Arising from neon-lit baby carriages on stage—a half-hour before showtime—are an infant’s gurgles and giggles. Yet … no baby. Turning around, I wonder whether it’s the guy two rows back of me who needs burping—he does look a little gassy. Nope. Just one of the oddball elements that make Mystère so mysterioso.
As showtime hits, we do get a baby—fully grown and rather sizable, in a bonnet and diaper that could have come from a Big & Tall catalog. Slapping a big bouncy ball, he kicks it into the crowd, where it’s punched back by a man he now labels “Papa!” Poor bloke. Later he’ll be stuck wearing the same infantile attire, flying across the stage in a little golf cart with his daffy faux-progeny at the wheel.
Mystere Photo by: ErikKabik/Retna/erikkabik.com
Perhaps—compared to the fantasyland soufflé of acrobats, gymnasts, aerialists, dancers, fairy-tale costumes and giant snail—this is the closest-to-normal aspect of the nearly 22-year-old Mystère, the show that established Cirque du Soleil’s beachhead on the Strip (where eight Cirque productions now thrive).
Or perhaps it’s the indefatigable, 83-year-old clown with the messy, comb-resistant gray hair, his slight frame swimming in an oversized black suit and sneakers (resembling wacky comedy legend Professor Irwin Corey). Balancing popcorn buckets on audience members’ heads, exhaustively leading patrons around the vast custom-built theater to the wrong seats (and evicting the rightful seat-holders) and locking a man in an onstage box before flirting with his flummoxed date, he’s a shambling, impish riot.
Pity his comic foil, the poor Pink Guy—that snooty gent in the bowler hat—who doesn’t quite triumph in their encounters, even aided by that gangly, thoroughly loony puppet companion.
Sandwiched between the silliness is the variety pack of circus acts for which Mystère set the Vegas template, starring 75 performers from around the globe, presented in a kaleidoscopic tableau. You can try to figure out who all the characters represent, although isn’t it obvious that the “Spermatos/Spermatites” are the seeds of life, “La Vache à Lait” is a symbol of fertility, “La Belle” stands for timeless beauty and “Double Faces” are constantly searching for their identity? Now that we’ve squared that away …
You don’t even require mind-altering substances to perceive this bizarre bazaar of stylized stunts. Yes, that airborne chap is gyrating throughout a giant metal cube lit with rainbow flashes. Defying logic, an acrobat flips, twists and spins on a suspended fabric strip that appears to stretch into infinity.
Reset your eyeballs to yo-yo mode to assure your appreciation of bungee-jumper ladies as they scrape the ceiling—and what’s that light? The blingy reflection from their 2,500-plus colored sequins. Encourage your feet to stomp along with boom-boom taiko drums—especially that float-size, half-ton behemoth (its drummers looking like miniatures) constructed inside the theater because no door accommodates it.
Mystere Photo by: ErikKabik/Retna/erikkabik.com
Nothing about performers leaping off teeter boards into triple-stacked landings, men balancing each other via muscle-bulging handstands or even Chinese acrobats scampering upside down on poles unduly accosts my
nervous system. Those high-wire trapeze artists, though—I’m suffering sympathy vertigo.
And it’s the costumes—making the Alice in Wonderland crew look like Brooks Brothers mannequins—that persuade me my pre-show drink was spiked. That firebird creature with ember-like plumage? Those aforementioned Sperma-thinghies in elongated outfits with bulging bellies that could be plucked down in “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”? Tres-trippy, babe.
Tres-trippiest? That 2,000-pound snail—call her “Alice”—that overtakes the finale.
Did I mention the pull-my-finger gag? Once in a while, even Cirque du Soleil has to come down to the real-world level.
Treasure Island, 7 & 9:30 p.m. Sat.-Wed., $69-$119 plus tax and fee. 702.894.7722
