Giffords Circus: Laguna Bay

There’s a certain magic that descends when the Giffords Circus big top appears on the horizon—like a mirage stitched from sequins, vintage posters, and half-forgotten dreams. This year’s show, Laguna Bay, celebrates a commendable 25 years of shows with a sun-soaked trip to a 1950s Californian coast, where quiffed hunks flip around like salmon, lifeguards leap through blazing hoops, and even the seagulls seem choreographed. It’s a pastel-drenched promise of nostalgia, spectacle and summer joy.

But while Laguna Bay shimmers with charm and no shortage of talent, it ultimately feels like a beach party where the tunes are playing, the drinks are flowing, but the conversations never quite click. There’s plenty to admire here—pops of brilliance, delightful set-pieces, and of course the irrepressible Tweedy—but when the sun sets on the show, one’s left wondering what it was all building towards.

Let’s start with the strengths, which are many and undeniable. Giffords remains a national treasure for a reason. The aesthetic, for one, is as lovingly constructed as ever. Designer takis has served up a visual feast: costumes in all kinds of pastel shades, USAF uniforms which look as good on as off and a dreamy boardwalk backdrop that glows in warm sunset hues. It’s Malibu-via-Minchinhampton, and it’s absolutely gorgeous.

The band, led by the indefatigable Joe Pickering, keeps the whole thing rolling with surf rock riffs, brassy swing, and the occasional Latin swerve—a live soundtrack that bathes the ring in rhythm and retro cool. Even with the occasional anachronistic tune - the Thunderbirds TV series didn’t arrive until the mid-Sixties - it is the music and musicians that do the most to anchor this big top in its chosen period.

But if Laguna Bay is a feast for the eyes and ears, the heart of the show feels less certain.
Cal McCrystal’s direction leans hard—perhaps too hard—on the ever-popular Tweedy. He’s the eternal clown of Giffords, having walked here in oversized trousers and infinite charm for over twenty years. And to be clear, Tweedy is as lovable and skilled as ever. His physical comedy is finely tuned, his rapport with audiences undimmed. A scene involving him throwing around ice cream at fellow clowns Dany and Sito Revelino is comedy choreography at its finest. Children adore him. Adults secretly do too.

But somewhere around the third extended Tweedy skit, the question arises: are we getting too much of a good thing? His gags, while reliably funny, begin to feel like filler—a way to bridge acts that don’t naturally segue. Rather than weaving Tweedy’s character into the show’s narrative arc, Laguna Bay seems to wheel him out between the more eye-grabbing routines. It’s a crutch, albeit a charming one, that underscores a more structural issue: the lack of connective tissue between acts.

Unlike Giffords’ most memorable outings (Xanadu, Carpa! and The Hooley spring to mind), Laguna Bay never quite finds a throughline. It gestures at a story—a retro beach town, a day in the life of its lifeguards and sunseekers—but that narrative thread never tightens. Acts appear and vanish with nary an introduction or farewell. Individually, there is circus talent aplenty whether it is the centrepiece act of John Pablo and Vickki Garcia hanging from a circling aeroplane or their sons Antonio and Connor Garcia performing some proficient but insipid acrobalance. And, of course, the horses—ever a Giffords signature—deliver their usual equine elegance, prancing through the show with understated grace and just a hint of cheek. These are delightful moments in isolation, but as a whole, the show feels more like a variety hour than a unified production.

And then there’s the matter of risk—or lack thereof.

Giffords has long balanced tradition with innovation, often favouring intimate, precise performances over jaw-dropping spectacle. That balance is what makes them special. But Laguna Bay leans a little too far into the safe zone. Aerialists like Randy Forgione Vega (aerial straps) or Daniela Munoz Landestoy and Noemi Novakovics (duo hairhang) hover elegantly over an eager audience rather than soar daringly. The ever-popular Ethio-Salem troupe — usually a guaranteed gasp-generator — delivers a series of technically sound jumps and juggling, but without the heart-stopping edge one might hope for.

This caution isn’t necessarily a flaw—especially in a family-oriented show—but it does lead to a sense of sameness. With each act polished but familiar, the show lacks the thrilling unpredictability that can elevate a circus into the realm of myth.

Ultimately, Laguna Bay is a confection: sweet, bright, and beautifully wrapped. For those seeing Giffords for the first time, it will no doubt dazzle. For returning fans, however, it may feel like a show content to paddle in the shallows rather than plunge into the deep. The potential is all there: a bold setting, a cast brimming with talent, a creative team that knows its craft. But somewhere between the sandcastles and the saxophones, Laguna Bay forgets to surprise us.

Still, even a middling Giffords show offers more delight than most London theatres can dream of delivering. It remains a place of wonder and whimsy, where the impossible is made to look effortless and the ordinary glows with gold dust. But one hopes that next year, they’ll take a few more risks, tell a bolder story, and let the sun rise a little higher on their beautiful circus dream.

Giffords Circus continues on tour until 28 September.


Photo credit: Spencer McPherson - Still Moving Media