by Steve Spill
OUT OF AFRICA
I never had my thirty-second birthday. When you cross the international dateline you lose a day. My birthday is January third. I left for South Africa on the second, 1987, and I landed on the fourth. I never turned thirty-two. I had been there for six months, appearing in Spellbound, the aforementioned magic and illusion revue show, where I was the token comedy magician.
The venue was The Wild Coast Sun, which was not unlike an American casino located on an Indian Reservation. Sun International’s newest resort was located in the Transkei, a vast Tribal Homeland now known as the South African province of KwaZulu-Natal. Tropical heat, white sand, green mountains, rocks, miles of blue water, palm trees, and dozens of different independent native tribes were hidden in the nooks and crannies of the vast thick jungle.
Performing in exotic locations is not unusual for magicians and many consider the opportunity for travel a perk. Others travel all over the world and see nothing more than a hotel room and a stage. The show was dark each Sunday and resumed Tuesday evenings, two and a half days each week to explore the mysterious, creeping, crawling, slithering, steaming, surrounding jungle. Discovering this new part of the world helped me discover a new part of myself.
Equipped with a tent, sleeping bags, food, and a South African showgirl as my brave guide, the two of us drove on wet dirt roads and thoroughfares into unknown rugged terrain. Waterfalls and rivers cut through the landscape of big green mountains. A couple hours in, we came to an unkempt horseshoe turn, overlooking a beautiful valley and a sparkling river. We turned onto a downward trail, and at the base of that big green mountain, the car got stuck in what turned out to be a foot of mud. There was no one within sight for as far as the eye could see, and this was before cell phones existed so there was no way to call for help.
Before we could even get out of the car, out of nowhere, at least seventy jungle natives appeared. They were elders to kids, an entire village that instantly turned out to see whoever we were. A few were wrapped in shreds of animal skin, others were attired in t-shirts and jeans, some wore small gourds on their genitals or were in loincloths, one guy with dreadlocks had no shoes or shirt and was wearing a black suit with the sleeves pushed up, several wore only the wind, and one wore a cowboy hat.
Not a single one of them looked happy to see us; they all had the same expressionless faces. Maybe we were trespassing on their territory, who knew? Instantly about twenty tribal members surrounded our car, and I suddenly felt convinced that we were going to be killed. But they were not barbarians. The two of us were in a daze looking out the windows, wondering what would happen next. A few seconds later, with their bare hands the jungle crew lifted our car up and out of the muck. We got out of the vehicle with big smiles on our faces, and thanked them profusely. Although many spoke or understood English, others communicated in a dialect exclusive to their tribe.
I picked up a few stones and changed them into small coins with sleight of hand. It seemed like the natives thought it was real magic, but how they could reconcile that thought with the fact that I had no power over a car stuck in mud, I’ll never know. The well-spoken English-speaking witchdoctor wasn’t exactly fooled by my coin trick, but was happy for me to give him a quick instruction and said it was a clever secret. As a gift, I offered a scholarly little book I had in the car, Maskelyne on the Performance of Magic. He replied, “To what purpose? You can read the moon, the heavens, the deepest jungle, the sun, and the rains. Enough is written there, more than in any book.”
The witchdoctor took us down and around a dirt trail to the tribe’s hidden valley village. At first it seemed to be a bit of a frightening journey, but also alluring. Their homeland, not on our map, was an oasis in the middle of nowhere. A cluster of perhaps a couple dozen round structures were made of stones and clay with thatched roofs, some made of branches and animal skins, others were woven structures that resembled massive inverted baskets—all surrounded by farm land, cattle, chickens, and goats. We saw women and even kids carrying their body weight in firewood on their heads, working crops with primitive-looking tools.
There was a generator—they had some electricity, but when we went to this village, we still went back in time. At nightfall, with a purple liquid gulped from coconut shells, we washed down chunks of a cow or a goat, not sure which, that had been buried in the hot coals of a fire. We shared the ham, cheese, bread, applesauce, peanut butter, and dates we’d brought with us, which were savored as delicacies by the witchdoctor, the chief, and three of his wives.
