When my older daughter turned 25 last month, I decided it was finally time to take her back to the circus — not to drop her off in the hope she would be raised by contortionists, but to watch the circus all the way through and, this time, not leave in tears during the intermission.
The problem then was Gwyneth's age — she was 4 1 / 2 — and the particular circus: the Cirque du Soleil. The French-Canadian troupe is rightly acclaimed for its artistry, but its shows can be ... well, "creepy" might be too strong a word. They are surreal. They are dreamlike, occasionally nightmarish, sometimes unsettling. They may be childlike in their sense of wonder, but they are adult in their sense of tristesse.
The Cirque was set up in Tysons Corner, as it is now, and we went with great anticipation, just Daddy and Gwyn. Sure, Ringling Bros. was okay — if you liked American cheese — but Cirque du Soleil was something else, and I suppose I wanted give her a taste of Camembert.
Gwyneth is a sensitive girl, as many creative people are, and the minute we entered the Grand Chapiteau — the Big Top — I feared I'd made a mistake. We'd stepped into a Fellini film. I seem to remember a hunchback, possibly a dwarf.
The makeup, the costumes — they were all stunning, but they were complex, absurd, confusing to a child more familiar with Barney than Beckett.
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The atmosphere vibrated with something I can only describe as nostalgic melancholy, an especially Gallic emotion and one that goes over the heads of most children. Not Gwyn. I could tell she was disquieted.
We have an expression in my family: Jollying the baby. It means to cajole someone out of a bad mood. Often babies don’t want to be jollied. And so it was with Gwyneth. “Isn’t this fun?” I whispered to her. She took in the Daliesque scene and started losing it.
The tumblers tumbled. The trapeze artists trapezed. These were normal circus activities but refracted through the Cirque du Soleil’s weird kaleidoscope. Gwyn started to whimper. She buried her head in my lap. It was all too much.
I was angry — I wanted to see the Cirque du Soleil, even if Gwyn didn't — but I saw no benefit in making her tough it out. I doubted she'd emerge at the end saying, "At first I hated it, but now I appreciate the great, messy, melancholy adventure that is life. Je ne regrette rien ."
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No, I thought she’d be more like: “Thanks, Dad. You will be checking under my bed until I’m 18 and paying for therapy until I’m 30.”
So after Act I, we left.
This was the start of a bad patch for me, as far as introducing my daughters to "culture" went. Every few years I seemed to make a wrong decision. There probably isn't a right Hitchcock movie for children 10 or under, but I thought "Lifeboat" might be it: Nazi submarine torpedoes passenger ship, pitching survivors into the ocean. My daughters love the water, but they claimed the film gave them nightmares.
I think they appreciate Stephen Sondheim now, but they seemed not to in 2002 when Gwyn was 11 and her sister, Beatrice, was 9 and we saw "Sweeney Todd" at the Kennedy Center. In retrospect, that may have been a little young for throat-slitting, no matter how artistically it was presented.
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Lesson learned.
Today they are reasonably well-adjusted young adults, though I notice that Gwyneth especially subscribes to a notion I call "The 'Lucky Jim' Thesis." It's from a line in the Kingsley Amis novel: "Nice things are nicer than nasty ones."
In other words, why would someone seek out something designed to make them sad or unhappy or pained?
Gwyn is like her mother in that regard. “Honey,” I’ll say to My Lovely Wife, “this movie about violence against Polish nuns at the end of World War II is getting great reviews.”
Ruth will look at me as if I've suggested she put her hand in a bear trap.
Gwyn has her own apartment now. Last week I picked her up there and we drove to Tysons. We found our seats in the Grand Chapiteau and admired the set and the cast's pre-show antics. The current Cirque du Soleil show is called "Kurios: Cabinet of Curiosities." It has a steampunk vibe, more Jules Verne than Luis Buñuel.
The lights went down, the music came up and we prepared to be entertained, to watch with childlike wonder — and adult perspective.
Twitter: @johnkelly
For previous columns, visit washingtonpost.com/johnkelly.
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