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All this costs money. "I'm astonished at the change," says Gilles Ste- Croix, 45, Cirque's artistic director. "I can have an idea, and when it's evaluated, I can't believe how expensive it is. Every idea we had for Mystere seemed to cost more than $100,000. And I'd say, 'We built a show for that much in '84!' But we spend the money because we want to keep the show of the highest quality. It is the point of the arrow of what we do."
Cirque's triumph is that it has kept to the point, to its earliest mission of blending circus with theater. And if the meta-Broadway superproduction Mystere is the most theatrical of Cirque shows so far, Alegria is the most circusy, the most intimate, traditional, European. Though it boasts wondrous sets and costumes -- an aviary motif with acrobat birds in brilliant plumage -- it is dominated by the clowns, most of them Russian, with a dolorous wit and poignant stories to tell. In one sketch a clown-bird perches alone on a telegraph wire (a rope stretched across the stage) enjoying his solitude until another arrives; it is a French existential drama in miniature, a No Exit or Godot with a sweeter aftertaste.
Alegria is full of these delicate moments, laced with wonder. The "fast- track" act -- 14 acrobats racing and bouncing on trampoline strips embedded in the stage -- allows for both solo dazzledry and daredevil group synchronization; it's like a playground of gifted children who actually get along. So do the girl duos of tightrope artists (Chinese) and contortionists (Mongolian). And everywhere are the stately clowns, peering through their gilded, glassless mirrors at the enraptured audience.
If amazement can escalate into astonishment, that is the difference between Alegria and Mystere. From the black baby carriages at the beginning to the giant lumbering snail at the climax, director Franco Dragone peoples the stage with outlandish figures from a Bosch or Robert Wilson dreamscape. They have sad eyes or pinheads or faces on the backs of their heads, or they wander about pensively on stilt legs, passersby in the parade of life. They somnambulate while the acrobats somersault on a trampoline bent up at the ends, as others jump from one vertical pole to another using only leg power -- and that gorgeous bungee ballet of angels unfolds to Rene Dupere's ethereal music. For this powerful, beautifully designed fantasy, applause is unworthy. Awe will do.
Ste-Croix doesn't want audiences to be so awed by the Cirque experience that it becomes mere spectacle. "We always keep contact with the public," he says. "This is our source. We want the public to cross through the wall and be an actor in the event. It makes us feel as if we are not God; we're human, we are Saltimbanco -- a street player, here tonight to share this big joke, our show."