Next it was jungle boogie time. Pounding drums of every size and shape, a wooden bar xylophone, cymbals, gongs, and everybody danced and danced and danced. We camped on their grounds and stayed the entire next day and night and it was a fascinating experience living with the tribe. I was persuaded to join in a spear-throwing game. They had a gourd, which they rolled on the ground, and threw spears at it as it went. I tried it and failed miserably, but eventually got the hang of it and put the spear right through the middle of the gourd.
We established an easy relationship with the tribe and that night we sat around the fire telling stories; some were interpreted into English for us, and some of what we said was translated into their language for others. We learned they’d had the option to settle in a village associated with modern society, but elected to live in relative isolation. So it was surprising, when I announced we’d be leaving early the next morning, to learn that, in spite of that decision and their appearance, they had a considerable amount of money.
One elderly tribesman, who wore overalls and sunglasses, offered the equivalent of fifty dollars in cash to take him with us. Of course we gave him a lift for nothing. At dawn the next day, we were back on the road, with the old man, but not before I promised the tribe we’d be back to do a little magic show for our saviors. I knew my witchdoctor-themed Voodoo Doll trick was tailor-made for this audience. When I had developed it for use in comedy clubs, it never occurred to me I might actually perform it in the presence of a real African witchdoctor.
After about an hour on the road, our senior tribesman told us the witchdoctor had inherited his title from his father, the former tribe witchdoctor, who had passed on. He went on to tell us that the newer, younger witchdoctor “was a man of much wind and little magic.” In those distant days, apparently the father’s charms were prized. Offerings were left for him daily, and feasts were given to celebrate his most successful oracles. He was counselor, magician, mediator, and teacher to a generation.
We, of course, were immediately intrigued. “You must teach the son some great magic. Understand? Tricks. So he can demonstrate to the young ones his mighty power, and regain the prestige his father had.” The old guy clung to old memories and traditions. He seemed to believe the younger generation was going to the dogs. Recalling what the witchdoctor said about reading “the moon and the heavens” when I shared the secret to the stones to coins trick and offered the gift of my magic book, I didn’t think that I’d have any success honoring the elderly native’s request. But I promised to give it a try. Then our senior tribesman asked to get out, and we dropped him off in the middle of nowhere. Later we heard that was his first ride in a car and that it made him a little sick, but he liked it. The showgirl and I were both back onstage in Spellbound at the Wild Coast Casino, but the following week we returned to the village to present a little magic show.
The natives gathered, the men apart from the women. Mothers with infants and kids were at the back, and in front was the witchdoctor, who declared, “One witchdoctor in a tribe is enough, I think, but it is true that this man is here in fun and does not possess true powers, so let the entertainment begin.” My bits with ropes and paper and handkerchiefs went well, as did my needle swallowing. I closed the performance with my Voodoo Doll, and I made our witchdoctor the star of the routine.
I drew a simple face—essentially a big oval with two eyes, a nose, and a mouth—on a big artist’s sketchpad, and leaned the pad against a tree stum
p so the crowd could see the face. I then showed a stuffed burlap doll.
“Watch what happens when we expose one of the doll’s eyes to a flame.” The witchdoctor held the flame from a lighter under the doll’s eye, and one of the eyes on the sketchpad burst into flames. I joked, “Okay, who brought the marshmallows?”
A word about my jokes—no one laughed, not everyone understood what I was talking about even when I wasn’t joking, but out of habit I stuck to my usual script which kept the rhythm to my performance intact, and kept me from losing track of what I was doing.
I blew out the burning paper. “Now the hat pin . . .” Next the witch doctor poked the doll’s other eye with the pin, and the corresponding eye on the pad of paper dripped blood. “Well class, we’ve lost another pupil.”
“Got your nose!” I pretended to take off the doll’s nose, and the drawn nose on the pad visibly slid off the paper. When I tore the paper drawing off the pad to give to a kind audience member as a gift, the head of the doll fell off its body and onto the ground. And that was it.
