Varekai, Royal Albert Hall, 01.08

I saw Cirque du Soleil’s ‘Varekai’ earlier in January (their visits to London have become something of an annual pilgrimage for me), and one scene sticks in my mind and seems worthy of further attention.

In contrast to many of the other acts of the evening, this was very simple: just a single male singer wearing a somewhat absurd blue tuxedo and ‘singing’ Jacques Brel’s ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas’ under a spotlight. Slowly as he sings the spotlight shifts to his right, and the singer moves to remain inside it, until walking into a piece of the scenery. The spotlight continues, and he hurries to catch it up. When it seems he has regained his position in the spot, it continues to move, capturing his outstretched arm, then only his hand crooked in an emotional plea to his unseen love.

The act continues in this manner, with the spot moving and the performer trying vainly to catch up while still singing his song. The spot starts to vanish completely only to reappear in a different place, requiring the performer to run to catch it. At one point it hovers just above his head, and he jumps up and down trying to stay in the light. Eventually he’s sitting on audience-members’ laps and climbing the scenery, and finally the spot directs him to a point on the floor which he falls into, and he sings the last phrase with his head, lit by a handheld torch, sticking out of this ‘manhole’.

For such a simple act, based around a single dramatic impetus, it drew peals of hysterical laughter and well-deserved applause. Why? How does this little scene become so funny and riveting to watch?

The choice of song and the singer’s performance are, of course, part of the scene’s success. ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas’ is an iconic song that many in the audience can be expected to know (especially a French-speaking audience like those in Cirque’s native Canada) and, due to Brel’s own emotionally-charged performances is ripe for parody that hams it up to the point of ridicule. Claudio Carniero’s performance as the singer, with his slicked-back hair and furious pouting, brings out the latent absurdity in the song effectively, and adds to the comic mix.

But key to the success of this act is the very simple idea of a wayward spotlight and a performer’s struggles to remain within it. The situation has inherent dramatic tension, in that the audience soon realizes what is going on and begins to think “Where will the spotlight appear next?” At the same time, the dramatic possibilities of the situation are stretched to the extreme: the spotlight appears in the most unlikely of places, requiring the performer to climb scenery, leap across the stage and even leave it and enter the audience. This is accompanied with a striking attention to detail, as the singer leans more and more horizontally to stay lit, or extending his arm and seeing the spot travel along it to his fingertips. A lesser dramaturg would not have explored the potential of the central dramatic idea so fully, and much of the excitement would have been lost.

Furthermore, the singer’s desperate attempts to regain the light make a comment on the act of performance itself. The efforts of our singer recall the scrabbling of so many who want to be in show business and who will do anything to get into the limelight. As such, the piece becomes delightfully self-referential, commenting on the act itself and the show in which it is contained.

As such, this simple dramatic motor drives four minutes of completely riveting theatre: funny, exciting and meaningful.