Under the Big Top

Brian LaPalme has been an illusionist, a ringmaster, and a fire eater. His remarkable career has been lived under the lights.

BY RICK ALLEN

Once, a common childhood dream was to run away to join the circus. Most of us outgrew that desire. ​Not Brian LaPalme. ​“Even at seven years old,” he admits, “I knew I wanted to be the center of attention.”

​Not only did he sign with the Royal Ranch Wild West Circus at 17, he convinced his school superintendent in Willimantic, Connecticut, to let him graduate a month early so he could join up. But the superintendent had a condition—maintain a B-plus average and he could go.

His mother, Carol Maine, wasn’t happy about it. “I’d been accepted by the Culinary Institute of America,” he says. “My mother said, ‘As an entertainer, you’ll always be looking for your next job. As a chef you’ll always have one.’” Brian got the grades and left home in May 1976 for the circus.

​Of the job, Brian recalls, “I could be the guy who cleans up after the elephants or be a clown. I taught myself to clown.”

​It was a start.

IN A CAREER SPANNING four decades and 20 different circus production companies, Brian rose from a common clown to a two-time gold medal-winning ringmaster of the George Carden Circus, the largest in the U.S. after Ringling wrapped in 2017. A tent was named for him by the Circus Fans Association of America.

​“My hat is off to this young artist,” wrote James Roller, general manager of the Allan C. Hill Great American Circus, in 1994. “He has fast become one of the top performers in our business and is a personal and professional credit to the circus world.”

Photo courtesy Brian LaPalme

​Brian was with the Great American Circus from 1990 to mid-season 1994 as illusionist, fire eater, and ringmaster. That span included a 1991 stop here. “That’s when I discovered Ocala,” he says.

“I have seen many performers come and go,” adds owner Allan Hill, “but none could compare to the impact that [his] presence produced in my tent.”

​But it wasn’t always easy.

THERE ARE FEW SCHOOLS teaching the skills needed. Florida State University’s Flying High Circus claims to be one of two collegiate circuses in the U.S. Most circus folk are born into it.

​Maybe he innately knew, but Brian studied magic and makeup through high school. Other skills he taught himself.

​Two years after he joined Royal Ranch, it closed in Valdosta. Brian, still not 20, had a week to leave the compound. In town then was Norman Brooks’ Strange People Circus Sideshow. Brooks’ only need was a fire eater.

​“I lied,” Brian admits. “I told him I could, but I wasn’t very good.” Still, he needed the job and had the offseason to learn.

He recalled that he couldn’t practice in his tiny 13-foot trailer at a campground on the Georgia-Florida line. “I had to practice outside,” sometimes in windy conditions that made self-learning a challenge in an era before You- Tube videos.

“I burned my face, burned my nose, but by March the burns were healed and I could do a fourminute show.”

Among his concerns were making sure his head was tilted back correctly and that there wasn’t too much fuel on the wands.

And the skeptics.

“That’s just cold fire,” he recalls one scoffing. “Cold fire!” Brian exclaims. “After all these years I still don’t know what ‘cold fire’ is.”

Photo courtesy Brian LaPalme

Brian considers his time with Brooks “my four years of college. He taught me to be a front talker, to target my words to the region, how to make people want to buy a ticket. “I learned how to be a performer.”

​ WHAT FOLLOWED WAS A STRING of shows big and small. His travels took him to every state and Canada, with long days and little time off. Typically there was a “six pack of shows”—three on Saturday, three on Sunday—on weekends in larger cities, with stops in smaller towns during the week.

Though “on” from 10am to 11:30pm, there was always time to meet fans. One of the joys was when celebrities—big names on television and movies—showed up. “They just want to have a good time with their kids,” Brian says.

One memorable encounter was “when Gary Burghoff (Radar on “M*A*S*H”) stopped by,” he says. “He went out of his way to be nice.”

Brian adds that as they talked, he noticed the actor’s hand looked unusual. “‘Oh, that,’ he said, ‘it’s not a big deal.’ It’s been that way a long time.”

Actually, all his life. Burghoff’s listing in the Internet Movie Database notes the actor was born with a deformed left hand. During the run of “M*A*S*H,” the crew positioned his hand behind a clipboard, Radar’s teddy bear, or under a desk.

Other delightful encounters, Brian says, included Meryl Streep and David Canary of “All My Children.”

But not all of them were so delightful. One movie star he prefers not to identify showed up in Connecticut. “This actor was the hero of young Samson Zerbini in our show, who was about 8 at the time.”

Brian says he took the child into the stands to get an autograph, but was told no. “We’re not here to sign autographs,” he says the actor told the heartbroken child. “We’re here to see the show. And don’t tell them [the audience] I’m here, either.”

​DOWN ON THE FLOOR, Brian explains, the ringmaster is in charge of running a 2-1/2 hour show as a defacto onstage stage manager. “He has to know what to do and what to cut at need.”

Moreover, he’s a cheerleader and guide, holding our experience in his hands. “We want people to laugh, to yell and scream.”

