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The traffic in and out of the parking lot is backed up beyond view. But no one, on this steamy July evening at a suburban Quebec City shopping centre, is here for the sales at La Baie or Sears. Even the most radical end-of-season markdowns are no match for the blue-and-yellow big top nearby. The Cirque has come to town. And not just any town.

The Cirque du Soleil had its coming-out here in 1984, an ad hoc array of street performers banding together to put on a show. That was 70 million spectators ago. Now the slick entertainment machine whose trunks bear stamps from Vegas to Shanghai has come home with Kooza, the newest of its ever-expanding stable of thrill-a-second shows. From the fancy porta-potties with running water to the mesmerizingly staged acrobatics, backed up by a live orchestra and original score, this is blockbuster theatre, without a carny in sight. You can't blame the hometown crowd for being easily won over.

Still, Kooza may or may not live up to its billing as an exploration of "fear, identity recognition and power." For Canada's biggest cultural export, a somersault is never just a somersault—it must mean something. In Kooza, now half-way through a two-month run in Toronto, the flip might represent "the duality between good and bad." In Quidam, the 11-year-old touring show that just made history by playing in China—the acrobatic equivalent of fruitfully carrying coal to Newcastle—it might connote the "nameless person who lives lost amidst the crowd in an all-too anonymous society." Indeed, there is no concept too lofty for the Cirque. Not even this one: Best. Canadian company. Ever.

It hardly matters that few critics buy into the Cirque's New Age philosophizing. Nor, apparently, does it matter if audiences do, as long as they continue to fork out for a ticket. And do they ever. The best seats for Kooza—which is just a tent show, after all—go for $225. And yet, the Cirque has twice extended Kooza's current Toronto run, most recently to Oct. 7.

How does the Cirque do it? "Part of the greater success of the Cirque is its being able to identify trends and creative elements that the world wants but that it just doesn't know it wants because it hasn't seen them yet. It's almost mystical," says Brad Wavra, senior vice-president of touring at Live Nation, the Los Angeles-based concert promoter that is the Cirque's partner on Delirium, the troupe's first arena production.

The big risk, of course, is that the world eventually gets bored with the Cirque's particular brand of spectacle. There are already lots of Cirque-haters, who think it's pretentious and overhyped. Undaunted, the Cirque has ratcheted up its rate of production, launching a couple of new shows every year. In addition to the eight that are currently touring and the six staged at permanent venues in Las Vegas and Orlando, two more Vegas shows are in the works. And the Cirque's touring shows are moving into ever-smaller markets—Saltimbanco just played in St. John's, a market the troupe has never visited before. Within the next couple of years, the Cirque will sink roots in Macao, New York, Tokyo and Dubai. And it is insinuating itself ever more deeply into the collective consciousness by showing up in unexpected places—such as its unorthodox cameo in this past summer's bawdy Hollywood hit Knocked Up.

It's no wonder the Cirque has become a favourite of business school professors around the world, who use it to teach about managing exponential growth, innovation, globalization and error avoidance. Robert David, a professor of business strategy at McGill University's Desautels Faculty of Management, wrote a case study on the Cirque in 2004 whose title asked "Can It Burn Brighter?" David worried that the Cirque might overextend itself, diluting its brand value. But that was before the company came up with the idea of adapting tried-and-true content that comes with a base of diehard fans, as it did with the Beatles-themed Love that opened in Vegas last year. Next up in this vein are permanent and touring productions based on Elvis Presley songs, which will premiere in 2009. Like Disney, the Cirque has proven adept at delivering old content in imaginative new ways. "They have done a great job of not falling into the trap I laid out in the case study," David concludes. "They managed to continue the excitement by teaming up with these partners."

