Under the Big Top

The history and future of the circus

By COURTNEY COX

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When Arthur Pember first joined the circus, he was shocked by the decorum of his fellow performers.

"I had expected to find myself among a rollicking, roistering set of men, who preferred short pipes and tobies of ale to wine and cigars, and whose dressing-room was a theatrical exhibition of everything that is coarse and objectionable," he writes. "And I had more than a vague suspicion that some of the ladies might be a little loose in their notions of strict propriety."

The year was 1874, and Pember had been conscripted by the Associated Press to go "undercover" as a props manager in the Howe's Great London Circus. His account conjures images long associated with traditional Americana: sprawling tent, vermilion-caked faces, a parade of "painted donkeys" (read: zebras).

But when a cultural tradition remains popular for centuries, it warrants a closer look.

With its origins in the arena sports of ancient Rome, where gladiators battling tigers drew throngs of clamoring citizens—not unlike a modern Ringling Bros. audience—the once-barbaric spectacle didn't become performance art until Philip Astley walked into the ring.

Upon discovering that the combo of centripetal and centrifugal forces helps a rider remain standing on a galloping horse, Astley roped off a field in the shape of a circle to practice his trick riding for small crowds outside London. Later, he added seats to the ring, then a shed to cover the area. Astley is also the man behind the clown; he added joke-telling "jesters," who interacted with the crowd between his equine tricks.

The concept spread to France, Russia and, in 1792, Philadelphia, when an equestrian named John Bill Ricketts added gymnastics and dramatic readings to the billing and took America's first circus on the road. Small, family-owned circuses limped along stateside through the 19th century, mostly in anticipation of being swallowed by larger operations. Menageries were the biggest attractions: On their way to the big top, audiences would walk through a separate tent lined with wagons holding exotic animals like hyenas, ostriches and monkeys. Elephants, giraffes, llamas and zebras roamed freely.

"There is a tremendous amount of work to be done in winter quarters, of which the public knows nothing," explained one animal keeper to W.C. Thompson, author of the 1903 article "On the Road with a Circus." The keeper continues, "... we have to break those beasts so that we can handle them on the road."

Now, the days of animal training "of which the public knows nothing" have given way to the animal rights camp's well-publicized beef with the circus industry, although it's had minimal legislative effect. First passed in 1966, the Animal Welfare Act, enforced by the US Department of Agriculture, leaves legislation on the treatment of animals up to local government, granting traveling circuses the freedom to perform wherever their acts are welcome.

In Massachusetts, the towns of Braintree, Quincy, Revere and Provincetown have banned circuses and other animal acts altogether; the state has banned only animal fighting, like bear-wrestling and bullfighting.

In March, the House rejected a Senate-passed bill prohibiting the use of elephants in traveling circuses. Sen. Robert Hedlund, R-Weymouth, sponsored the bill. "We're up against a special interest that makes a profit," he said in a press release, alluding to the bill's opponents whose districts host the circus when it comes to town.

The bill was initially designed to ban the use of animal-training devices like ankas (aka bullhooks—sharp, cane-like prods) and other practices (like chaining elephants for long periods of time). "It's an archaic, barbaric way of treating an animal," Hedlund said. "But sometimes old ideas die hard on Beacon Hill." Hedlund plans to re-file the bill in the next session.

Ringling denies accusations that they mistreat their animals, touting their Center for Elephant Conservation, a 200-acre Florida breeding and conservation facility for Asian elephants. Archele Hundley, former Ringling animal trainer, has testified before Congress that she witnessed acts of animal brutality while at Ringling.

"It wasn't just the people, it's Ringling's culture," she tells the Dig. "That's how it's been for hundreds of years, and they don't believe there's any other way to do it."

Most circuses—Cirque de Soleil, the Big Apple—avoid the controversy by focusing on thrills like human catapults and trapeze artists. The Big Apple even contracts their animals, which have separate owners; Ringling owns their animals.

