by Steve Spill
“The theater director jumped up, pumped his fist into the air, and screamed ‘Right on dude!’ In fact, everyone, jump up, pump your fist in the air and scream, ‘Right on dude!’” Most everyone in the audience did it, I threw in another “I can dig it,” and continued, “He says, ‘This gets better every time I see it.’ So I go with it again, clearly counting and showing three single and separate large banana tree leaves. This time I take away, not one, not two, but three, four, five, six, seven . . .” For the finish, one at a time, I threw away twenty-nine leaves. “The theater director jumped up, pumped his fist into the air, and screamed . . .” At this point everyone in the crowd with a brain jumped up, pumped their fist in the air, and screamed at the top of their lungs, “Right on dude!” Then I threw in a final, “I can dig it!”
If the leaves routine has a familiar ring to it, that’s because of Senator Crandall. You may remember him earlier in the book as the fellow who did The Six Card Repeat Trick at the Magic Castle back in the sixties. That was part of the inspiration for the leaves.
As for Bozena’s solo bits, here’s one of my favorites that she does: She lights a candle, then unravels a single strand of thread from a spool. As she stretches the thread between her outstretched hands, she says, “Over the course of one’s life we are all bound to experience . . .” using the candle flame, she cuts the thread in two “. . . a broken heart . . .” another cut, “. . . disappointment . . .” another cut, “. . . sickness or . . .” another cut, “depression . . .”
The multiple pieces of thread are rolled between her fingertips, “. . . and finding something funny or entertaining under those painful conditions is good. If you can laugh even while you feel pain, there’s hope. If you can rediscover laughter and forget your problems for a while . . .” She blew on the rolled pieces, which instantly and visually restored back to their original state. Bozena again unraveled the thread between her outstretched hands accompanied by her final thoughtful words, “. . . then you are on the road to being whole again.”
Countless times, I’ve been told stories of those who have dealt or are dealing with life’s hard knocks that took the words Bozena shared in her thread bit to heart. More than a few have said it’s their favorite part of our performance. I had the notion that more often than not people liked going to our show to forget their problems rather than be reminded of life’s big issues, but with this trick of Bozena’s they get both.
One night a guy had his head in his lap for the entire show. Even though I always improvise, I didn’t question it, because the girl with him seemed to be emoting a “What’s wrong with you baby?” sort of sympathy that made me think the guy was probably ill. Who knew? Maybe he ate some bad clams. As you know, my lifelong custom after every show is to do the meet and greet with the audience. As per the request of his female counterpart, the “head in the lap” guy snapped a photo of me and his girl, before saying, “I’m happy Suzy had a good time, but I’m not allowed to watch magic . . .”
I kidded, “Not a problem as long as you buy a ticket.”
“It’s not a joke.”
I couldn’t tell if this guy was putting me on, “What do you mean, you’re not allowed? Not even card tricks?”
“The Ace of Spades is the death card and the Queen of Hearts brings to mind a girl who was drowned. Those are cardboard instruments of the devil and witchcraft is a violation of Baptist law.”
“I do tricks, not witchcraft, right?”
“Well, it’s not just that,” he said. “There is a Baptist prohibition of doing anything that ‘looks’ like you’re violating Baptist law, for fear that you may lead others down your rocky path. Then of course, there is the issue of lying, which is a rather cowardly thing to do. Can you honestly say you told the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, during the entire show?”
Just for fun I changed the subject. “Do you believe in pre-marital sex?”
“Never mind!”
“I take that to mean definitely yes!”
“No, it does not mean yes!”
TABLE OF TERROR
There is one person associated with the world of magic more than any other in the eyes of the public, and that man is, of course, Harry Houdini. Dead for decades, yet still the most Googled magician, kids do book reports on him; people use phrases like, “doing a Houdini;” his name is synonymous with the word “magic;” he’s been immortalized in numerous stage productions, TV specials, and feature films; and plenty of new Houdini projects are always in the works. Like Elvis or Michael Jackson, he seems to be as active now, or more so, than he was when he was alive.
