The Truth About Uri Geller

by James Randi

  Translated, this says that people who pay close attention (“who have a poor relationship with the subject”) have to be distracted or they will catch him cheating.

  During a visit to England in early 1974,1 first heard of Taylor, who had just recently become enchanted by Geller. A BBC-TV David Dimbleby program had featured Geller and they had asked Taylor along to judge the performance. Just what kind of expert he was supposed to serve as seems unclear. Whatever his presumed expertise, he failed when confronted with Geller; he fell for “the lot” as the English say.

  Taylor was not at all dampened by the evidence that subsequently developed to put this BBC program into the same category as the other Geller shows. Upon further questioning, and looking into their experience with Geller, the director and producer of the program pointed out that after Geller asked for spoons and forks to be brought to the studio he also asked that they be placed on a tray in his dressing room. They were under guard, we’re told; but, when the producer walked by the room shortly thereafter, he found that Geller was there alone with the cutlery. Uri had sent the guard on an errand!

  During the BBC show, Geller held the cutlery in the usual fashion, hiding the prepared one and allowing the others to be freely handled and examined. Sure enough, the one he favored was the one that broke on the program. And Taylor was hooked but good. His statement, used by Geller on the jacket of My Story, says: “The Geller Effect—of metal bending—is clearly not brought about by fraud.” Dr. Hanlon says, in New Scientist, “Taylor was amazing. After the fork-bending, he stated that ‘science has no explanation of this,’ when he clearly had no idea of what had been going on!”

  Colleagues say that there is no hope of talking sense to Taylor. When I called him while visiting there, he spent not more than thirty seconds with me by phone, and answered my offer to visit and enlighten him with, “I have all the evidence I need!” And he hung up on me. But now he has another bit of unsolicited evidence, and though I’m sure it won’t shake his confidence in nuttery one bit he might do well to incorporate it into his experience.

  During my summer 1975 visit to England, I counted on Taylor not knowing what I looked like and on his well-known penchant for publicity. He is a former student of acting in New York (he is a card-carrying member of Actor’s Equity), and his theatrical leaning has obviously predisposed him to the limelight. With all this in mind, and having the commission from Time magazine to look into the set-up there as well, I attacked Fortress Britain, disguised as a journalist.

  Carefully removing all traces of my present name from briefcase, camera, and wallet, I showed up at King’s College to see Taylor. I’d phoned early that morning, at an hour when I had not expected to find him in, nor his secretary either. I was right. Then I’d continued to call at ten-minute intervals, until I got his secretary and mumbled about being “in from New York” and a “deadline.” She assured me that Professor Taylor would be happy to see me.

  This was calculated so that I could arrive at his office with him primed and ready to accept me. And it worked! He invited me in and I began the interview. He started by showing me several of the sacred relics fashioned by the children whose marvelous powers are described in Superminds. One such was a spiral/triangle piece of twisted aluminum rod that was produced by one of the “benders” who has done a lot of metal destruction for Taylor. When I pressed him for details, he looked a bit uneasy and admitted that he’d not actually seen it bend—he had only seen it after it got bent. Seems that the kid is allowed to take it all along to his room and reappear with his little sculpture! I had a hard time concealing my astonishment—not at the wonders described by Taylor, but at the credulity of the man.

  FIGURE 1. Cross-section of Taylor’s “sealed” plastic tube. The stopper simply pulled out to the right; the screw did not hold it.

  Next, I was given a transparent plastic tube to examine. It had a pair of red rubber stoppers at each end of its twelve-inch length, with a dab of black sealing wax on the side near each end, holding a screw in place that penetrated into the stopper. He assured me that the sealing wax was secretly marked so that he could detect any tampering. Inside was a six-inch piece of aluminum rod folded into a flattened “S” that he said had been “Gellerized” into that shape by a sixteen-year-old subject of his while the tube was sealed! I examined the relic carefully and noted that the stopper in one end had the “contact” marks I would expect to see (by this I mean the “wet” appearance that results from smooth rubber contacting the inside of glass or smooth plastic), whereas the other end looked quite unsealed.3 I experimentally pulled at the rubber cork while sliding the rod back and forth and admiring it, and almost blew the whole scheme; it was fully loose in the tube! Quickly, I jammed it back in place and returned it to Taylor. He had been turned away and hadn’t seen the stopper pop out.

