A memoir by the critically acclaimed actor Cliff Simon.

Paris Nights, the memoir of a South African soldier turned performer in the world’s most famous cabaret, delivers in a hugely entertaining way.

Little did Cliff Simon know that a single phone call and a one-way ticket to Paris would ultimately change his life forever.

Now the acclaimed television and film actor shares his journey from Johannesburg to the Moulin Rouge to Hollywood in his debut memoir, Paris Nights: My Year at the Moulin Rouge.

From a young age Cliff Simon knew he was headed towards big places. Having grown up as both a skilled gymnast and a competitive swimmer, performance was in his blood. But with the onset of Apartheid and the looming threat of war, he and his Jewish family soon retreated from Johannesburg, South Africa to the London countryside. Before he knew it, he joined the British swim team and was near Olympics-bound with a full-ride offer to a United States university.

But something wasn’t quite right. Instead, Cliff returned home and enlisted in the South African Air Force. Cliff’s habit of impulsive risk-taking would continue but ultimately pave the foundation for an experience most of us would only dream of. After he was honorably discharged, twenty-seven-year-old Cliff worked a series of odd jobs at a resort near the Indian Ocean until he received a phone call from an old friend inviting him to join him at the iconic Moulin Rouge.

Here begins the story of Cliff’s meteoric rise at the Moulin from swing dancer to principal in the glamour filled show, Formidable; his offstage encounters with street thugs and diamond smugglers; and the long nights filled with after parties and his pick of gorgeous women. Encounter the magic, the mayhem, and the glory that was and still is the Moulin Rouge.

EXCERPT

At dawn, I took the Métro back from Sophia’s hotel to my apartment on Rue de la Victoire. The night before, somebody had taken my spot in the courtyard, so I left my car on the street. I fell into bed exhausted from a night of lovemaking and slept fitfully. When I got up at about noon, I took a quick shower, made myself a cup of coffee, and then opened the heavy doors of the courtyard out on to Rue de la Victoire. My car was parked where I had left it the previous evening, but there was a bouquet of dead red roses tucked under the windshield wipers. I had seen enough murder mysteries and read enough spy thrillers to know that this was bad. Chantal or one of her goons had followed me back to my apartment from Sophia’s hotel, and now they knew where I lived.

I ran back upstairs to look for a weapon. I got a kitchen knife and stuck it inside one of the leather boots I was wearing, and I put a stick inside my jacket sleeve. I thought about taking my car to the Moulin, but I decided I’d rather walk. Someone might have put a pipe bomb underneath my car. My imagination was getting the better of me, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I had seen worse things than that in South Africa—ANC vigilantes setting fire to cars, kidnapping whites from their houses, planting bombs in trash cans.
It was eight o’clock in the evening. I found Monsieur Thierry, who was talking to one of the chorus boys. I needed to speak with him immediately. I told him about the fight with Chantal, and finding the dead flowers on my car. He winced, “Les Fleurs du Mal.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Flowers of Evil. It’s a poem by Baudelaire. Read it someday.”

I was in no mood for a lesson in French literature. “I need to speak with Monsieur Clerico. Can you arrange it? This is serious.”

Thierry gave me his standard response. “Monsieur Clerico doesn’t make appointments with the cast. He leaves these matters up to Doris, Ruggero and me.”

I asked him, “You want to mess with the Mob? I think they are somehow involved in this.”

“All right. Come by tomorrow before the show. I’ll talk to Monsieur Clerico. Maybe he’ll see you.”

For the first time since I had been in Paris, I felt nervous that something might happen to me. I had a feeling that I might need protection on the street, and who better to give it to me than Monsieur Clerico.

REVIEW

I will admit that I knew nothing about Cliff Simon when I picked up this book, but I quite enjoy memoirs, and I’d never read about a dancer from the Moulin Rouge before. I didn’t actually look him up until after I’d finished the book, and now I realize I’d seen him in a couple of Stargate eps. Very cool, and I’d had no idea he’d been a dancer.

His time in Paris was somewhat predictable in that he slept and partied his way through his year of dancing, but somehow I would expect no less from someone with such energy and need to be doing things. As for the Moulin Rouge itself, seeing behind the curtain and learning about the organization and backstage secrets was fascinating. I think it’d be very cool to be able to truly go backstage and see how it all works. Mr. Simon’s book is a great teaser and taste of what the dance hall must be like. I’d be curious to see how it has changed since the 80s, and how it has stayed the same.

Though I picked up the book because of the Moulin Rouge reference, I was more intrigued by Cliff’s tellings of his younger life, in pre-apartheid South Africa. Though he could have blunted or softened his earlier (perhaps more naive) views, he approached the issues with honesty, acknowledging the difference between views then and now. It’s refreshing, and shows the depth of his thoughts, and his voice is very specific and unique.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

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