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Slava's Snowshow
First a review grabbed from the net
You see the snow before you even step into the theatre. Made from tiny scraps of white tissue paper, there are patches of it adorning the sidewalk beneath the Slava’s Snowshow awning on East 17th Street, spread hither and thither by the shoe soles of passersby and waiting audience members. But this is barely a prelude: upon stepping inside, you’re eyes are dazzled by the spectacle of the floors of the lobby, the aisles, even the seats themselves, blanketed one and all with deposits of ersatz precipitation. For Slava’s Snowshow is not content to idle upon the stage; no, despite the elegant deadpan of its conception and performances, it’s determined to expand its sensibility out into the messy world of you and me—you know, the people.
The fact is that there are two sides to Slava’s Snowshow, and they’re at odds. Slava Polunin is a clown who was born, raised, and trained in the Soviet Union, and though he’s since enjoyed popular success on world stages both with his own revues and under the auspices of outfits such as Cirque de Soleil, his work exudes an undeniable obliqueness and severity that isn’t for all tastes.
When he first shuffles morosely onto the Union Square stage at the top of the show, in his trademark baggy yellow union suit and red shoes, there is a noose dangling from his neck. As he pulls in the slack from offstage, he encounters resistance, and suddenly out pops another clown, with the other end of the rope tied in a noose around his own neck. Slava, in a moment of dubious generosity, allows the other fellow to keep the rope and slog offstage to his own presumed demise. But Slava’s barely had a chance to turn around when the guy reappears on another part of the stage, in the same faded lime-green coat, pink winglike hat and looooong shoes. Soon several more men appear, in the same outlandish attire, going about their business—Slava leaves the stage, dejected, surrounded by this army of Others.
As an allegorical riff on the challenges of retaining (or lamenting) your individuality in a totalitarian state, it’s fascinating. But as the rollicking family-friendly entertainment the producers seem to be pushing, it’s a bit of a head-scratcher. Though most of the audience spent the entire show whooping it up, to me these clowns were far more Beckett than Bozo, and sometimes the laughter felt forced.
As the show moves on, many of the routines border on the abstract, eschewing beginnings and endings for the sake of one big middle. For instance, a bit in which one of the green-coated clowns engages in a gibberish argument with himself using two differently tuned kazoos while a forlorn yellow balloon hovers off to one side doesn’t seem to be about anything specific, other than the routine itself. Slava himself has his everyman moments, but it’s hard to see ourselves in these alien beings that troop through the parade of images with such willful opacity.
However, the show has a second side, exemplified by all that snow. Slava (or his producers) would like to enchant people of all ages, and transform the theatre into a world of wonders. And, truth be told, there are some stunning visuals. At one point the stage is flooded by bubbles, heralding the arrival of a giant bubble with a clown inside it. On a sea of clouds—smoke machines are applied liberally throughout—a ship made out of a bed appears to the strains of “Chariots of Fire.” (Whether or not the tune is used ironically is open for debate.) From top to bottom, beginning to end, the physical production is stunning, a spectacle designed to reach its arms around the audience and draw them in, either gently or by force. This is even reflected during the performances, such as the period at the end of intermission, when numerous clowns carrying umbrellas rigged to rain from underneath foray into the aisles to assault mingling spectators—echoes of the wet-and-wild De La Guarda, soon to close a few blocks down.
The contrast between this magical populism and Slava’s occasionally obscure brand of Eastern European comedy certainly makes for an interesting evening, but not necessarily a transcendent or even joyful one. I chuckled a few times, but the appeal felt largely academic—for the most part, the show intrigued me with the quiet allure of the cold, distant Siberian wastes.
The major exception is that I was absolutely knocked sideways by the ending. I won’t give it away except to say that the show’s experiential side takes control, and that for the few short minutes until I left the theatre I felt the awe of a five-year-old, and a corresponding glee—after which, the stylish, puzzling performance preceding it felt like little more than a dream.