  For the first time, I realized how very gullible he had been. Not only had he not seen this bending take place—again, this child had been allowed out of the room with the object—he’d only observed that it had already taken place while not being watched. But the tube could have easily been opened, then re-stoppered.4 Simple observation proved that, and I had not expected that I would be able to remove the cork so easily. It was quite startling. The screw-and-sealing-wax precaution hadn’t mattered a bit. It was a very poor piece of preparation, and the sixteen-year-old who fooled Taylor must be laughing himself to sleep.

  The professor turned to his bookcase to produce another wonder for me, and I opened my briefcase, slipping an aluminum “standard test strip”5 off the desk as I bent down to set the case there. Taylor didn’t notice. He presented me with what appeared to be a carefully sculptured mess of paper clips resembling a four-footed critter. I’d heard of this artifact before and knew it was presumed to be a dog. “It looks just like a dog,” I marveled brightly. “That’s exactly what it is!” the professor confirmed, obviously .pleased at my discernment. “And this is me!” he declared, handing over another mess of wire that vaguely resembled a lumpy man. I waxed enthusiastic. “May I photograph these?” I asked, and began fussing with my camera, meter, lenses, and such. At the same time, I bent the aluminum rod over double. Taylor didn’t notice. I asked about another book of his—which sent him to the book case—and I put another bend in the rod, and another, until I had a “V” with turned-down ends. Taylor didn’t notice. I made haste to add these new bits of data (about the other books by Taylor) to the notes, which in actuality I was scratching an identification on the Randi artifact I’d just created. I printed, “Bent by Randi—July 1/75” with a handy lock-pick I had in my briefcase.

  I now stepped to the window with the “dog” figure—which Taylor said had been created by a ten-year-old by putting paper clips in his pocket and extracting them afterward in the form of psychic sculpture (saints preserve us!)—and began setting up a photo. While Taylor was busy at the other side of the office, I quickly placed the Randi piece beside the “dog” and made an exposure Taylor didn’t notice.

  By now, I had seen about enough. Taylor begged off showing me the lab where the holy events had transpired, and I busied myself with putting away the camera equipment, asking further questions about the watch tricks that Uri had done. Taylor was amused and told me he put no value in those things at all. It was the old story. What he solves is a trick; what fools him is genuine.

  I needed to complete one more step. Picking up my briefcase, I placed it on one of two leather chairs against the wall. At the same time, I pushed the palmed aluminum artifact between the two chairs. Taylor didn’t notice. I knew that he would eventually find it and that a glimmer of common sense might tell him he’d been fooled. He hadn’t even watched the kids, but allowed them to have any conditions they wanted, even to taking the stuff out of the room; I’d been before him every moment in a cramped office, and he had fallen for every device I tried in order to misdirect him. And now a mysterious artifact would materialize between two chairs, marvelously bent. Will wonders never cease? />
  As I left Taylor’s office, he mentioned that he was on his way to Coventry. Whether he was going of his own accord, or being sent, I did not determine.6

  FIGURE 2. Professor Taylor’s windowsill, with the “psychic sculptures” by one of the children and by Randi. (Engraving enhanced for legibility.)

  FIGURE 3. Close-up of the sculpture Taylor did not expect to find among his collection of bent junk (Engraving enhanced for legibility.)

