Theater: Cirque-et Party

In its marketing materials, Cirque Dreams: Jungle Fantasy takes pains to position itself as “family” entertainment. Given that the setting for the show, designed by Jon Craine, resembles nothing so much as a woodcut by M.C. Escher, and given the seemingly inexhaustible menagerie of plumed, tufted, horned and tailed creatures that amble about—including turtles, ostriches, unicorns, cows, bees, frogs, zebras, giraffes, butterflies, peacocks, invertebrates, bacterium, jellyfish and amoeba—the moniker would appear on target. One almost expects the show, with its 150 or so costumes, to be given a hearty thumbs-up by the Children’s Television Workshop, the organization that created Sesame Street.

But the real allure and reputation of the Florida-based Cirque (which isn’t to be confused with Cirque du Soleil, the Canadian mega-brand) isn’t its celebration of every living creature Noah stowed on the ark. It’s about gravity-defying aerialists, bruise-resistant tumblers, a few impossibly limber contortionists and supremely dexterous jugglers—the European style of presentational circus that values the showmanship of human beings over the displaying and training of animals and all the attendant horror stories. And, apparently, it’s about presenting perhaps the most homoerotic show I’ve ever seen on Broadway.

I’m not kidding. The nominal narrative of Cirque Dreams, which is directed by the company’s creator, Neil Goldberg, involves a buff young acrobat named Marcello Ballestraci, who looks like a members of 1980s boy-band Menudo, being plunked down amidst the aforementioned iridescent, whimsical jungle. He’s called “the Adventurer,” and on his journey he’s frequently escorted by Jill Diane, who sings the songs penned for the show by Jill Winters, most of which sound like rip-offs (or maybe parodies) of the greatest hits of Céline Dion (both of them). True, the point isn’t to revel in Diane’s pitch-imperfect pipes or, despite the temptation, Ballestraci’s floppy haircut or chiseled-up arms, abs and lats. Whose family are we talking about?

Now and then, thankfully, you’re forced to tear your eyes away from the assembled bodies beautiful and focus on other key attractions, such as a quartet of sensuous, rail-thin Mongolian women credited in the program as Contorting Lizards. If you thought reptiles were cold-blooded, you’ll find here that the opposite is true—these four are Pilobilus-like perfection as they ply themselves into pretzel-like positions that plead for interpretation. Are they lotus blossoms, giant spiders or paean to the Kama Sutra? Or are they all of the above?

About midway through Act II come two men in crisp neo-vaudevillian garb who astonish everyone—including, if the looks on their mugs are to believed, themselves—with glossy demonstrations of balance that, being a circus, increase in intensity as the act proceeds. First they perch themselves atop a board that is itself resting atop a cylinder—easy stuff that any kid with time and practice can do. Then they interlock a series of narrow tables atop the cylinder, finally placing their upright bodies so high they seem like they’ll soon be swinging from the rigging affixed to the proscenium. As a finale, they balance themselves on top of five of those cylinders—a breathtaking stunt.

All right, so this is family entertainment. And perhaps it’ll never occur to young kids and their parents that the otherwise relentless parading of male flesh doesn’t send some sort of signal to those of us who are attuned to such things. Indeed, the fact that you’ve got two V-shaped, near-shirtless gymnasts clenching, clutching and trusting each other to do aerial feats 20 feet in the air doesn’t necessarily imply an alternative view of sensuality or sexuality. All I know for sure is this: In addition to restoring my love of circus, Ballestraci and the Cirque crew have me reconsidering the carb level of my diet. Oh, what a charming circus is man.

Through Aug. 24. Broadway Theatre, 1681 Broadway (at W. 53rd St.), 212-239-6200; $25-$95.