One doesn’t merely watch "Plic Ploc", the show by Cirque Plume. One lives it. Like a moment of intense poetry, the show is threaded through with sparks of humour, lots of water, music and natural performers with stupendous talent. Words cannot express such beauty.
It was Monday night. The audience had entered the giant tent. They sat in the wooden bleachers. The house lighting gave off a warm glow that plunged us into an atmosphere of times past. And then the show began. The "plic ploc" of the dripping water is the spoilsport, the killjoy, and the performers’ nightmare, that whose neck we wish to wring. The drips soon become a flood, and it’s then that the water comes down in buckets, or in this case musical pots and pans. Brassy horns are a bouquet of sunshine. Flutes make garden hoses dance. Water overflows, like the pouring out of ones heart on a beach of mops and umbrellas. Water is the folly in this show made of poetry and humor; in short, things ineffable that at every instant make our hearts skip a beat. We are rendered speechless, admiring the bodies that bend, fly, unfurl, and become part of our memories. We have never seen anything like this. This moment is unique. Water marks the time like a clepsydra. We surprise ourselves by wanting only one thing: that the water goes crazy, the clepsydra screeches to a halt, time stops, and the show never ends. Time has stopped, and the "plic, ploc" continues in our hearts and in our spirits.