Review: ‘Dear San Francisco’ is more than a mind-blowing circus act

Raise a glass to “Dear San Francisco,” the high-flying circus hit celebrating its one-year anniversary at Club Fugazi, the storied North Beach venue where the venerable Beach Blanket Babylon held court for 45 years.

Shana Carroll and Gypsy Snider, co-founders of Montreal’s famed 7 Fingers troupe, frame this 90-minutes of acrobatic bliss as a valentine to the city. That celebratory vibe is irresistible, making this circus show as bubbly and exhilarating as a glass of prosecco, the perfect night out to mark special occasions like birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays.

While the piece may lack the piercing existential depth of the troupe’s recent “Passengers,” the unforgettable season opener at American Conservatory Theater, it is a funny and heartfelt tribute to the city that skips through history — from the tragedy of the 1906 earthquake to the psychedelic splendor of the summer of love to the latest tech bro invasion — with aplomb.

It helps that the show’s creators, Cirque du Soleil alums, have deep roots here. Carroll is a Berkeley native who started as a trapeze artist with the Pickle Family Circus. Snider’s parents founded that beloved Bay Area institution. Some of the shtick in the piece, like reading aloud postcards from the audience and the singalong at the finale, might seem sappy if they didn’t also feel authentic.

7 Fingers is a circus collective with a palpable sense of community that elevates each act, walking on the ceiling, juggling or swinging from the trapeze, beyond the realm of the physical. If circus arts have long been associated with the high-tech razzle-dazzle of Cirque du Soleil, this ensemble strips the art form down to its visceral core with heart-pounding results.

It’s a deeply immersive and intimate show that demands a full-throttle response. The kinetic virtuosity on display is so close you watch the muscles ripple and flex, the sweat fly. Blink and you’ll miss something that made the rest of the audience whoop.

At one point, I was so smitten with the vibe that I almost missed the hula hoop diva, Chloe Somers Walier, ever-so casually dangling a ring from her foot, right above my head. In another interlude, a Chinese yoyo, a diabolo, went zooming through the theater at warp speed.

Everything in this cabaret-style space is up close and personal, heightening the element of thrill. There’s every possibility, it seems, that a performer might tumble right off the stage and onto your lap. Enmeng Song generated many a gasp as he vaulted backwards and forwards through a rotating hoop. Carlos Francos Pere slid down a pole so hard and fast there was a collective shudder.

One of the newest acts in the show, the umbrella number, is among the most graceful. After so much euphoric athleticism, Shengnan Pan’s balletic feat, delicately balancing three pale pink parasols on her toes, feels sublime, almost meditative.

It’s a visceral reminder of how much we crave the ritual of live performance, sitting together in the dark to behold something joyful.

Even my daughter Daphne, 12, now at the age where throwing shade is the knee-jerk response to most things, clapped and squealed with abandon. So did the toddler seated at one of the onstage tables. Indeed, all generations in attendance sported the kind of radiant ear-to-ear grins that have been too long obscured by masks.

Contact Karen D’Souza at karenpdsouza@yahoo.com.