  At a talk given in July 1975 in London, Taylor declared that he does not believe in: spiritualism, levitation, materialization, precognition, plant communication, or Kirilian photography. To those of my readers unfamiliar with these terms, I will say only that they are various nut theories and convictions of the last century or so. (See Glossary.) Taylor declined to follow these convictions because he had “no evidence” for them, though that hadn’t stopped him from spending most of his book Superminds describing them. But he does believe in spoon-bending—because he can’t figure it out!

  During his talk he also said, “There is no chance of fraud—at least in some of the cases,” and that during experiments he had made “one videotape—obtained not under ideal conditions.” He also has decided that, when it comes to studying the fractures Geller obtained in metal objects, “Certain parts of fracture science are art.” And later in the speech, he referred to the human body possibly being sensitive enough to detect the “electricity flowing out of lamp sockets when the bulbs are not in place.” Comments on these remarks would be superfluous; anyone with any scientific training can assess them as the unscientific nonsense they are.

  Re Puharich’s book Uri, Taylor equated it with “twaddle.” My dictionary defines that word as meaning: “Talk not worth hearing.” So the professor does make some sense, sometimes!

  In reply to one lady present, who asked a question about his lack of belief in spiritualism, Taylor replied, “If you don’t appreciate modern knowledge and where it’s at, then you’ll continue to enjoy spiritualism.” Strange words from him! I am reminded of the Chinese saying I saw in a prized manuscript at the British Museum: “Looking for Truth is like riding an ox in search of an ox.”

  But there is no denying that John Taylor has great expertise in his chosen field: mathematics. He is particularly incensed by the fact that Puharich’s “twaddle” in Uri includes a great revelation from the powers who direct Geller’s life from flying saucers. It is a mathematical formula that he describes simply as “wrong.”

  The most revealing thing at the Taylor lecture was that he evoked great dissatisfaction from most of his audience—not for his spoon-bending statements, which they ate up with glee, but for his bias concerning the other nut beliefs for which he said he had no proof. For that audience, he wasn’t far-out enough! One spectator left abruptly after accusing Taylor of having a “closed mind.” We were also entertained that evening by a gentleman pulling on a huge flagon of sherry and warning all to beware of the invaders from “the moon of Ganymede.” We took note of his admonition, and Taylor even addressed him by his first name.

  I’d paid the equivalent of $1.35 to hear the lecture. I couldn’t have stood another 5 cents’ worth.

  Shortly thereafter, before I was to give a presentation on conjuring for the scientists at King’s College in London, I was asked by Farooq Hussain if I wanted to have Dr. Ted Bastin, a prominent Gellerite, present at that meeting. I had to say no to this suggestion, though I wanted very much to meet him eventually. Bastin has been a staunch Geller supporter; it would not have been wise to admit him to that group, since he would then have been in a position to reveal my presence to the people at Psychic News before a certain article came out. (See Chapter 17.) However, on the last day of my stay in England, I decided to chance a meeting in hopes of being able to bring Bastin around to a sensible point of view concerning Geller.

  I’d seen Bastin at a film showing to announce the publication of John Fuller’s book on Arigo, the so-called “psychic surgeon” of Brazil. On that occasion, both Dr. Chris Evans (of the National Physical Laboratory) and I had been totally amazed at Bastin’s acceptance of the film as proof of the supposed powers of the Brazilian. We had seen a series of pictures of boils being opened and a cyst being removed from a man’s scalp, along with several shots of a blunt knife being run up under a few eyeballs. When I’d pointed out to Bastin at the time that what even he admitted was only a cyst removal was written up in the book as removal of a “scalp tumor.” Bastin wasn’t fazed in the slightest. He’d shown a remarkable ability to disregard every detraction and just declared that he still believed, regardless.