Founder Guy Laliberté, 48, who owns 90% of the privately held Cirque's shares and refers to himself simply as its "guide," is worth $1.5 billion (U.S.). (Fame means he no longer has to court the media, so he gives few interviews these days.) That's not a bad pile for a self-described "little frog from Montreal" who never graduated from high school and once lived on the streets in Europe (he still bums his cigarettes off employees). In 23 years, he has managed to build what is arguably Canada's most recognized global brand and its most disciplined and risk-averse multinational. And he's done it without sacrificing creativity. Rather, he has made every unit of the business—from accounting and human resources to R&D and IT—a slave to artistic prerogative. What might seem like an extravagance to the pencil-pushers at any other entertainment company speaks to the essence of the Cirque's culture. How does the company have the 20,000-plus costumes it uses each year sewed? By hand. In house. In Montreal. "When you walk into that head office in Montreal, you feel it—you feel that cultivation of creativity like no place else in the world. And I've been all over the world," insists Live Nation's Wavra. "They will not rest until they get it right."

By now, no one can argue that the Cirque's success is an accident, a one-act wonder sustained by brilliant marketing. Lofty goals or good publicists by themselves can't juggle 14 touring and permanent shows, a workforce of 3,800 (including about 1,000 performers representing 40 nationalities) and the expectation that each new show will top the last. It takes a certain Québécois je ne sais quoi to evolve from a ragtag bunch of street performers to a highly structured organization without losing the original spirit. It also takes smart management. What goes on behind the scenes at the Cirque's inspiringly laid-back Montreal headquarters, built on an abandoned quarry and dump, is often more jaw-dropping than the acrobatics you see on stage. "The Cirque is known for its world-class creativity. But its backroom is also world-class," says former Alcan CEO Jacques Bougie, a member of Laliberté's inner circle of advisers. "With the Canadian dollar as high as it is, the Cirque faces the same constraints as any exporter. But it envisaged well in advance how to manage its costs in an exemplary fashion." Rumours say the company is wildly profitable; Bougie laughs at the suggestion that they're wrong. "The Cirque wouldn't be giving away 1% of its revenues [to social causes] every year if it was in the red."

The high dollar is just one of the countless forks in the road that the Cirque has negotiated to reach its current heights, which, expressed as projected revenue for the year, stand at more than $700 million (U.S.). Laliberté figured out early on that, if he was to come close to realizing his colossal creative ambitions, he could not do it alone. For the first 15 years of the Cirque's existence, Laliberté could count on the guidance and financial acumen of his alter ego, Daniel Gauthier. The two were 50-50 partners in the Cirque until 1999, when Gauthier told his boyhood pal he wanted out. The breakup was traumatic for both men, not to mention the entire Cirque family. "We lived in symbiosis, without even needing to speak to understand each other," Gauthier said at the time. Laliberté has admitted to having "bawled" when the partnership was finally dissolved in early 2001.

Gauthier's desire to move on didn't just create a management void, it presented Laliberté with the dicey task of raising a mountain of cash to buy out his partner. The Cirque was already a striking success by then, with two permanent Vegas shows, but its staying power had yet to be established. It is unlikely Laliberté, protective of the Cirque's independence, seriously considered taking his creation public or selling a stake to an outside investor. Yet those would have been the easiest ways to come up with the reported $483 million he needed to buy Gauthier's shares. In the end, a syndicate of banks came through. Only Laliberté and his bankers know how much he still owes or how much (if any) of his current 90% stake is pledged as collateral. At any rate, the bankers need not worry: The Cirque's market value has increased by at least 50% since the loan was made. Judging by Forbes's estimate of Laliberté's fortune, the Cirque is worth $1.7 billion (U.S.).

Gauthier's departure also marked the beginning of a transformation of the Cirque's structure from a loose one, not big on job titles, to a more traditional corporate ladder. In late 2000, Laliberté hired Daniel Lamarre, until then head of TVA, Quebec's leading television network, as president and chief operating officer (he became CEO last year after Laliberté ceded that title).

Initially, Lamarre's mandate was to expand the Cirque's ambit to include the development of Cirque-themed hotels and entertainment complexes, starting with projects in London and Montreal. But when those projects foundered, Lamarre's role evolved into that of a traditional head of operations. He's assisted by the six senior vice-presidents on the Cirque's executive committee, which includes company veterans Robert Blain (who took over as chief financial officer after Gauthier left) and Gilles Ste-Croix, a onetime commune-dwelling hippie and acrobat in the original troupe who now oversees all of the Cirque's creative content. "Gilles is probably the only person in the organization who knows Guy's tastes well enough to replace him [in meetings]," says Lamarre.

