Latest news with #circus
CNA
a day ago
- Entertainment
- CNA
The NUS graduate who passed on a corporate career to join the circus in Macau
The NUS graduate who passed on a corporate career to join the circus in Macau CNA/Ooi Boon Keong Ms Megan Lau, 24, is the only Singaporean amid an international cast in the The House of Dancing Water, a water-based circus show in Macau. Photo: Megan Lau To prepare for the role, Ms Lau spent eight months training in Macau. Photo: Megan Lau Nine times a week, she is suspended like a human chandelier in a shimmering 15kg skirt and a Swarovski-studded headpiece. Photo: Megan Lau Ms Lau said she was 'definitely very scared' at the beginning as she had only performed in one aerial show in Singapore prior to joining the circus. The job is a 'childhood dream', having watched the performance when she was 13 years old. Photo: Megan Lau Ms Lau has a degree in philosophy, politics and economics, having recently graduated from the National University of Singapore (NUS). Photo: Megan Lau "In Singapore we have metrics of success that we usually measure ourselves by, like our careers or what degree we study. But I think sometimes we really need to find a passion that we love.' Next Story
CNA
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- CNA
The NUS graduate who passed on a corporate career to join a circus
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BBC News
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- BBC News
Northampton clown 'buzzing' about return after 11-year break
A clown who started in the industry when he was seven said he was "buzzing" to be back after an 11-year Reed, better known as Clumsy, attended his first clown convention in Bognor Regis as a child, which inspired a 30-year career. He will be performing twice a day, six days a week at Billing Aquadrome holiday park in Northampton as part of its Circus Fiesta event. Mr Reed decided to take a break to settle down with his partner and focus on his business but, after putting on his clown make-up once again, he said: "I feel unbelievable. I look in the mirror and it's shocking." Mr Reed acknowledged a lot of people suffered from coulrophobia, a fear of clowns, which meant he needed to adjust his performance according to the crowd."It's all about the way you approach the situation," he said. "People that are scared end up getting used to me and we have photos together after the show." His fascination with clowns began at the age of three, when he was taken to his first circus, inspiring him to start dressing up and attending said: "My parents always thought I'd grow out of it."Clowning has taken a back seat for over a decade but when he got the call to be a part of the Circus Fiesta, he said he was "buzzing like you wouldn't believe"."It's bonkers how everything's slotted into place. It's like it's meant to be." Follow Northamptonshire news on BBC Sounds, Facebook, Instagram and X.
CNA
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- CNA
She dreamed of running away to join the circus – so this NUS graduate did exactly that
In 2014, 13-year-old Megan Lau sat wide-eyed in the audience of The House of Dancing Water, a water-based circus show in Macau. That evening, she climbed into the hotel bathtub and told her mum that she wanted to be a water princess. A decade on, she's living that dream – as a performer in the very same show. Nine times a week, she is suspended mid-air in a shimmering 15kg skirt and Swarovski-studded headpiece, hoisted above the audience like a human chandelier and across a stage pool holding about 15 million litres of water. When I met her earlier this month, Ms Lau, now 24, was eight months into her job as an aerialist and had taken all three days of her flexible leave to fly home to graduate from the National University of Singapore (NUS) with a degree in philosophy, politics and economics. Watching her warm up at an aerial studio tucked in the heart of Singapore's central business district, the setting seemed to reflect the playful contrast she herself recently noted on social media. She had observed that while her friends were busy climbing corporate ladders, her career involved a much more literal climb up ropes and acrobatics apparatuses. Earlier this year, Ms Lau decided to share snippets of her choice to "run away to the circus" on social media. Some of her videos have amassed more than 20 million views. Her videos offer glimpses of behind-the-scenes moments, ranging from her being dunked in a water cage to hanging upside-down from a lyra or a large, suspended aerial hoop. Ms