The witchdoctor picked up the doll head and looked carefully at the spots that he had poked and burned, then bowed to me, and decreed the demonstration to be good and interesting, but added, “This doll couldn’t possibly cause harm or death to an enemy without the advice or charms of a true witchdoctor.”
Then he drew a circle in the dirt with his staff, and borrowed a bracelet from a young woman. She obliged after a guarantee that the trinket would be safely returned. He set down a melon beside the bracelet and covered the objects with a blanket. Some pungent herbs were burned, he beat the ceremonial tom-tom, and then the young witchdoctor went into a brief trance, chanted, and confirmed he was in contact with the sacred ancestors. Then he lifted the blanket. The bracelet had disappeared. The melon was sliced open and in the center was found intact the girl’s bracelet. Yep, another variation of the old Lemon Trick, and I was pretty sure this version wouldn’t be appearing on any instructional videos. The assemblage acclaimed him and my guess is, some prestige was restored.
The tribe was so enthralled, so bewildered, so enthusiastic, that I can’t imagine there ever being a better audience for a magic show ever. It was a most gratifying honest to goodness kumbaya experience. Ever since, I’ve always measured the quality of shows I’ve done not only on whether they were successful in terms of artistry or cash or publicity, but also by what the actual experience of doing them was like. Seldom has the memory of any other performance stayed afloat this long, and this vividly, in my recollections.
There is a movie, The Gods Must Be Crazy, in which a Coke bottle falls from an airplane and profoundly changes the lives of a native tribe. In this case, the tribe was the Coke bottle that changed me forever. I still cherish that feeling of warmth and the sound of their surging roar of enthusiasm for my performance, a sound that no other audience has. As I type these words, I am touched again by the memory. . . . I’ve learned to re-create that sound in my head and replay it whenever I need a personal standing ovation.
There were plenty of other performances for me at The Wild Coast Sun Resort & Casino, but none as rewarding as that night with the natives. Several months down the line a panicked call came from my parents. They asked if I was okay, since they read in the LA Times that a coup had occurred in the Transkei. “Really? I hadn’t heard about that.” When I asked, the casino entertainment director said, “Nobody pays much attention. Now and then, a different tribe, with a new chief, takes over the Tribal Council. They don’t hold elections, they have coups.”
PART SIX
AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR
YES I CANNES
Larry Wilson is a successful and funny stage performer and in 1986 he landed an assignment that required him to do close-up sleight of hand with cards. Magicians perform under a variety of circumstances. At the time, this area was new to Larry. So I came to the rescue and gave Larry a crash course on how to do close-up sleight of hand with cards.
Mr. Wilson had been hired to appear for twelve days on the French Riviera at the world’s most famous film festival, the Cannes Film Festival. He had been engaged to do tricks with playing cards that had been specially printed for Empire Entertainment, which at the time was a producer of low-budget exploitation films. The Empire decks had fifty-two different films depicted with movie posters, a different one on each card. Essentially, each playing card was a business card for a different movie title. The only two films in the entire deck that actually existed at that point in time were the King of Hearts and the Ace of Spades, as the movies From Beyond and Re-Animator.
The other fifty films depicted, with titles like The Last Los Angeles Virgin and Cosmic Chopper Chick Ninjas, didn’t actually exist. The idea was to use those titles and poster art to pre-sell the theater, video, broadcast, and cable rights worldwide. The Empire mantra was, “If you can’t pre-sell it for enough money, don’t make the movie.” The goal with presold films is often to make a profit before they’re even released.
The Cannes Film Festival on TV shows like Entertainment Tonight is about big stars and award-winning films. On the French Riviera it’s also about buying and selling movies. For every Universal Studios and Warner Bros there are dozens of companies like Empire. The majors get attention with movie stars, big-time directors, and awards. The little guys use other methods like direct marketing and publicity stunts, but I’m getting a little ahead of myself here.