You see the snow before you even step into the theatre. Made from tiny scraps of white tissue paper, there are patches of it adorning the sidewalk beneath the Slava’s Snowshow awning on East 17th Street, spread hither and thither by the shoe soles of passersby and waiting audience members. But this is barely a prelude: upon stepping inside, you’re eyes are dazzled by the spectacle of the floors of the lobby, the aisles, even the seats themselves, blanketed one and all with deposits of ersatz precipitation. For Slava’s Snowshow is not content to idle upon the stage; no, despite the elegant deadpan of its conception and performances, it’s determined to expand its sensibility out into the messy world of you and me—you know, the people.
The fact is that there are two sides to Slava’s Snowshow, and they’re at odds. Slava Polunin is a clown who was born, raised, and trained in the Soviet Union, and though he’s since enjoyed popular success on world stages both with his own revues and under the auspices of outfits such as Cirque de Soleil, his work exudes an undeniable obliqueness and severity that isn’t for all tastes.
When he first shuffles morosely onto the Union Square stage at the top of the show, in his trademark baggy yellow union suit and red shoes, there is a noose dangling from his neck. As he pulls in the slack from offstage, he encounters resistance, and suddenly out pops another clown, with the other end of the rope tied in a noose around his own neck. Slava, in a moment of dubious generosity, allows the other fellow to keep the rope and slog offstage to his own presumed demise. But Slava’s barely had a chance to turn around when the guy reappears on another part of the stage, in the same faded lime-green coat, pink winglike hat and looooong shoes. Soon several more men appear, in the same outlandish attire, going about their business—Slava leaves the stage, dejected, surrounded by this army of Others.
As an allegorical riff on the challenges of retaining (or lamenting) your individuality in a totalitarian state, it’s fascinating. But as the rollicking family-friendly entertainment the producers seem to be pushing, it’s a bit of a head-scratcher. Though most of the audience spent the entire show whooping it up, to me these clowns were far more Beckett than Bozo, and sometimes the laughter felt forced.
As the show moves on, many of the routines border on the abstract, eschewing beginnings and endings for the sake of one big middle. For instance, a bit in which one of the green-coated clowns engages in a gibberish argument with himself using two differently tuned kazoos while a forlorn yellow balloon hovers off to one side doesn’t seem to be about anything specific, other than the routine itself. Slava himself has his everyman moments, but it’s hard to see ourselves in these alien beings that troop through the parade of images with such willful opacity.
However, the show has a second side, exemplified by all that snow. Slava (or his producers) would like to enchant people of all ages, and transform the theatre into a world of wonders. And, truth be told, there are some stunning visuals. At one point the stage is flooded by bubbles, heralding the arrival of a giant bubble with a clown inside it. On a sea of clouds—smoke machines are applied liberally throughout—a ship made out of a bed appears to the strains of “Chariots of Fire.” (Whether or not the tune is used ironically is open for debate.) From top to bottom, beginning to end, the physical production is stunning, a spectacle designed to reach its arms around the audience and draw them in, either gently or by force. This is even reflected during the performances, such as the period at the end of intermission, when numerous clowns carrying umbrellas rigged to rain from underneath foray into the aisles to assault mingling spectators—echoes of the wet-and-wild De La Guarda, soon to close a few blocks down.
The contrast between this magical populism and Slava’s occasionally obscure brand of Eastern European comedy certainly makes for an interesting evening, but not necessarily a transcendent or even joyful one. I chuckled a few times, but the appeal felt largely academic—for the most part, the show intrigued me with the quiet allure of the cold, distant Siberian wastes.
The major exception is that I was absolutely knocked sideways by the ending. I won’t give it away except to say that the show’s experiential side takes control, and that for the few short minutes until I left the theatre I felt the awe of a five-year-old, and a corresponding glee—after which, the stylish, puzzling performance preceding it felt like little more than a dream.
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