Lau said she was inspired to film her life in the circus and share it on a public platform as way of savouring the moment. "It gives me a breath of fresh air, and a very good reminder that 'Megan, you're doing something really, really cool with your life'," she said. "It's brought me so much gratitude that I'm essentially doing what I love as a living, which is something that not many people can say they do." THE THRILL OF BEING SUSPENDED 20M IN THE AIR The show itself is a spectacle blending acrobatics, water effects, dance and special lighting, running for around 100 minutes per performance in a 2,000-seat theatre. Although The House of Dancing Water originally launched in 2010, it took a nearly five-year hiatus during the pandemic. Ms Lau is among the 90-strong cast performing in its 2025 revival. "It's quite tiring because we're doing nine shows in five days, so most days are two-show days," said Ms Lau. Her workday starts sometime around noon or 2pm. Rehearsals and strength training fill her afternoons, followed by a brief scramble to fix hair, makeup and costumes before stepping on stage. Each performance day means navigating six costume changes, some made trickier by requiring her to switch from dripping wet costumes to dry ones in mere minutes. When the show was relaunched this May, Ms Lau had already spent around eight months training in Macau. But even with her extensive dance background – beginning ballet at age five, teaching and performing regularly through her school years – Ms Lau had taken her first trial class in the aerial arts only two years ago. She had performed in only one outdoor aerial show, in Clarke Quay, which was on a portable aerial rig with a hoop choreography that lifted her only 2m off the ground. Even then, she was a bundle of nerves, so she was "definitely very scared" when she learnt that her new job involved flying almost 10 times that height on a daily basis. "One of the starting things we had to do was learning rope rescue, in case the rigging system stops and you need to climb down safely. So when they told me I had to climb down the rope (from 15m above the ground), my hands were so sweaty, so clammy," said Ms Lau with a laugh. "Now, every day, we're flying from like 20m down. But the more you do it, the more used to the height you are." Some of the most exciting parts of working for a water-based circus show include all the additional skills she has picked up, including learning how to scuba dive, due to the underwater segments some sequences. But it is not all glitz and glamour. Transitioning to being a full-time performer took a physical and mental toll, she said. "I think the most difficult part was going from university, being on the laptop a lot, and then completely jumping into something that's so physical, because now I need to work my body every day," she said. She showed me her hands, each palm thickly calloused, and then mentioned casually she had once twisted her foot – though the onsite physiotherapy team quickly treated it. Still, there's been at least one perk: Ms Lau laughed as she described how friends have been quick to point out how noticeably muscular she's become since starting the job. 'NO WAY THEY WILL TAKE ME, RIGHT?' Watching Ms Lau effortlessly swing herself upside down from an aerial hoop – and casually continuing our conversation mid-air – it was easy to be taken in by her movements, and the joy that seemed to radiate off her from having chosen the path less trodden. Years ago, I had entertained similar dreams of pursuing a degree in the performing arts, yet had chosen the somewhat safer, more conventional route of a regular office job. When asked, Ms Lau said she had not expected to find herself here either. She had opted to enroll in NUS as it was more practical to have a degree she could "fall back on". Instead of pursuing dance at the college level, she performed and taught dance as a freelancer while studying to help pay for her tuition fees. In May last year, she chanced upon a casting call for aerialists for The House of Dancing Water on social media and felt compelled to apply given it was "the best show (she'd) ever watched". "I (was) just trying my luck. But I was like, no way that they will take me, right?" But just a few days after submitting a show reel, she got a callback and was asked to send in a video of her performing some choreographed moves. Then came atwo-month-long casting process online that culminated in a job offer with the circus. As the contract began before her May 2025 graduation, Ms Lau had to balance training days