Brian often took on other tasks: chef, magician, fire eater. He even perfected the “Human Volcano,” a 30-foot blast of flame, much like the dragons in “Game of Thrones.” He taught the trick to professional wrestler Ricky “the Dragon” Steamboat.

The act earned him a bronze medal at the 1992 Sarasota International Circus Festival, where in 1993 and 1995 he earned gold as Ringmaster—the only person to win twice.

As a magician, Brian is a companion of the “Order of Merlin,” an elite recognition of his 25 years as a Master Magician with the International Brotherhood of Magicians. He also is a member of the Society of American Magicians, a fraternity of professional magicians. In 1991, he published “The Circus Magician’s Handbook.” And from his cooking days—including five months with the Big Apple Circus in New York City—he published the circus cookbook, “Cookhouse Favorites.” But he’s never had roots. “You know, I’ve never owned my own home or apartment,” he says, “never had a checkbook. My point of pride was my job.”

Ocala is about as close to home as he’s had. He now works at Publix, but still performs magic acts here and in The Villages.

In 1999 he helped with makeup for Ocala Civic Theatre’s “South Pacific,” where he met Jean-Pierre Leemans. They immediately bonded over magic.

“When I was a teenager, my father bought me a set of magic rings, which I could never use because there were no instructions,” Leemans says. “Brian taught me step-by-step the routine. We remained friends since then.”

​Leemans even joined Brian on tour for two months. “This will remain one of my best memories.”

Brian also connected with Janet Shelley, the theater instructor at West Port High School, and from time to time offers makeup clinics for her students.

​Earlier this year, he assisted with their “old-age” make-up for their “The Red Velvet Cake War” dinner theater.

“He shares his knowledge with my students,” Shelley says. “Brian is one of my most favorite people in the world.”

Both his sisters have asked him to come live with them, but he’s decided to stay in Ocala.

IN JANUARY, circuses set out on the road as they’ve done for decades. But for the first time in 42 years, Brian stayed behind.

Two years ago he had a pacemaker installed. “My doctor told me to stop,” he says, “but it took me two years to listen.” He’s sure he’s doing right thing. In Chicago during his final season, he says, a couple brought their young son to meet him. The child was decked out as a ringmaster. “I want to be the ringmaster of a circus when I grow up,”

he says the child told him. Brian says he was torn, pleased by the boy’s enthusiasm, but...

“I didn’t want to crush his spirit,” he says. “Inside I wondered if there’d even be circuses when he’s old enough.”

Circuses themselves, he continues, are evolving into more of the Cirque du Soleil model, one act after another without a ringmaster.

“I thank God I got to do what I loved,” Brian says. Meanwhile, he’s at peace remaining behind.

“It was time,” Brian adds. “The circus is a lifestyle,” one lived 24/7, year in, year out.

“It’s the greatest job. Not only can you see the greatest country in the world, but little towns, big towns. Every night you’re in front of a different audience,” he told circus journalist Lane Talburt in a 2017 YouTube interview. “And if you can make someone smile for a couple of minutes, you’ve done your job.”

Photo by Steve Floethe

The Wonderful World Of The Wild & Wacky

Brian has seen everything in a four-decade career.

WORKING WITH MOM: Probably the strangest sight of all for a young man early in his career was seeing his mother, decked out as a showgirl, helping entice carnival goers in for the show. “It was my last year with Brooks,” Brian says. “My mother and her friend came to visit me. One of the girls in the sideshow quit suddenly.” Brooks asked the women if they’d like to try, and to Brian’s astonishment they agreed. They put on the double eyelashes, the makeup, the fishnet tights and came out to work the crowds. “My mom was always shy,” Brian says. “I couldn’t believe it.”

HELPING THE POLICE: In November 1984, while heading to a show in Holyoke, Massachusetts, he stopped at a Cumberland Farms store where he found police in the parking lot. The store had been robbed, and the clerk was wearing handcuffs the thief had put on her. “But these weren’t regulation cuffs, so they didn’t have a key,” he says. Brian told the police he was an “escape artist” with a circus, and asked to give it a try. “I pulled out a pick I carried in my wallet, and in about six minutes I had the lady freed.” Brian says he asked if he could have the cuffs, but was told no, they would probably be needed for evidence.

MAKING “PARTS”: While with the Brooks’ Sideshow Circus, one character was billed as a hermaphrodite, a half-man, half-woman. “One day she came to me and asked if I could make for her a tiny [male sex organ],” Brian says. “I did, but it wasn’t small enough.” Two more tries and it was finally small enough. “She would wear it to quick flash the audience.”

GOOD ADVICE: One of his prize possessions is the red sequined tailcoat given him by legendary Ringling Brothers ringmaster Harold Ronk. One performance Ronk was in the audience. “He had some advice for me, but he wouldn’t say until after the show,” Brian says. Anxious, he got through the second act. Finally, the words of wisdom: “‘wear your cummerbund higher,’ he said. ‘Everything else was fine,’” Brian adds. As Ronk told him, on shorter ringmasters, wearing the cummerbund higher “gives your legs a longer line, and you look taller.”