We couldn’t leave Vegas without seeing a show. We ate at the Wynn buffet beforehand with mimosas. The performance was an acrobatic and water spectacle, several scenes thread loosely along a heterosexual romantic narrative (guy offers girl a rose, she faces indecision about accepting it and for some reason falls asleep on a bench to then dream, go through personal growth and reach the realisation that she can accept the rose…). The show is 10 years old. I would’ve preferred a nonsensical or journey-based narrative, like the Philippe Genty work that toured to Perth when I was a kid, but I suppose the majority of punters in Vegas are heterosexual people looking for validation of heteronormative culture.
It’s amazing how things date; when the 4 clown suitors are revealed from within a fountain of water, having found each other in embrace, awaken and scream at the realisation of same-sex intimacy before diving backwards into the water my heart leadened and sank and I thought, “Really? Do people still find homophobic jokes entertaining?” Perhaps they do. It was a brief moment but enough to make me jerk my hand back from holding my husband’s hand. You’re not welcome here. Netflix is screening Friends and, watching the first few episodes, I cringe at what is now below-the-belt humour. I used to read Tin Tin as a child; reading it now I wouldn’t consider it tolerant of race.
Le Rêve started off capturing me in a dream but as quick as a splash from a diver I was pulled out of the magic and was watching a bunch of muscled bodies in tight costumes splashing about in a mechanised pool. The set and lighting were pretty and acrobatic tricks elicited appropriate gasps from the audience. I spent much of the show contemplating their production schedule of two shows a night, wondering how many performers had injuries and what their rotations were for roles.