In the past couple of years, a trio of seasoned entertainment industry bigwigs have also signed on, each with executive producer status, mimicking a corporate structure used by Hollywood movie studios. Former Telefilm Canada executive director François Macerola is producing the Cirque's upcoming permanent show at Disney Tokyo, slated to open next year, as well as the Elvis-themed projects. Aldo Giampaolo moved from the president's job at Montreal concert promoter Gillett Entertainment Group to head up the Cirque's arena-show division. And Charles Joron, a founder of the Montreal International Jazz Festival, joined the Cirque last year to handle its permanent show in Macao, the former Portuguese colony on the Chinese coast that recently surpassed Vegas as the world's biggest gambling centre.

As an incentive to stay with the Cirque, Laliberté has so far ceded 10% of the Cirque's equity to top executives, starting with Lamarre. The shares vest over a 10-year period. "The Cirque has changed," notes Louis Hébert, a professor at business school HEC Montréal. "They've really professionalized the management."

Laliberté's appearances at the Montreal head office have become an increasingly rare event, but his spiritual presence remains pervasive. All major decisions still begin and end with him. Without a traditional board of directors, though, Laliberté realized years ago that he was lacking a group of independent peers to act as a sounding board. So in 2001, he assembled four of Quebec's top business minds to form an advisory board. Its membership has been a fiercely guarded secret—prior to this article, the Cirque has never acknowledged its existence. But Lamarre confirmed that the "committee of wise men" is made up of Power Corp. of Canada president and co-CEO André Desmarais, Bombardier executive vice-president and heir Pierre Beaudoin, former Alcan CEO Bougie and Serge Saucier, chairman of Montreal-based management consultants Raymond Chabot Grant Thornton. Directors, of course, are legally answerable for their actions, which tends to lead to circumspection and caution. But advisers can speak their minds freely. "With a traditional board of directors, senior management talks 90% of the time and listens the other 10%. But Guy has nothing to sell to our wise men. So he and senior management listen 90% of the time," says Lamarre.

"Far be it from us to interfere with the creative aspects of the Cirque," explains Bougie, the only one of the four who agreed to be interviewed. "But over the years, for instance, we've given advice on branding, on strategic priorities and whether or not to undertake certain projects." Adds Lamarre: "Our decision to go to Macao was heavily influenced by the advisory board. André opened a lot of doors for us in China. The wise men have also helped us avoid making a big mistake."

At the Cirque, "big mistake" is code for a $1.2-billion Cirque-themed casino and hotel complex that government-owned Loto-Québec was forced to abandon in 2006 after Laliberté pulled out. It was a heartbreaking decision for Laliberté. He has longed to enhance the Cirque's presence in its current hometown with a project in the city's core worthy of Montreal's glam reputation. (The Cirque's no-logo headquarters is in the city's low-income northeast end, in a neighbourhood tourists never see.) Already, in 2002, the Cirque had dropped plans for a $100-million hotel-spa in Montreal, citing the post-9/11 drop in tourism. The Loto-Québec project was on a much bigger scale and, although the complex's 2,500-seat theatre would not house a permanent Cirque show (the Montreal market being too small for that), everything in the development—from the card tables to the menus and hotel rooms—was to evoke Laliberté's company of acrobats and clowns. The Cirque's involvement carried no financial risk, since its investment would have been nil. For Laliberté, the risk was purely reputational.

The Loto-Québec casino, intended to replace its existing cramped complex on the site of Expo 67, was to be the centrepiece of a redevelopment of a decrepit strip of waterfront property that had been neglected for decades. But anti-poverty activists immediately rose up against the project. They feared the casino's proximity to the low-income neighbourhood of Point St. Charles would fuel gambling addictions among the poor. The project became a hot potato for the government of Premier Jean Charest, which was caught between the business community's vociferous support for badly needed development and well-organized protest by community groups. To buy time, the province ordered a report on the social costs of the development. But it was Laliberté who nixed the project by withdrawing the Cirque's participation in March, 2006.

