For the past 50 days, however, the 26-year-old has been stuck in a cramped cabin off the Italian coast, doing a handstand and splits while conducting WhatsApp video calls and wondering when the storied circus will perform again.
“Luckily, I’m used to contorting my body into small spaces,” she said from the ship where she has been grounded since her show shut down in March. “I can’t wait to get back to Cirque but we have no idea when the world will be ready to go see live shows again.”
In the space of weeks, it was forced to shutter 44 shows in dozens of cities, from Las Vegas to Hangzhou, and has temporarily laid off nearly 5,000 employees — 95 percent of its work force — and stopped payments to dozens of show creators.
Even before the pandemic, the sprawling company was struggling with bloat and creative fatigue after a consortium led by an American private equity firm acquired it in 2015, and accelerated a debt-fueled global expansion spree.
Now, with no certainty on the timing of a coronavirus vaccine or when cities will allow large public gatherings again, some are asking whether Cirque can survive?
“No one had ever modeled what we would do if we lost 100 percent of our revenue,” said Mitch Garber, Cirque’s chairman, comparing the pandemic to the Great Depression for the live entertainment industry. “We can’t function without fans.”
It is hard to overstate the hold that Cirque du Soleil has on the Canadian and global imagination.
The Montreal-based circus originated in the 1980s when a group of Quebec performers, stilt-walkers and fire-breathers, including the Cirque’s accordian-playing co-founder Guy Laliberté, delighted local residents on the shores of the St. Lawrence river.
Born in 1984, its animal-free mix of awe-inspiring acrobatics, dance, lavish costumes, live music, high-technology stagecraft and narrative whimsy created a new vision of what a circus could be.
Before the coronavirus outbreak, its seven shows in Las Vegas alone — including the critically-acclaimed “Ka,” featuring battle scenes 70 feet in the air, and the water-themed extravaganza, “O” — drew some 10,000 people nightly. The Cirque had more than $1 billion in revenues last year — although now it also has nearly $1 billion in debt.
Today, the circus’s normally frenetic costume-making atelier in Montreal, which occupies the length of a city block and produces 18,000 painstakingly tailored costume parts each year,sits eerily empty. Half-sewn wigs and unfinished masks are scattered on work stations, along with half-drunk cups of tea.
“This is a business where circus artists risk their necks each night and if people aren’t paid, it creates a crisis of confidence,” he said.
Mr. Laliberté, Cirque’s poker-loving billionaire co-founder, also floated the possibility that he would get into a “wrestling match” to rescue Cirque. But people familiar with talks over Cirque’s future said he had sold his shares in the company and was unlikely to buy it back.
But he recalled that, at the beginning of March, just minutes after a crisis meeting in Montreal, one city after another across the world began to shut down. As borders closed, Cirque had to race to load big top equipment on to giant cargo planes and repatriate 2,000 employees.
“Our world changed overnight,” he said. “When I got the call on March 14 that we would have to close all seven shows in Las Vegas, the reality sunk in.”
Mr. Lamarre said Cirque was considering all options including seeking bankruptcy protection. A recent injection of $50 million from its shareholders had bought some time.
He said he was optimistic the company would bounce back, buoyed by its glittering brand and a public zeal for live entertainment after months of confinement. Cirque was already in talks with its Korean and Chinese partners about reopening shows.
Meanwhile, he has new reading matter: studies about coronavirus vaccines.
“We’re probably talking about a year from now before going back to normal,” he said.
But for all his bullishness, some critics say that Cirque’s problems predate the pandemic and that its groundbreaking artistry has given way to facile story lines and kitsch spectacle, like acrobats in frog costumes.
The company has since spent $550 million on acquisitions, creating new shows and refreshing existing productions.
“Over the last few years, there has been a shift toward profits at the expense of creativity,” Mr. Dubé-Dupuis, the Cirque veteran, said.
Now, retrenchment seems inevitable.
“We don’t know how Cirque can make money or not lose too much money if one of every four seats in a theater is empty,” Mr. Garber said.
The pandemic has also challenged Cirque’s small army of superhuman circus artists.
“There aren’t a lot of LinkedIn listings for unemployed contortionists,” Mr. Garber observed.
Ms. Angarag, 26, the contortionist, had been performing in two Cirque du Soleil shows on the MSC Grandiosa cruise ship for four months before the shutting of borders confined her to a cabin. She passes the time reading self-help books, doing yoga, and training up to three hours a day.
Confinement presents other hurdles.
Olivier Sylvestre, 29, spent a decade mastering the “German wheel,” two conjoined giant hoops in which he rolls with balletic athleticism. But his wheel, too cumbersome to use in his apartment, has been in his closet for months.
“We’re desperate to perform again,” he said. “Cirque makes people dream, and people need that more than ever.”