For Luke Chadwick-Jones, performance has always been a collision of fearlessness, discipline, and play. From tumbling his way through school lunch breaks in the Midlands to leading The House of Dancing Water in Macau, his career spans two decades of stunt work, physical theatre, circus, and the kind of mega-show storytelling that demands both precision and chaos tolerance.
In our conversation, Luke talks about the path from gymnast to actor, why Lecoq’s “outside-in” approach unlocked something essential in his craft, and what it really takes to stay present in a show where water, machinery, and timing all have minds of their own. He opens up about creation periods, performing through unpredictability, and the simple truth that mesmerising performers aren’t the most perfect ones—they’re the most aware, specific, and willing to play.
We also explore how performers can build sustainable careers, how curiosity becomes a compass, and why, even in an AI-saturated world, nothing replaces the electricity of a real human doing something extraordinary onstage.
This is just a preview of our conversation with Luke Chadwick-Jones. The full episode drops next week—don’t miss it.
How did your journey from gymnastics and trampolining lead you into physical theatre and Lecoq-based work?
Luke Chadwick-Jones:
I grew up in the Midlands in England with about 40 lads who were basically trying to stay out of trouble. Before gymnastics was “cool,” we were skipping lunch to train on trampolines, performing with the Kangaroos Gymnastics Display Team, and travelling to do arena shows. As part of the deal with school, if we competed as trampolinists, we were allowed time off to perform – that’s how it became part of my daily rhythm. Gymnastics turned into a kind of meditation for me: being grounded and airborne at the same time.
Later, I discovered theatre through James Sutherland, who ran a Lecoq-based course. The way he spoke about storytelling blew my mind. Lecoq’s approach – working from the outside in, letting the body lead the emotion – made sense to me as an ex-acrobat. It showed me how circus, stunt work and theatre could merge into one physical language of storytelling.
In your view, what makes a performer truly mesmerizing on stage?
Luke Chadwick-Jones:
For me, it comes down to convincing versus unconvincing performance. The performers I can’t look away from have three big things: specificity, awareness and play. They have full-body awareness – nothing is accidental – and every gesture, pause, or look is specific and readable to the audience.
At the same time, their inner child is alive. They’re playing inside the moment, which keeps the performance present and responsive. When something goes “wrong” – a lift stops, a cue is late – they don’t freeze, they play with it. That’s where theatre lives: in the unplanned moments. Training just fills your tool belt so that when those moments arrive, you have options. Clowns are masters of this. Ultimately, mesmerising performers are specific in their craft, deeply aware of the stage picture, and fearless about joy and play, even when they’re playing very dark characters.
How do you stay present inside a huge, technical mega-show like The House of Dancing Water, especially during creation and staging?
Luke Chadwick-Jones:
Being part of the remount meant living through a very intense creation process. We were re-blocking material from the rehearsal room onto a wildly complex stage: lifts, winches, boats, pagodas, water, smoke, timecode, multiple departments all negotiating timing and safety while still trying to tell a clear story. We’d run scenes for 10–12 hours a day, over weeks, until the rhythm finally clicked.
What keeps me present is a mix of familiarity and alertness. Over time, you develop a kind of “musical ear” and visual memory for the show: where the boat should be, how deep the pagoda normally sits, when a bump means a lift has stopped, when a cue is late. I’m constantly sensing, “Something’s off here,” and adjusting or warning partners. At the same time, I know I can’t see everything. In a beast like this, you have to trust the operators, automation, aquatics, stage management – the whole village around you. When something fails, that’s when the training kicks in. Those are the moments I secretly love: “Okay, now we really have to do our job.”
What’s your advice for building a sustainable career as an onstage performer?
Luke Chadwick-Jones:
First: follow your curiosities. Buying a camera, making a short film, joining an improv class – these small impulses often lead to the next connection, the next company, the next contract. Your curiosities are your inner compass, pointing you toward the kind of stories you’re meant to tell.
Second: rethink “time off.” When I’m on a contract, that’s time on for the show. When a contract ends, that’s time on for my craft and my life: training, going to the gym, taking class, writing, visiting museums, seeing family, making small self-produced projects. That’s where your network grows – in the classes, the jams, the low-budget shows where someone notices your energy and brings you into the next thing.
I also believe we never “arrive.” We stay practitioners, students of the craft, our whole lives. Keep practicing, even when you’re not being paid. Some projects won’t pay much, but they’ll introduce you to people who open the next door. If you bring joy, play and commitment into the room, people remember that and want to work with you again.
How do you see changing culture, technology and AI affecting the future of live performance?
Luke Chadwick-Jones:
Technology is moving so fast that you almost have to run just to stand still. If we park the politics and budget cuts for a moment, I don’t see tech or AI as the enemy. I see an invitation: we have to reshape attention and invent new ways to draw people in.
Immersive theatre is a great example – companies that take your phone away at the door and drop you into a world where you feel like you’re inside the movie or the story. I think we’ll need more of that courage: using ancient tools (story around the fire, bodies in space) in new forms, and sometimes risking being provocative enough that people want to put their phones down.
At the same time, no matter how good the hologram gets, audiences will still crave the real. You don’t want to watch a hologram do a 25-meter high dive – you want to feel a real human being risking something. Circus, stunt, live performance: they’re about witnessing real people do extraordinary things. Tech will give us wild new possibilities, but we’ll still need humans, craft, and authenticity at the centre.