At Magicopolis we close almost every show with a wonderfully terrifying experience that is a tribute to the man who built his career in a branch of our craft known as escapology. Houdini’s feats helped to define the basic repertoire of escapology, including escapes from handcuffs, chains, ropes, mailbags, beer barrels, and prison cells.
The most dramatic of these kinds of stunts are the ones where the magician is trapped in a dangerous situation and required to escape from it or suffer a fate of certain doom. Like the upside-down straitjacket escape where the magician is suspended high in the air from a burning rope, or underwater escapes where the threat of drowning exists. Theatrically speaking, the most effective of these types of tricks are the ones where it appears that the escape has gone wrong, giving the audience the impression the performer must have been killed or badly injured. If the audience happens to love the magician, when he reappears unharmed they can be particularly generous with their applause.
Danger is a strong attraction for the public. Everyone likes to court death a little, without getting too near it, even if they only do it vicariously by watching films or TV or playing video games. At Magicopolis, we cater to this interest with the Table of Terror. The apparatus consists of a metal table with an array of threatening sharpened steel spikes suspended above it. The basic premise is that the performer, yours truly, is restrained on the table and must escape before the spikes are released and allowed to fall.
Originally known as The Death of Coira, it was created by magician Walter Jeans, who lived 1877 to 1942, and no, neither he nor Coira died doing it. The more modern incarnation of the trick was refined and updated in my lifetime by magician Andre Kole, a prolific inventor of illusions performed by some of the greatest in our field. I contacted him in an effort to either buy his prop, as the word was he was no longer using it, or get permission to use his design and methodology to have my own version built.
As touched upon elsewhere in this book, the world of magicians is small, and when someone develops a routine or unique apparatus, it is only fair, a professional courtesy, and ethical, to get their permission to build upon their work, whether it is a sleight of hand trick or a big stage illusion. With a large potentially dangerous prop like this one, there is also a big advantage in having the counsel of someone who has performed it and developed certain secret features and mechanical innovations. The design and construction of my Table of Terror was handled by precision craftsman William Kennedy, a well-known illusion builder who specializes in dependable metal fabrications, to whom Kole referred me as being the best choice for my needs.
Before sharing the harrowing situation I survived performing the Table of Terror on one fateful night back in 2009, I ask your indulgence while I attempt to paint a picture of what it would be like if you had been in the audience for a typical thrilling performance of this funny, scary, and dangerous presentation. I stood on a dark stage, in a small pool of light, and said . . .
“Harry Houdini died nearly nine decades ago, and to this day he is still the most famous magician in the world. He was not only a great magician, but also invented a whole new type of magic, escapology, and it was always his policy to close his show with a dramatic death-defying escape . . . and it was always something so unbelievably daring that no one would have the nerve to try it.
“Back in 1926, the year Houdini died, he was closing his show with the
Water Torture Cell, where he was secured upside down in a glass tank filled with water. At the time, plans were underway for a new escape, which he called the Table of Terror. That’s the one we’re going to close our show with. Quick warning, if you’re easily frightened or have a weak heart, now is the time to leave. That said, it’s our pleasure to close the show with the . . . TABLE OF TERROR!”
On the word “TERROR!” the curtains parted, there was a dramatic stark shadowy shift in the lighting, and eerie music was heard as a massive steel structure came into focus. Assistants pushed forward the one-ton device with dozens of spikes that hung above a metal table with holes in it that matched the layout of the spikes.
“Thirty-nine sharpened steel spikes that can pierce concrete yet remain sharp enough to perform delicate eye surgery! We’re going to have someone from the audience take a close look at the items we’ll be using for this escape . . .”
