Shanghai Acrobats

It's Show Time!

A rousing cheer fills the room as the stunning acrobatic extravaganza unfolds in the Shanghai Center Theatre in China.

For starters, a stylish female juggler holds in each hand five rods with twirling plates on top. Presently, she is joined by another so they are perched head on head. No one in the audience is moving. The upturned lady does a mirror-image of the twirling plates. They're not going to crash the plates. I bite my lip and shift on my feet, trying to sound lighthearted. We all let out a long breath when the segment ends without a hitch.

Next, a man in pink silk pajamas adroitly sets an upturned chair on his head, on top of which is placed a larger upended table. On each of the table's two side legs are positioned another couple of tables. The outermost legs of the now-topmost tables remain hanging in the air. 

I anxiously gaze up at the lithe young girl who then proceeds to do a hand stand on the two inner edges of the table. Someone in the audience is hissing. The rest watch in silence, as if awaiting a miracle or permission to exhale again. 

The next act called 'Pyramid of Chairs' is an amazing display of control and precision by which at least ten wooden chairs are set, one on top of another, each interspersed by an equal number of tumbling artists holding on to the back railing and the chair overhead, respectively. I'm feeling oddly nervous. There must be a fascination for seats in the culture, I tell myself, even as my heart thuds. 

The acts are sometimes so scary and seem dangerous that no one in the audience is moving.   

We gasp in the splendor of 'Autumn Day' and swallow, then let it out on a shuddering gulp with 'Rosy Clouds.' We burst in grateful applause at the agility of the 'Juggler In The Bar.' At times, it feels almost uncomfortable to watch as the performers bend their backs in abnormal directions. My arms folded and my jaw set, I'm squirming in my seat, but cannot take my eyes off of the fascinating performance. 

Just when we think the repertoire of exciting acts has been depleted, the climactic elaborate production of the 'Ball of Death' ensues with the sound of motorcycle engines revving behind the curtain. When at least fifteen cyclists come on stage, I know. I have seen this act on TV and in movies, but I've never witnessed it in real life.

As they enter the cage of death and whiz around, up and down at lightning fast speeds, something has risen in my chest, a shudder escaping me. A horrible unfamiliar choking sensation briefly fills me with panic. My heart is trembling like a leaf in the wind. I watch and wait, holding my own hands wound together in a knot as the riders crisscross back and forth in defiance of gravity. 

Only when they come out of their enclosure and take a final ride around the stage do I ease off from the sensory overload. As the vibrantly costumed dancers take off to glory, I'm thinking how this has been the strangest and most magical night of my life - a gift of dizzy exhilaration with a balanced blend of artistry, elegance, power, and muscular strength.

I try to calm my mind and wait until I'm sure that I can breathe normally.

布拉沃
Bù lā wò. Bravo!