While it is tempting to see the Loto-Québec fiasco as a rare reversal of fortune for the Cirque, McGill's David insists that it actually underscores the organization's strengths. Rather than agonizing for months and risk being hauled more deeply into a political debate that could have damaged the Cirque's brand value, Laliberté showed his decisiveness. He did it again a few months later in Miami Beach, where, in similar political circumstances, he pulled a Cirque proposal to redevelop the famed Jackie Gleason Theater. "Sometimes the best decision is not to go ahead. And the Cirque seems able to do that," says David. "It really takes great skill not to fall into the trap of escalating commitment."

The abandoned projects also highlight another, seemingly counterintuitive aspect of the Cirque's management—its conservatism. The company never takes on excessive risk. Yet that hasn't stopped it from realizing ever-more ambitious projects. "Part of the Cirque's genius is getting other people to put up the money," explains David. For Delirium, the Cirque's first attempt at a live-arena show, it faced the task of persuading Live Nation to put up half the funds to produce the show, something the concert promoter typically never does. Lamarre recalls his first encounter with Live Nation's Canadian-born CEO, Michael Rapino. "I said, 'Michael, we want to do the biggest arena show ever, with more equipment than either the Stones or U2. Do you want the meeting to continue?'"

Of course, he did. And the payoff was worth the risk. In 2006 alone, according to Billboard, Delirium was the 10th-highest-grossing U.S. concert act, with a bottom line of $70 million (U.S.), an impressive feat during a highly competitive year that included tours by the Rolling Stones, Madonna and Bon Jovi—all of which had the economics of vastly larger venues going for them. Delirium is embarking in September on an 87-show European tour after 265 performances in North America. Other eager partners include Walt Disney Co., in Orlando and Tokyo, and Las Vegas Sands Corp., which is counting on a Cirque show at its new Venetian Macao casino to be a major draw for Asians and Westerners alike.

No partner has staked as much of its future on the Cirque, however, as MGM Mirage Inc. It has hundreds of millions of dollars tied up in the five Cirque shows currently running at its Las Vegas hotels. And it has committed at least $300 million (U.S.) more to build theatres—to Cirque specifications—to house the Elvis show as well as another that will launch next year at the Luxor hotel featuring Mindfreak magician Criss Angel. The Elvis theatre alone, at MGM's massive CityCenter project, will cost $217 million (U.S.). And this after MGM spent $135 million (U.S.) to build the theatre—complete with two tilting and rotating stages—for KÀ, the Cirque show created by acclaimed Quebec director Robert Lepage.

Typically, the Cirque and MGM Mirage split the costs of developing each show, even though the Cirque retains full creative control. The two companies also take an even split on box-office receipts. This requires a lot of counting. Mystère, the Cirque's first Vegas show at the Treasure Island resort, is in its 15th year; O, the Cirque's only aquatic production, is in its 10th. As a group, the Vegas shows continue to fill more than 90% of the 8,000 available seats, drawing about 72,000 spectators each week, with ticket prices starting at around $100 (U.S.). Even diehard gamblers now take in a Cirque show. And many non-gamblers flock to Vegas just to see the Cirque, or Quebec's other big-name cultural export, Céline Dion.

It was Steve Wynn, as the chairman of Mirage Resorts, who first brought a Cirque tent show, Nouvelle Expérience, to Vegas in 1991 after seeing it in Chicago with his second-in-command, Bobby Baldwin. "Even before that show opened, we made the deal to build Treasure Island and put in Mystère," says Baldwin, who became CEO of Mirage Resorts after Wynn merged the company with MGM Grand Inc. in 2000. "It was a huge financial risk. But we just had a lot of confidence in Guy." Baldwin adds: "Guy hires very intelligent people. They're very creative and highly disciplined. We've never had a dispute over money or the books. We've never had a show open late."