As I mentioned, the year was 1986, and the festival started in May. In April, Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese cancelled their plans to attend, due to fears of Libyan terrorism and the unknown results of the nuclear accident in Chernobyl that had just happened. Some big American movie stars also cancelled, as did Larry Wilson.
Some stars and directors backed out, but the movie companies did not. Charles Band, president of Empire Entertainment, summed it up for many, when he said, “We’re not risking radiation and terrorism for nothing. We’re going over there to do business.”
Larry was out, and I was in. This wasn’t sloppy seconds by any means. I was thrilled to have the opportunity, and it turned out to be one of the best gigs ever. Empire wasn’t the biggest company, but I was limo’d from the airport, given cash in hand per diem for pocket money, my hotel included complete carte blanche for room service, and I was treated like a star.
Every day I was whisked to several locations where I performed card tricks on a black velvet tabletop, and pretty girls handed out free decks of Empire cards. The locations were in and around the main festival hotels—the Martinez, Carlton, Concorde, Hotel du Cap, The Croisette, the Palais (where the awards were given), the American/British/Canadian pavilions, and numerous parties, hospitality suites, and bars.
Entrance to the pavilions and participating hotels was permitted by festival badges, and at more exclusive gatherings names were checked against a guest list and given walkie-talkie clearance—those were the events where movie fans, held back by ropes, lined either side of the entrances and stared at me accusingly, their cameras poised for that photo opportunity: Who are you? Are you famous, and if not, why not?
The independent companies worked this same circuit with all kinds of schemes designed to get badge-wearing acquisition attendees to become aware of their firm’s films. T-shirts were common give-aways, and some companies relied on eight-foot bears in full costumes, a Rambo look-a-like with machine gun, topless girls, stunts, and crazy happenings to entice attendees.
I’m not sure if it’s because that year there were fewer stars, or if it was always like this, but the whole bunch of us were constantly photographed, televised, and people could never do enough for you. It was the most extraordinary display of ego-stroking that I’d ever seen. A photo of me with a playing card on my face appeared in Paris Match, and in the Daily Variety distributed to conventioneers, I ended up in the column Buzz du jour.
And let’s face it, the companies we represented were selling films with a lot of action and nudity and very little d
ialogue. They were definitely not award-winners. They were, however, the type of movies that attracted viewers of all languages with a minimum of dubbing. I heard critic Roger Ebert swear he even met a man selling films like ours by the pound.
Actor Bob Hoskins put his autograph on a card, Boston Bimbo Invasion, and shuffled it back into the deck. I tossed the deck to the ceiling high above everyone’s heads at the Hotel du Cap . . . and abracadabra! The signed card stuck to the ceiling while the rest of the deck came fluttering down. A day or two later I was doing my thing at another gathering, when Hoskins came up with a few buddies and said, “Do that card on the ceiling trick you did for me for my friends.” The joke was that at that moment I was outdoors performing on the deck of a pirate ship.
The purpose of my out-and-about performances was to raise awareness of the Empire brand and encourage likely clients to consider visiting the Empire hospitality suite. Every company had a suite; they were ordinary hotel rooms with wide open doors. Ours was in the Martinez, the normal beds removed, and in their place were a few couches, wide screen televisions, and the walls were adorned with posters depicting movies that were for sale. The suites entertained a constant flow of potential buyers who could socialize while quaffing complimentary cocktails, see the posters for future releases, preview sample reels of upcoming movies, and get passes to screenings of completed films. Of course, salesmen were available to close deals.
A fixture in our suite was Brian Yuzna, the producer of Empire’s big success from the past year, Re-Animator, a science fiction horror comedy based on an H. P. Lovecraft story. Yuzna was also the producer of that year’s hot ticket, From Beyond, also a science fiction horror comedy based on an H. P. Lovecraft story, and was presently pre-selling to raise funds for Dolls, his next science fiction horror comedy. When not elsewhere, I was often in the suite doing card tricks, likely ones that pointed out Yuzna’s great work and led to me introducing him; then he would pick up the ball and pitch his wares.