -- whoever you-they are.