in Macau with flying back and forth on days off to take the remaining NUS classes and exams for eight months. During that time, she was flying back to Singapore once a week, departing Macau on Monday nights, attending school on Tuesday and jetting back to Macau late on Tuesday nights, ready for work on Wednesday. She also attended classes throughout the week on Zoom and would wake up as early as 6am to get schoolwork done before 10am trainings. "Balancing training and school work was definitely a push. I usually came home from work pretty tired, so instead of doing school at night, I would wake up extra early to get my readings and assignments done," said Ms Lau. But given the four years spent at NUS, and the internship experience she had in banking and corporate roles, was a performing role as her first full-time job top of mind? Ms Lau said it was not: "I was applying for other corporate roles, and was ready to go into a corporate job with my degree. It came as a really, really big surprise. And when I got the offer, I was like, 'What's this?' "My heart said yes, immediately. My heart was like, oh my god, I have to do this, right?" But as the ever practical Singaporean, Ms Lau drew up a pros and cons list to help her with her decision. Despite the cons list being longer, she could not shake off the "biggest pro", which was achieving a childhood dream of getting to perform in a show she had loved. Beyond coming to terms with it herself, Ms Lau said it was a big shock for family and friends that she wanted to move overseas for such a non-conventional job. "My mum's always been very supportive with my entire dance journey. She was the full-on dance mum, following me to all the competitions, sending me for lessons, exams," she said. "But because this is an aerial job, she was naturally very nervous about how risky this job might be for my safety." But now, her family and friends are her biggest supporters. On premiere night, her family and friends, including one who came from Beijing to support her, filled up the seats. About 12 friends have made trips to watch the show so far, and her mother has visited Macau to help her settle in and watch the show twice. She is grateful that Singapore is around four hours by plane from Macau, as some of her cast mates have come from as far afield as France, Belgium and Australia. "I think I've been really lucky, compared to the other castmates, that Singapore is so close to Macau. I had many people to come watch, which was just such a blessing." DOCUMENTING THE DAYS With her mornings free and a day off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, Ms Lau has begun using the spare time editing videos for her Instagram account, where her posts offering glimpses of her daily life have attracted unexpected interest. Some videos, such as those capturing moments like bidding farewell to her mother and brother at the airport, began simply as personal keepsakes, but now she is determined to document the journey. "I wanted to remember this portion of life. I thought it was a very interesting job and a lot of my friends also wanted to know what I've been doing, what the day-to-day of a live performer looks like," said Ms Lau. Her filming setup is modest – just her phone and a water bottle to prop it up while recording training sessions – but the response she has received has been a pleasant surprise. Even strangers have come to watch her perform in the show after seeing her posts online. Despite all the stunts she is doing now, her favourite part of the show is the curtain call, when she is standing on stage and hearing and seeing the audience. "It always gets me a bit emotional every time I see how many people come to watch our shows every night," she said with a smile. For now, Ms Lau does not have a fixed timeline for how long she plans to remain as a full-time aerialist. She just hopes to cherish every second at the House of Dancing Water. "I love doing what I'm doing. I'm just trying to appreciate each day, appreciate each show as it comes," she said. Ms Lau is also the only Singaporean performer in the show in an international cast boasting very experienced acrobats – something she described as feeling surreal. "In Singapore we have metrics of success that we usually measure ourselves by, like our careers or what degree we study. But I think sometimes we really need to find a passion that we love. "Once you find something that you really love and it's a very viable career, I think you should really (hit) full gas and send it. Don't be afraid to take risks in your own life."