Laliberté, of course, leaves the books mostly to others. Apart from his unrivalled creative vision, his strength is people. A more consummate networker would be hard to find. While his colleagues slaved to put up the tent for their first Los Angeles performance in 1987, Laliberté, the story goes, was nowhere to be found. Mutiny was on the minds of many. But that all changed on opening night. In the days and nights—especially the nights—leading up to the opening, their absentee leader had been out talking up his show with the beautiful people in L.A.'s restaurants and nightclubs. He succeeded in generating the buzz that made the then virtually unknown Cirque the must-see act of the 1987 Los Angeles Festival.

For years, Laliberté's private parties during the weekend of the Montreal Grand Prix Formula One race attracted international celebrities. (Starting this year, the party, which is now open to paying guests, switched to Mont-Tremblant after the Cirque became a partner in the resort's rival Champ Car race.) The idea for Love was born at the 2000 party on the grounds of Laliberté's majestic estate in St-Bruno, south of Montreal. One of the guests to Laliberté's "magical garden" was George Harrison. "He was supposed to come only for 30 minutes, say hello, pay a polite visit to us. In the end, he stayed all night. He jammed with the musicians there," Laliberté recalled this year on Larry King Live.

Laliberté's unique ability to transmit his vision, energy and drive to others makes him an exceptional leader. Accordingly, the Cirque receives tens of thousands of unsolicited resumés each year—and not just from athletes, performers and creative types. Among Montreal business-school graduates, according to HEC Montréal, a job at the Cirque is more coveted than one at any other big-name employer in the city, including Bombardier, Alcan or BCE. It's not that surprising: In a poll commissioned for this year's Fête Nationale celebrations, 32% of Quebeckers said they considered the Cirque their province's greatest international success story, well ahead of rivals Céline Dion (24%) and Bombardier (11%).

Laliberté is fiercely jealous of the Cirque's Québécois identity. Whether in Vegas, Toronto or Shanghai, every Cirque show begins with: "Mesdames et Messieurs, bonsoir. Bienvenue au Cirque du Soleil." "Guy is uncompromising about that," says Lamarre. "The Cirque exists because the government of Quebec, and Quebeckers, have been generous to it."

The Cirque may never have gotten off the ground had it not been for René Lévesque. After seeing the troupe perform in Quebec City in 1984, the Parti Québécois Premier provided a $1.5-million grant so it could undertake a province-wide tour. And though today it has 800 mostly American employees in Las Vegas to manage the ongoing shows there, the Cirque's Montreal headquarters houses 1,800 workers, about 80% of them Quebeckers. (That said, Quebeckers make up only a small minority of the Cirque's performers. Olympic calibre athletes-cum-artists are a rare breed; casting scouts and trainers literally scour the planet in search of them.)

"We have a fundamental belief in the extreme creativity of Quebeckers," says Lamarre. "We're using more and more local creators all the time." Indeed, though the Cirque has attained enough international renown to attract any number of big-name theatre and film directors, it continues to draw almost exclusively on Quebec talent to create and mount its shows. In addition to Lepage's helming KÀ, Quebec theatre director Dominic Champagne directed Love; filmmaker François Girard, who directed The Red Violin and the upcoming Silk, has signed on to direct the Disney Tokyo show; and Montreal theatre director Serge Denoncourt is handling the Criss Angel show at the Luxor. The final cut on any show, however, belongs not to the director, but to Laliberté.

Mounting any Cirque show is not just a creative challenge. It's a massive technical one. As a result, the Cirque spends about $10 million a year on research and development. Its engineers and technicians have come up with ever more ingenious props, such as the swinging chandeliers that performers ride in Corteo, a touring show launched in 2005. The Cirque has even invented specialized trampolines. "Take any sector of the Cirque, creative or technical, and we're the best in the world," Lamarre boasts. "We have become the forerunners of our industry."