A man was invited on stage to take a close-up view of the equipment. “I’d like you to touch the point of any of the spikes, to verify that they are real, they’re metal, they’re pointed, they’re not rubber or collapsible . . . Now sir, for safety reasons, please stand way away. Speaking of safeties, we’re going to take the safeties out right now . . .” Assistants removed some short steel bars that had prevented the spikes from dropping; now the spikes were held in place by a long thick rope. Dark blue light reflected off the metal, giving the contraption a cold, menacing look.
“Right now the spikes are only about halfway up; when they are all the way at the top, fifteen feet up, and they’re released, the load is five thousand pounds. This is only about half way, but it’s enough to give you the idea.” The spikes were allowed to fall. When they hit the table the loud metal on metal crash was deafening, the music cranked up a few notches, and at that instant, the lighting turned blood-red. After their fall, the solid two-inch-thick, two-foot-long steel spikes could clearly be seen protruding through the bottom of the table and a few audience members jumped from their seats and ran from the theater.
“In a moment the spikes are going to be at the top; I am going to be secured to the bed of this device. We have a safety rope that’s going to hold the spikes in place. The safety rope is going to be lit on fire.” As I spoke the spikes were slowly hoisted fifteen feet up, and a mom with two kids got up and moved quickly for the exit. In their hearts, they knew this was just another magic trick in a magic show, but still, they felt there was a possibility something could go wrong, that I might die a horrific death, impaled by thirty-nine sharpened steel spikes with great amounts of blood spurting from the gaping wounds.
“The safety rope is not an ordinary fiber rope like the type we’re hoisting the spikes with. It’s a coiled cloth rope made out of burlap. It’s been soaked in lighter fluid, scored with a knife, and we’ve burned it. And when we light it again, it will take one to three minutes to burn through. That’s how long I’ll have to make this escape . . .
“I should tell you, burning burlap is an inexact science. The safety rope has snapped prematurely in the past. Kind of funny, a six-year-old told me it would be much scarier if the spikes were dipped in poison! If I perish, I’d like it to be said I expired heroically and in the line of duty.”
Bozena appeared with a table covered with various restraints, including manacles, leg irons, chains, and padlocks, and our volunteer was asked to inspect each of these as they were put to use. “If you would, first we’d like you to take a look at the manacles; make sure the bar is solid, the chains are welded on there . . .” As Bozena fitted the manacles around my wrists, I instructed, “Make sure the small padlocks operate properly, that they can’t be opened without the key . . .” The small padlocks were locked into the loops of chain connected to the manacles, further tightly securing my wrists together.
“Next I’d like you to take a close look at the leg irons, pull on them, make sure they’re solid and don’t come apart . . .” As the restraints locked my feet together, I explained, “Sometimes these are called ankle hobblers; they’re the same type you’d find at . . . home in any bedroom.” Several more large padlocks and chains were inspected, then, flat on my back, my shackled hands and feet were padlocked to the metal table, and a final padlock and chain secured my waist.
A very small sheer translucent cloth, barely large enough to shield my body from the audience, was hung. Because of the extremely bright back lighting, everyone could see my silhouetted shadow and subsequent struggle to escape before the spikes fell. Everything above and below me was in plain view. The Led Zeppelin song “Rock & Roll” was cranked up to a skull-rattling volume as the safety rope was lit on fire. The flames erupted and curled upward. Those in the front row could feel the heat from the red and orange flames that burned like the fires of hell.
I had told the audience it would take one to three minutes to make my escape. Less than a minute elapsed when it was apparent I had one hand free. Then, suddenly, the safety rope unexpectedly snapped and the spikes crashed down on the table. It was obvious I had not completed the escape. Some men, women, and children screamed a continuous, high-pitched, shrill sound of terror. One woman quickly rose in horror from her seat and spilled her drink on the woman in front of her, who paid no attention whatsoever because she thought she had wet her pants in fright. The small piece of cloth fell away; instead of being shish-kabobbed to death, there I was standing on top of the spikes—alive, well, and happy to receive some enthusiastic applause.
