Dream country

A Flicker in the Field
The River Clyde Pageant, July 25, 2024
Review by Sean McQuaid

It was a slightly surreal family outing. Wife Carol, daughter Elsa and I drove to idyllically scenic New Glasgow for our first trip to the storied River Clyde Pageant, an annual “spectacular outdoor performance” full of music, dancing, masks, puppets and more, a volunteer-driven community event celebrating the wonders of nature in general and the River Clyde countryside in particular. 

Parking nearby, we walked a short distance to this year’s venue, a downward-sloping field (hence the 2024 show’s title, A Flicker in the Field, co-directed by Megan Stewart and Jane Wells). Dozens of patrons, performers and volunteers gathered atop the slope, milling about affably in festive fashion. 

Surveying the verdant landscape and watching the merry crowd—some waving flags, wearing flowers, playing, laughing—I recalled a cheerfully pastoral 1973 horror film. “Not at all like The Wicker Man,” I said half-mock-uneasily, to Carol’s knowing chuckle. 

A horn sounded in the distance to begin the event. “The audacity of the trumpet does have its uses,” proud clarinetist Elsa conceded. Patrons and volunteers and a phalanx of singing choristers trundled down the mowed, well-beaten path cutting through a green and gold sea of tall grass speckled white with Queen Anne’s lace. 

An unnaturally tall, vaguely humanoid figure loomed up ahead, and I said I might have spoken too soon about The Wicker Man. “I am not okay with this,” an uneasy Elsa murmured, her pace slackening as her mother’s encouraging arm pulled her onward. “I did not like the way he… emerged.” 

Drawing closer, we saw the rough-hewn, stony-hued giant was an oversize puppet copiloted by a cluster of rod-wielding operators. Taking her seat, Elsa said, “From far off he looked like the Jolly Green Giant if you left him to rot in a dead Texas mall for ten years.” That’s very specific, I said. “Yeah,” she admitted, “but up close he looks more like a sweet old man you meet when you’re lost and need help on a trail, and you never see him again, but you always wish you did?” I couldn’t argue with that. 

The show’s beaming, wreath-crowned musical conductor strolled the playing area at the bottom of the hill as the audience settled in. Elsa later compared him to Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, setting the stage for mischief. Said stage was framed by artfully arranged tree debris, echoes of Fiona’s savage winds nearly two years ago. 

What followed was initially wordless but far from soundless, a series of dreamlike vignettes featuring animal-suited performers, stilt-walkers, dancers, gymnasts, masked figures, choral singers, a plethora of puppets and many musicians, notably a spirited and skillful cellist in the thick of the action. The giant flew to pieces at one point as the scenes unfolded, alternately whimsical and spooky. 

Enter some young traveling thespians, the Windfall Players. “To a landscape ravaged by storms,” they declare, “we bring laughter and enlightenment!” Together with some older rival players they put on a show while debating fact vs. fiction, celebrating the beauty of nature, the wonders of the wider universe and the power of storytelling. 

As the sun set, lanterns glowed to life and all the performers reappeared, including the resurrected giant, now lit from within. Rain fell as if on cue during the big finale, audience and performers alike undaunted. It was a fun show to watch, and it looked fun to perform, too. The pageant complete, we wended our way through the “Meandering Path,” a smaller twisting passage through the tall grass full of miniature displays billed as the homes of fairy folk. 

Back in the car, I asked the ladies what they thought of it all. “Classical whimsy that didn’t feel old-fashioned,” Elsa said. “I thought it was pretty cool.” 

As she often does, Carol got the last word: “We should have done this years ago.”