Shannan Calcutt. Photo supplied.
By Liz Nicholls,
At the next-to-last moment this weekend at this year’s SkirtsAfire Festival I got a chance to see what happens when a premier clown steps bravely forth to share a big grown-up secret.
In Things I Shouldn’t Tell You, a new show from an artist whose clown alter-egos include the adorable Izzy (Burnt Tongue, It’s Me, Only Better, Out Of My Skin), Shannan Calcutt arrives onstage to tell a story, her own. It’s a story of discovery, a warning, a personal insurrection at the well-fortified barricades of mystery and ignorance that surround menopause and perimenopause. C’mon, who even knew that word perimenopause a year ago? “I was blindsided, and I won’t let that happen to you,” says Calcutt.
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Clowns have always been about truth-telling, with their unflinching gaze at the world. But the way that this most engaging of performers, somehow (and ease-fully), on a mission creates an alliance with a theatre audience is its own special kind of secret, of course. It has something to do with the super-power of comedy (that would be laughter), and the resilience that comes from an appreciation of absurdity. The capacity to be amused is a flotation device in the slough of despond. But it’s more that that, in a show that’s all about knowing what you’re up against, holding hands, and facing your fears together. “We are in this fuckery together.”
And Act II, when the genial, quick-witted Calcutt dips into a pail of our questions and comments, and a kind of general conversation ensues, is a remarkable demo of bonding. What are you supposed to with pent-up rage, one audience member wonders. And there’s a veritable chorus of suggestions from her cohorts, male and female.
Shannan Calcutt, Things I Shouldn’t Tell You, SkirtsAfire Festival 2026. Photo supplied.
“Trigger word,” there’s a theatre cautionary term that’s a veritable red flag to a clown. Directed and dramaturged by two of Calcutt’s great fellow artists Jan Henderson and T.J. Dawe, the show opens with a trigger-pulling: a confrontation with “menopause” (tucked innocuously between ‘Mennonite’ and ‘menorah’ in the dictionary). And “hot flashes” and “perimenopause.” And Calcutt, who’s originally from small-town Saskatchewan before she became a Vegas Cirque du Soleil star for 15 years, suddenly, mysteriously finds that growing up freezing cold (thank you, Canadian prairies) has ceded, abruptly at age 42, to a strange inner inferno. “I’m on fire” and the raging conflagration can’t be suppressed by hard-core Vegas A/C. The only hint she gets comes from a fellow performer. The hilarity of this irony — “I got my medical advice from a clown!” — isn’t lost on her.
One of the artful, and essential, features of Things I Shouldn’t Tell You is how skilfully Calcutt’s mission to is woven into her own intergenerational, cross-border story (have a peek at the preview interview here). Twenty years ago, with a history of hit clown shows in this country, she moved to Vegas to be a clown in the Cirque cabaret Zumanity. “I was topless on the Strip for 15 years,” she muses. “Five million people, no, more, have seen my tits….” And since her act involves filling Ziplock baggies with scotch and making her own breast implants, life and art mix it up when menopausal symptoms arrive at boob level.
Since 2005 when she moved south, Calcutt has been working as a clown and director in a variety of Vegas shows, raising a teenage daughter and son there, and in the past couple of years taking care of her mom in Saskatchewan after Rose’s diagnosis of Lewy body dementia. And it naturally occurs to Calcutt that many of her own bizarre set of symptoms, including insomnia, dry mouth, migraines, are the same as Rose’s, a fearful thought, in addition to crazy-making stress, anxiety, the leaching away of confidence and libido, pimples.
Shannan Calcutt. Photo supplied
This is a story with three generations of women up against it when it comes to blood and pain, and rolling with punches that land, sometimes with great force and unfairly. And there’s Calcutt in the middle, with a naturally funny mother (a Canuck Catskills comic?) who’s losing her mind, and a daughter who’s gaining hers. And though it’s not specifically addressed, much of it is happening in stress-inducing America where there’s occasionally a shooter at school or in a casino.
Anyhow, if Act I is a catalogue of symptoms, that seem startlingly unrelated until they add up, Act II is an invitation to respond, and to consider the possibility of celebrating a natural development in the lives of women. Calcutt, I’ve often thought, has an instinctive flair for celebration onstage: it’s a great gift, this kind of inclusivity, and perimenopause is some sort of ultimate test for throwing a party (with party favours like Vag of Honour air fresheners).
The show is a remarkable creation, depending as it does on Calcutt’s startling candour about the most intimate personal details, both physical and psychological, about her life. And there’s exhilaration in bonding, in sharing her bravery and her apparently unsquelchable sense of amusement. It’s a kind of acceptance, yes, but more than that, it’s a special kind of defiance, too.
Catch the show today if you can, at Walterdale. I felt lucky I had a chance. And there are plans to tour it, so stay tuned. Tickets: skirtsafire.com.