  On July 16,1 made an appointment to meet him in a laboratory at King’s College and—in the company of Bastin’s lovely wife, Dr. Ted Richards, Anne Kernaghan (a technician), Dr. David Dover (a physicist), and Miss Jill Purse—we sat down to discuss the Geller matter. Bastin described an occurrence at a supper during which a spoon had been broken as Geller stroked it while both ends were held by Bastin. In pressing for details, we discovered that this spoon was not quite as Bastin had first described it to us. He had said that he picked up this rather distinctive spoon, and challenged Geller to bend it. It developed that it was not the only such spoon present—there were several other identical spoons about the table. And Geller was not alone. At least one of his ubiquitous cast was also there. When I theorized that Geller had suggested, “Let’s try bending this spoon,” Bastin could not deny that it was very possible he’d done just that. In short, it was the old Geller Spoon Trick in all its glory. Mrs. Bastin recounted a similar Geller event that had taken place in Genoa.

  I asked Anne Kernaghan to try to find us a regular steel teaspoon, which she did, going to her office for one, and I offered it to Bastin to examine carefully. He declared it genuine, though he felt it was a bit less sturdy than most. I handed it to Mrs. Bastin, who grasped each end between thumbs and forefingers. I stroked and rocked it for about ten seconds while she held it about a foot from her eyes. She declared that it was feeling plastic and seemingly melted as she held it. Suddenly, it twisted sideways and broke in two.

  In his analysis, Dr. Bastin recalled that I’d washed the spoon by running a few drops of water onto it, since it was sticky with sugar and had coffee stains as well. He theorized that I had surreptitiously bent it to weaken it while doing this and that it would take only “eight or ten” bends to accomplish this. Hardly. When I suggested that the way to determine this properly would be to obtain an identical spoon and try it, he simply refused the suggestion, even over the objections of his wife. I can now tell him that / have done so, and it took 260 bends to break an identical spoon—a feat which the most adept conjuror could not perform, unnoticed, in front of an audience!

  Bastin threw away the spoon I’d broken.

  Dr. Bastin went on then to describe how Geller had “apported” a set of his screwdrivers out of his kit bag to the nearby stairway, where they were discovered, each broken off at the base of its shaft. When I failed to marvel at this and suggested that Geller or an accomplice had simply swiped the tools, broken them, and placed them on the stair, Bastin refused to consider that as a possible solution. He preferred to believe it was a miracle. Besides, he said, Geller would have needed a special tubular tool to break such screwdrivers. I offered to break one of a new set Bastin had with him, to test me. He agreed, and I simply reached over and inserted the end in a water tap, bent it back and forth about fifteen times, and it broke off. But, Bastin objected when he examined the tool, when Geller did it only the steel shaft showed a bend, not the metal sheath handle! I didn’t really know how I could get through to Bastin at that point.

  I suggested to Bastin that his position was a little like throwing a dart over your shoulder, noting the exact spot it hit, then challenging someone else to do the same, hitting exactly the same spot! Geller had broken the screwdrivers any old way, and now I was expected to do the precise same fracture! And, since we have no idea what tools might have been used (or what tap!), we ar
e naturally now in the position of being unable to hit the same spot with that dart!

  Mrs. Bastin showed me her key ring with a key Geller had bent by about 5 degrees. She held the bunch of keys up, with only the Geller key hanging down. I took it between my thumb and forefinger and asked her if that was the way Geller had held it. Dr. Bastin interrupted, saying that it had been held much differently, but his wife agreed that my handling was identical. I rubbed it for about five seconds and released it. To everyone’s surprise, it was now bent considerably more—at about a 30-degree angle! Bastin asked me if I had a chemical on my hands. I told him that I did not, that there was no such chemical.

  I next wrote a few things on a piece of paper, then turned it face down on the table near Mrs. Bastin. I asked her to think of a number, to think of a city, and to make a simple drawing. She did so, and I asked her to turn over the paper. I was exactly right on all three counts, except that the drawing merely had its two parts reversed. I asked Dr. Bastin what had happened to a small object he’d placed on the table, far away from where I sat. He looked about, and found that it had “teleported” right through his body, and was now on the lab bench behind him, having passed through his very solid body in order to reach the table.