At the Big Apple Circus in Charlestown, R.I., eight costumed poodles performed a conga line right around the ring. The 31-year-old show also features five Arabian stallions, but, as Director of Communications Joel Dein says, "You kind of have to understand horses to fully appreciate the act." (The horses circle the ring, stop on cue, and the same goofball stallion never stops on time—over and over.) The poodle-conga is about as grand as it gets in the way of animals at this circus.

But the Big Apple hasn't always restricted exotic animals from the billing. Until five years ago, three elephants were featured in the show. On the use of bullhooks, Dein says, "I believe at some point they were used as a prod. I've never seen anyone actually stick an animal with a bullhook [in the Big Apple]."

Animal tricks aren't the only big top attraction that doesn't jibe with modern sensibilities. Sideshows, largely popularized by P.T. Barnum (of Barnum & Bailey fame), are now obsolete. They often played to perverse voyeurism and exploitation; "grinders" would ballyhoo the crowds, beckoning them to observe "the wild man" (a hairy, smelly, "uncivilized" man, who was often black), or "the electric woman," who supposedly had a current flowing through her fingertips.

But Barnum also introduced the modern-day, multi-ring format, in which multiple acts performed simultaneously in three, five, and later, up to seven rings (these still cater to contemporary attention spans). Astley's original joke-telling clowns couldn't be heard by the ever-accumulating masses, and soon gave way to mimes; acrobatic stunts grew more daring as big tops became larger, and animals were costumed and trained to perform tricks.

Extravagance and grandeur became watermarks of the American brand of circus, as did monopolies. By the Great Depression, Ringling Bros. had merged with Barnum & Bailey and the American Circus Corporation; independent circuses were nearly extinct.

Only in the past 30 years have they regained popularity. In 1984, a troupe of 20 fire-breathing, stilt-walking Quebec street performers formed Cirque du Soleil. The internationally touring company has since drawn nearly 80 million spectators (close to 10 million in 2007alone); a success story to be sure, but Feld Entertainment, parent company of Ringling Bros., draws 25 million annually.

In 1987, Circus Smirkus became the first Vermont-based touring circus in over 100 years. Founded by Rob Mermin—who honed his big top skills performing in European circuses before he became a director of the Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey Clown College—the company "is dedicated to promoting the lifestyle and traditions of the traveling tent circus," according to its website. Its philosophy is didactic, teaching kids the art of performing and joys of traveling as a troupe.

The Big Apple, founded in 1977, also seeks a return to tradition. "The Big Apple Circus is fashioned after classical European circuses," Dein explains. "It's a one-ring circus, as opposed to the Ringling-esque circus of three rings, which is just a massive spectacle. Ours is a very intimate, one-on-one experience. No seat is more than 50 feet from the ring, even though our tent seats 1,700."

Even as smaller circuses cater to a more informed and concerned public, they'll need to compensate in order to compete not only with the revenue-raking Ringling Bros., but with digital entertainment.

"We're going to begin using more contemporary costume and music simply to attract a younger crowd," Dein says of the Big Apple's modern strategy. "Children these days are much more savvy. These days, there's more competition with video games and televisions and iPods, but not a lot of live entertainment for kids to go to. It's difficult to attract attention but stay true to who you are."

Dein's plan seems to be working: The big top at the Charlestown show was packed with families, gaggles of teenagers, and octogenarians like Helen Benford, who says she attended the Big Apple 20 years ago when tickets were $2.50. "It's the only circus I come to," says Benford, who added that she appreciates the intimate atmosphere of a one-ring show. "Who cares what it costs? At my age, you can't take it with you."

Perhaps that sentiment sums up the hundreds-year battle between Ringling and the independents. Smaller circuses have departed from the tradition of excess and mega-mergers that is a purely American creation, returning to the European format that Philip Astley and John Bill Ricketts founded ... with dancing poodles at the helm.