THE CIRCUS IN TOWN!

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 298, 8 March 1928, Page 18

THE CIRCUS IN TOWN!

THE SAWDUST TRAIL The circus has tradition behind it. In these days, when we are told that vaudeville is no longer to our taste, it is good to know that the circus, with all its memories of childhood, is more than holding its own. Maybe, it is because of that very element of youth, always associated with the sawdust ring, that the appeal of the circus comes irresistibly through the years.

Necessarily we demand that the lady equestrienne should sit her horse with, the grace of thistledown, and be just as slender and as beautiful as when we first made her acquaintance, how many years ago? We thrill as of yore at the Mephistolian figure of the bareback rider, complacently juggling as his steed amiably ambles by. The familiar motley and greasepaint, of course, of the clown.

We demand, too, the waxed moustache of the ring master, though this necessary adjunct to a circus—the moustache is just as important, as, for instance, the whip—was absent, when Messrs. Wirth Brothers presented their particular “greatest show on earth” last night to Aucklanders. The ring master, it must be confessed, was clean-shaven, which, needless to say, is not in accordance with etiquette and distinctly against circus tradition. Nevertheless, everything else was there. Indeed, there was more than we could legitimately expect. A HOOK-NOSED “INDIAN” A hook-nosed Red Indian, with flowing black mane, who thought he might have rejoiced in the name of Squatting Bull, rode to and from the family wigwam on a bicycle! Just what that Indian could do on a cycle, devoid of bars, minus frame, and with wheels illuminated by leaping flames, must surely be seen to be adequately appreciated. As a imatter of fact this performer, who looks like a direct descendant of Pocahontas and as if he had been reared by the waters of Minnetonka, is of the sort. His name is Chester Dieck.

But this was as nothing to the sensation that Mile. Gulnare Hoyer caused in the lions’ cage! With a traditional Folies Bergeres appreciation for the spice of danger she fandangoed on a somewhat rickety board right under the very noses of the lions. Somehow it seemed the height of impertinence. Yet there was Captain Smith, whip in hand, just as-unconcerned as the lady from the Folies.

Pallenberg’s trained bears caused endless amusement by riding in conveyances which they never even heard of in the forest. Who, for instance, could possibly imagine le petit ours so familiar to every plodding reader of Contes et Legends, sitting up in a push cart? Yet, there he was, and propelling himself.

Eileen May, who, incidentally, might quite permissibly have been mistaken for a Girl Guide, put several elephants through military evolutions with the precision of a veteran, though as a matter of fact she still wears her curls down her back. Miss Gladys, the chic and dainty personification of what our circus dream lady would be, was equally at home with her white Arabs. The Zanettos. though the name suggests an Italian origin, were clad in Chinese festive attire. Still, their juggling was certainly international in its appeal. The laws of gravity were defied by Hilary Long and his partner. He careered from the roof of the tent to the ground, balanced on a single wire. GARGANTUAN PROPORTIONS Miss Doris and Queenie, her golden steed, appeared in effective tableaux. | the Redans were responsible for j equally effective posing, and Shorty,

the dwarf, and his overgrown friend, a lad well over seven feet, whose gargantuan proportions would even have startled Jack of Beanstalk fame, were responsible for comedy interludes. A. display of tin-hare racing concluded the performance. Wirths* Circus is all that it claims to be. With three rings constantly in use, the small army of assistants work with clockwork regularity. The true art of showmanship is exemplified by the rapidity in which act follows act. Several of the turns, as a matter of fact, would top the bill at any legitimate theatre, despite the alleged inordinate craze for revue. Even if the latter has been supplemented in our affections for vaudeville, the circus, like Peter Pan, another heroic image of our youth, can never, never grow old. It is good to know that the circys is in town.