Theatre Review

On Thursday, I had the great misfortune to attend one of the most horrifically irresponsible attempts at children’s entertainment I have ever seen in a long career of reviewing the arts.

“Big Chunky Bubbles” (real name, Petey Amin), an American bubble artist— and please know I use the word “artist” solely as an occupational descriptor and not as a term of respect— spent a good 5-7 minutes of the beginning of his “performance” telling the children to be quiet and pay attention, using broken French and German. When they would not respond in a manner he deemed timely, Mr. Bubbles turned his back to his audience of 6-year-olds and pouted, “Now you get the Miles Davis treatment.” He then presumably made some bubbles from a hot tureen of New England Clam Chowder. I say presumably as I only caught the merest glimpse of steaming orbs rising just above Mr. Bubble’s head before they popped and sprayed him with scalding soup, causing him to swear in a fashion not unlike that of a cartoon dog.

This foul language served as the high point of Mr. Bubbles’ “set.” Hearing the laughter of the children, the gentleman turned around to face his audience, grumbling, “Oh look who’s paying attention now.” He then told the children they should feel very grateful to be seeing what was to come next, a special treat just for the children of Montreal, even though they “don’t deserve any special treats after their rude and immature attitudes.”

At this point Mr. Bubbles’ removed the cover from a saucepan, a great cloud of steam rising up from its contents and momentarily blinding him. More cartoon cursing briefly ensued. When he regained what passed for his composure, Mr. Bubbles announced he would now, for the first time, make bubbles from poutine gravy. When the children, rightfully, seemed underwhelmed, Mr. Bubbles lectured them on the laborious process of extracting the cheese curds from the gravy to achieve the purest bubble, and how he wasn’t even able to eat the french fries because of doctor’s orders, “so that’s THAT food wasted.”

Mr. Bubbles then, to his credit, proceeded to create one impossibly perfect, and somewhat chunky, poutine bubble. It glistened, large and opaque in the sunlight streaming through the sitting room window, before bursting in Mr. Bubbles’ eyes, causing him to scream and kick over the large pot of steaming gravy. It rolled like an ocean of lava at the children, who ran screaming from the oncoming tide of scalding meat leavings. Two children were burned badly enough on the soles of their feet that a trip to the hospital was considered but thankfully deemed unnecessary. I gathered up my things and left, overhearing, on my way out, the beginnings of what I have no doubt ended up being a protracted argument about payment.

It is this reviewer’s opinion that Mr. Bubbles leave the entertainment industry and find an occupation more suited to his talents and temperament, such as murder victim.

- Guy LaChance, Montreal Arts-Curd