New York Times
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- New York Times
The Circus Comes to Williamstown, With Celebrities and Beefcake
You weren't likely to miss Jeremy O. Harris on Sunday in the lobby of the '62 Center for Theater & Dance. At 6-foot-5, plus hair, he stood a head or more above the babble of the crowd. Dressed as always to delight, this time in bright striped pants and a faux-needlepoint floral top, he looked like a maypole, people swirling around him. Or maybe he was more of a lightning rod; as the creative director for this year's Williamstown Theater Festival, his brief was to bring the buzz to an institution that needed it, without burning the place down. But having spent three days racing from one event he had programmed to another, sometimes with barely a half-hour to catch a bite in between, I began to think of Harris, the 'Slave Play' playwright and walking Rolodex, as something else, too: a ringmaster, half visionary, half hokum. Come see the what-are-they-doing-here stars! (Pamela Anderson in 'Camino Real'? Why not?) Dare to experience the melodrama on ice! (Change out of those open-toe shoes, missy!) Wonder at the endless parades of beefcake! (Harris's play 'Spirit of the People,' one of the centerpiece events, might well have been called 'Men in Thongs.') In short, the long-hallowed, lately-harrowed festival is nothing this year if not a circus. Circuses can be fun if you bring few expectations. I tried to lower mine, but it was difficult, given the more traditional theatrical pleasures I'd experienced during visits here over the course of 45 summers. (In 1980, less pleasurably, I was a 'general assistant,' staying up all night slinging waffles and getting yelled at.) More recently, complaints of unfair treatment, racial discrimination and unsafe working conditions had made the festival's operating model untenable, eventually leading to this year's mad experimentation. Harris himself seemed to acknowledge the madness, telling my colleague Michael Paulson that the season, loosely based on European models and focused on the world of Tennessee Williams, might produce 'jewels' from 'raw, weird things' or might be 'a colossal failure.' He was right. On both counts. I don't want to ding an idea still aborning, and it's nice that he's pitched a very big tent. But 'raw' is putting it mildly. Much of what I saw during the first of the festival's three public weekends was under-rehearsed or overthought. Some of it was merely baffling. The Williams connections sometimes seemed stretched to the vanishing point and other times so tightly wound as to suggest parody. Ticketing, including weekend passes for preset 'itineraries,' was bizarrely complicated, with seven core events plus installations, pop-ups and late-night hangs. Few of them started on time, and fewer ended that way. But chaos is not itself failure, and certainly it did not prevent some of the promised jewels from shining. Top among them was Samuel Barber's 'Vanessa,' presented at the festival in a version vastly reduced from the one audiences saw at its Metropolitan Opera premiere in 1958. Some small roles along with the entire chorus were cut, and the original's large orchestra became a seven-player band. It now tells its story — about a woman who has barely moved for 20 years, hoping to remain beautiful for the return of her lover — in just 100 enthralling minutes. transcript [MUSIC] Unlike many abridged operas, this one lost little in being concentrated, partly because Gian Carlo Menotti's intense, almost neurotic libretto profits, like a wailing babe, from tight swaddling. At Williamstown, the tight swaddling came in the form of R.B. Schlather's chic, disciplined, minimalist production, using shadows cast on a long white wall to create a devastating X-ray of the story. A top-notch cast a few feet from my face wailed thrillingly. Did this have anything to do with Williams? You could perhaps connect the gothic aspects of 'Vanessa' to the playwright's hothouse style, and certainly Vanessa herself belongs in the pantheon of floridly suffering straight women like Blanche DuBois and Alexandra Del Lago created and flayed by gay authors. I got to see more of those women back at the Center for Drama & Dance, where three plays were running in repertory. In Harris's 'Spirit of the People,' the woman was Genevieve, a brittle yet entitled American in Mexico. Played by Amber Heard in her professional stage debut, she becomes a mezcal impresario and a kind of death doula to a circle of toxic queer tourists in skimpy beachwear. I can't grade the play itself — critics were asked not to review it — but I can give it five out of five beefcake stars, and five as well for Williams relevance. Indeed, 'Spirit of the People' (a pun, in part, on the mezcal) is in some ways a Williams collage, drawing heavily on all his plays — Heard ends up on a hot tin roof — but especially 'Camino Real,' a surrealistic hodgepodge from 1953. The festival's big, handsome production of that experimental work, directed by Dustin Wills, did not alas justify its revival, except as an object of historical interest for Williams completists. Also, admittedly, for beefcake completists: In the central role of Kilroy, Nicholas Alexander Chavez channeled Marlon Brando in a white T-shirt about 10 sizes too small and distressed to the point of transparency. I'm hardly objecting to sexy men — or women, for that matter. (Anderson, as the tragic if often inaudible Camille figure, was a knockout in strapless black velvet.) But when buried sexuality is unburied, other considerations get shoved aside. That was the case with Williams's 'Not About Nightingales,' a 1938 drama not produced in his lifetime — with good cause in two senses. (It's an impassioned but sloppy cry for prison reform.) In exploring the familiar trope of jailhouse homoeroticism even where Williams took care to suppress it, Robert O'Hara's otherwise sturdy production did the playwright's plea no favors. It's disappointing that the three big plays at the Center for Theater & Dance were the new offerings least reminiscent of the old festival's excellence, despite its intention to honor a connection to Williams going back to 1956. But you can't really honor what you don't quite trust. The names of the sandwiches at Pappa Charlie's Deli on Water Street, where playgoers dashed for quick bites between shows, may still honor beloved Williamstown stars — the Blythe Danner (tuna and sprouts); the Olympia Dukakis (feta and avocado) — but the archival production photos that used to line the halls of the main stage were gone. If the past seemed to require re-education or even redaction, perhaps that's why the three shows at the so-called Annex, four miles east on Route 2, felt freer and more satisfying than the ones in Williamstown proper. The Annex has no theatrical history, having until recently been a Rent-A-Center and before that a Price Chopper. Along with 'Vanessa,' the Annex offered two fine shows. On Friday afternoon, 'The Things Around Us,' an hourlong solo by the droll multi-instrumentalist Ahamefule J. Oluo, was a promising start to the weekend, exploring through melancholy stories interspersed with hypnotic music the interpenetration of opposites: past and future, nothing and everything, order and chaos. And then, on Sunday morning, came the joyful bookend: 'Many Happy Returns,' a dance piece by Monica Bill Barnes and Robbie Saenz de Viteri. Sprightly, humorous, with a motif of finger snaps to go with oldies like 'Take Good Care of My Baby,' it told as lightly as possible the tale of four inseparable high school friends now separated except in memory. transcript [MUSIC] None of the Annex shows, it bears noting, were plays, and all were jobbed in. 'Vanessa' was created for the festival by the New York City-based Heartbeat Opera; 'The Things Around Us' has been on tour for a while; 'Many Happy Returns' ran for a few weeks in January at Playwrights Horizons. Also not a play was the seventh core offering, the one on ice. At the Peter W. Foote Vietnam Veterans Skating Rink, home of the North Berkshire Youth Hockey Black Bears, five talented skaters performed Will Davis's 'The Gig,' a diverting if impenetrable riff on a late Williams novel called 'Moise and the World of Reason.' As the skaters swirled and swooshed in pretty patterns and garish costumes, never enacting the story literally but suggesting a circle of queer friends and lovers, the audience listened on headphones to selections from the novel while trying to stay warm. That one of the characters in the source material is in fact a skater seemed a very thin thread to hang the concept on. But the ideas binding the other offerings were hardly more robust. That Williams celebrated 'the outcast and derelict and the desperate' (as he wrote in a letter quoted in the festival program) is a lovely notion, but not much of an organizing principle. It would exclude almost nothing ever written, sung, danced or skated. Perhaps the more salient connection was Harris; it seemed that his imagination was the main thing being celebrated and the only glue holding the weekend together. (He narrated 'The Gig'; his niece and nephew performed in 'Camino Real.') Fair enough; Nikos Psacharopoulos, a festival founder, ran the place for decades as a cult of personality despite having one of the worst personalities I've ever encountered. Harris at least is charming. And if his primary goal was to use his cultural currency to serve artists while secondarily challenging audiences who don't mind spending money on duds in the hope of the occasional jewel, perhaps he succeeded. The big tent of creativity he designed was mostly sideshows, but it wasn't entirely empty.
