Join the Circus

The task of finding a constant supply of such versatile performers falls to Cirque's 12-member casting team. They show up at the Olympics and world championships to sign athletes. Others canvas the globe looking for fire jugglers, pole climbers, martial artists, bungee jumpers, Wheel of Death spinners, and artistically inclined midgets. To satisfy its ongoing need for slithery-limbed girls, Cirque supports a school for contortionists in Mongolia. Meanwhile, to staff the cast of "Varekai," Cirque scouts recruited traditional toe-knuckle dancers from a company in the Republic of Georgia that has a lock on the world supply.

Once cast, performers report to Montreal for six or eight weeks of basic-training boot camp, run by a Russian coach, Boris Verkhovsky. His assignment is tricky: to turn athletes into artists. It's not an easy transition, he says. The artistic process requires spontaneity, imagination, and creative risk taking -- qualities that could get an elite athlete bounced off the team. "A lot of athletes come from an environment where they are literally told when to inhale and when to exhale," Verkhovsky says. "A side effect is that they're not very independent thinkers."

Besides teaching athletes how to unleash their inner thespians, Verkhovsky sometimes has to turn a class of raging divas into a cohesive band of brothers. To that end, he often prefers the also-ran to the medalist. "Somebody who almost made the team probably has the same repertoire of tricks, but is still hungry," he says. "The expectation of recognition is much less, so the prima donna syndrome is much lower."

And then he has to push the performer to achieve feats never attempted in an Olympic arena. That, he says, is Cirque's differentiator, and a requirement the boss insists upon. "Guy Laliberte consistently asks, 'Where's my f -- -ing triple somersault?' " Verkhovsky says, "even when he's watching a contortion act. If he feels we're getting too comfortable and too artsy, he will remind us that this is a circus and it is about performance at the maximum level. That is the great challenge."

I've just settled into my seat in the theater in Las Vegas when a lounge lizard in tight black vinyl pants and a greasy pompadour grabs my hand and pulls me up to the stage. The gigolo says he has my ticket, "M-69." He wants me to retrieve it . . . from the belt buckle above his crotch. The audience seems to think this is a fine idea. My husband thinks otherwise. It's my job.

Welcome to Sleazy Cirque, a.k.a. "Zumanity," where full-frontal Pilgrims, obese vixens in fishnets and thongs, and guys clad only in codpieces cavort, much to the joy of bachelorette parties, gay cabaret hounds, and nice married couples alike. This is not your father's Cirque. Until 1999, Cirque shows had a relatively consistent look, since many were the vision of a single creator, Franco Dragone (who left to form his own company, ultimately creating Wynn's "Le Reve").

Dragone's departure forced Cirque to take one of its biggest risks ever: to open its doors to other creators. The results have given the company new creative juice, spawning productions as diverse as frisky "Zumanity," epic "Ka," and soon, the musically driven Beatles show. It is the creative equivalent of the gymnast's triple somersault.

That commitment to constant innovation may help Cirque avoid the biggest hazard facing creative companies: a focus on defending their turf, rather than creating the next blue ocean. It's a nerve-racking way to do business, and Lamarre concedes he never stops being anxious before a new show. But he and his team, he says, are dedicated to always seeking the next big wave. "If there's a pattern that exists, we're going to break the mold," he says. "We want to reinvent ourselves all the time." nFC

Linda Tischler is a Fast Company senior writer. She hopes to become a bungee girl.