That, of course, was all part of the show. Now to the unintended harrowing Table of Terror situation, which I luckily survived one fateful night back in 2009. At the time, many of our fans were criminals, gang members, malcontents, natural enemies of all law and order except their own. Magicopolis was involved with a community service program that enabled certain juvenile detention center and probation camp residents to take field trips to various cultural events, exposing them to new types of music, theater, and art. The purpose of the program was to interest these kid convicts in something other than committing felonies, or perhaps to make juvenile delinquents into jubilant delinquents, but not all delinquents are ripe for rehabilitation.
Bozena relaxing on the Table of Terror.
It was a Friday night. So there I am, chained, Zep blasting, rope blazing, while in the gentlemen’s powder room—just for kicks—one of the teenage outlaws, who had been unsupervised for a fraction of a second, stood on a toilet testing a ceiling fire sprinkler heat sensor with a lit match. Our fire alarm system was up to code. In that fraction of an instant, there was a wailing siren, flashing lights, and an intimidating automated voice evacuation system demanding that everyone leave the building; then there were drops of rain, clouds of water, wet stage lights flashing showers of sparks, and audience members bolting for the exits. They evacuated in droves.
The all-star staff determined there was no fire, turned off the sprinklers, canceled a fire department response. When I escaped, the theater was less than a third full, and that remaining handful of hardy souls gave me a standing ovation. Actually, I’m not sure if it was a standing ovation, or if they were just a tad behind the others in jumping up to run for their lives.
DOUBT OF THE BENEFIT
Charity starts at home, but here in Los Angeles every night, in every hotel ballroom in town, some professional philanthropist or some popular disease is being honored. Many of these events are hosted by celebrities to assure a sellout; none really need to hire a magician, but some do. I have appeared at dozens of benefits and charity affairs and I will continue doing it, not only for pay. When you are a magician, a lot of charitable groups, civic organizations, and government agencies ask you to donate your time to do shows for them—like the Red Cross ladies who are always ready to offer themselves for charity. Sometimes I’ll do those for nothing to support organizations I’m fond of.
At Magicopolis, we also have been, and continue to be, big supporters of the Children’s Hospital Los Angeles Blood Drive. Now more than ever, we are encour
aging people to donate a pint of blood and get a free ticket to our show. Thousands have done it, and only once we had a problem—someone who didn’t think I was a very good magician asked for his blood back.
It was the fall of 2011 when I received a phone call from someone in New York offering me a job at a benefit to be held just minutes from Magicopolis, in Santa Monica. The pleasant voice on the phone said, in part, “This is a small boutique event and it’s important you look very ‘magishinee’ like you do in your pictures on the Magicopolis website.”
I e-signed an agreement, and the next day I received a FedEx with payment in full and details of the event. I deposited the check but took only a quick glance at the details, since the show date was several weeks away. On the appointed day at 10:00 a.m. I arrived at a small children’s bookstore on Montana Avenue. The walls were decorated with original artwork and prints from books like Stuart Little, Charlotte’s Web, Peanuts comics, and all things Seuss.
I was greeted warmly by a woman from the public relations firm that hired me. The lady was sweet and apologetic when she said, “We may not need you, but if we do, it will only be as background eye candy.” I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I said something to the effect of “no worries” and found a quiet corner to wait and see what would happen. Also on site were three cameramen with three corresponding entertainment news reporters.
Shortly thereafter about ten kids and their moms appeared. They were seated on the floor in front of a large stuffed chair and everyone was given a gift bag. The kids were delighted with little teddy bears, cookies, and lollipops. The mom’s swag bags had soap, perfume, and makeup samples.
Next a world famous model/television host appeared. I don’t remember her name because a confidentiality clause forbids my disclosure of her name and I don’t want to be sued. I’ll call her “Star.” Star sat comfortably in the large stuffed chair. The children were attentive and the quiet was deafening. Then the lights became very bright and the cameras started to roll. Star picked up a copy of Cat in the Hat and started reading aloud . . .