I love magic, but not magicians
Magic is in the air. This month, two highly anticipated movies about magical men move into the multiplex (alliteration!). “Dr. Strange” and “Fantastical Beasts and Where to Find Them” will loom large over the silver screen this November. I’m pretty excited to see both of them.
Pop quiz: Which of these names isn’t made up? A. Newt Scamander. B. Kaecilius. C. Chiwetel Ejiofor. D. None of the above. Yes. I realize they all look like I slammed my hands into my keyboard, but one of them is a real person. The correct answer is: Benedict Cumberbatch.
But I digress, like I do. I love magic. Growing up, my favorite shows had witches and genies in them. I loved it every time one of these magic makers outsmarted Dr. Bellows, Gladys Kravitz or Larry Tate’s favorite new client.
Let me clarify something. I love magic, but not magicians. Actual magicians are infuriating. It turns out I don’t like being the one who gets outsmarted. I don’t want to be Dr. Bellows! I don’t want to be mumbling, “He’s done it to me again.” I don’t want to be the one running across the street with an empty measuring cup, yelling “Abner! Abner!”
Basically, a magician’s job is to deceive the audience. They make us say, “How’d he do that?”
I want to know the trick. I would not go to a movie where the mystery remains unsolved. If someone dies in the first act, I want to know who did it before I walk out of that theater. Was it Mrs. Peacock with the candlestick? Was it Professor Plum with a horseshoe? I have to know.
I realize it would be boring if magicians revealed their secrets to the audience, but they could tell me. I won’t tell anyone. I happen to be friends with a magician, and he won’t share any of his secrets with me. He won’t even let me wear his top hat (I think it’s where his bunny lives).
Recently, a group of very talented illusionists came to Pittsburgh. I spent most of the evening watching in disbelief and getting really irritated about it.
One magician just grossed me out. Dan Sperry is a goth/punk rocker magician. He’s got luminescent white makeup, copious tattoos and a bunch of piercings. That’s not even the scary part. His magic involves self-mutilation, or, rather, “alleged” self-mutilation. He pierces his skin with wire, spits razors blades and does all sorts of atrocious things to his body (maybe). I watched most of his act from between the fingers over my eyes.
If you were at that show and thought, “Is someone gagging in the balcony?” that would have been me.
I never found out how the self-proclaimed Masters of Illusions did any of their illusions, but they did do them masterfully. I just had to sit back and be tricked. Clearly, it was a great show. I’m still talking about it months later.
By the way, if you guessed C in my pop quiz, you earned five points for Griffyndor. The right answer was, indeed, Chiwetel Ejiofor.
P.S. It’s always C.