In an era when multinationals show allegiance to no flag, moving jobs to low-cost destinations with the stroke of a pen, the Cirque's loyalty toward its home province may appear anachronistic. It could save a bundle, for instance, simply by moving the costume workshop offshore. But for the Cirque, it's important that everyone involved in a project sees the fruits of their efforts and knows just what they're contributing to. That's why offices at the Cirque's headquarters have windows that look onto one of the three acrobatic training studios.

The audience never gets close enough to appreciate the workmanship that goes into the Cirque's painstakingly stitched wigs (one hair at a time), eccentric hats or handmade leather shoes. "It's the kind of thing a traditional corporate entity would be tempted to cut back on," notes McGill's David. "But for the Cirque, it would send the wrong signal not only to the audience but to the artist. Handcrafted costumes tell performers they're valued as artists. It's part of the corporate culture. Besides, given that they continue to be able to raise ticket prices, why cut corners?"

While artists are sometimes coddled, prima donnas are not tolerated at the Cirque. "We don't want stars, that's clear," Lamarre says. "It's the show that's the star." In this, the Cirque distinguishes itself as an "expert organization" rather than an "organization of experts," says HEC Montréal's Hébert. "The idea is that, what makes you good is not just your personal talent, but the fact that you belong to the organization. The Cirque makes you better; it adds value to you."

That's not the only reason job applications pour in. The Cirque provides some of the best working conditions in the entertainment industry. Artists don't work on a project-by-project basis; they're full-time employees with complete benefits. Salaries are benchmarked against global industry trends, rather than the lower pay scales in Montreal. From the moment an artist signs on, initially for two years, he or she is enrolled in the Cirque's Crossroads program, aimed at preparing performers for the eventual, but inevitable, career transition they'll have to make as their bodies give out. Some performers remain with the Cirque as trainers or in other capacities, but most end up leaving the company.

It's rarely easy to hang up the leotards, and disputes often arise about the timing of an artist's retirement. The Cirque suffered a black eye a few years back when a performer was allegedly fired for being HIV positive. The company ended up paying a $600,000 (U.S.) settlement. Lamarre concedes the incident was badly handled, but insists the Cirque does not discriminate—indeed, it has several HIV-positive employees. At any rate, one doesn't sense any morale problems at the Cirque's headquarters. After all, how many employers provide their workers with free access to independent tax experts and perhaps the most imaginative cafeteria food anywhere? For a business prof, the contented workforce provides a perfect illustration that generating profits is not just about cutting costs.

Just how high can the Cirque soar? Love and the upcoming Elvis show make it clear that the big top is bigger than anyone could have imagined before the Cirque came along. "We're not a circus. We're Cirque du Soleil," Lamarre says. "We're an entertainment business." What that might mean about what comes next is top secret, for now. Perhaps it's Hollywood? Could the Cirque become a rival to Disney, a company that has repeatedly tried to buy it?

We have only an inkling of the ambitions Laliberté harbours. But we do know that the "little frog from Montreal" has realized just a fraction of what he has conceptualized. The risk for the Cirque is about what happens after him.

There is no indication yet that the company has to worry about that. But the topic must surely come up in discussions between Laliberté and his "wise men." If it doesn't, it probably should. What Laliberté has created must live on, preferably with his vision intact. After all, without the Cirque, a model for corporate Canada to emulate, we'd all be a lot hollower.

GUY LALIBERTÉ: THE HIGH LIFE

• As a street performer, Laliberté's specialties were playing the accordion, juggling, stilt-walking and breathing fire.
• Today he's renowned for throwing elaborately staged, all-night parties, so much so that he's turned it into a side business. The latest, called Kaba, was held at Mont-Tremblant this summer. Tickets went for as much as $400.
• Laliberté owns a Global Express jet, which he had painted to look like a sundae dripping with hot fudge.
• Laliberté won $700,000 (U.S.) at a poker tournament in Las Vegas last April.
• He is the father of five children, ages three months to 11 years, the two youngest with currrent partner Claudia Barila, 33, a former model.
• Laliberté was named 2007 World Entrepreneur of the Year by Ernst & Young.