Oh, the difference there can be between magical and magic. The Illusionists is a sleight-of-hand variety show, a big box of tricks first seen three years ago at the Sydney Opera House. It contains some enjoyable baffles. How on earth did a £5 note signed by a member of the audience get into the middle of a lemon in a bag in a box? It has some moments of elegant mystification. With a flick of the wrist, deft Den Den makes letters appear on blank cards. With another twist he turns the cards into tiny paper sculptures of birds and boats.
Yet astonishment is stifled by the show’s determination to declare itself constantly astonishing. It is wrapped in a Britain’s Got Talent razzmatazz, with monotonously loud rock, monotonous lasers, and a dapper compere in Colin Cloud. It is in fact halfway to being a telly show. Crucial moments are shown on video, which is useful but rather takes away from the point of going to the theatre. Throughout, the all-male wizards are surrounded by women prancing around admiringly, flashing their fishnets in that bent-knee gesture known only to the lovely assistants of conjurers.
Cloud pulls off a couple of good mind-reading tricks, but his deductions about people’s backgrounds from their accents will not impress anyone who has seen Pygmalion. Too many of the acts are faintly dull or slightly sinister. A swaggering “weapon master” – big boots, big hair, many straps – shoots an arrow off his own head blindfold. A crude candid-camera episode replays interviews with audience members gulled before the show. When an escapologist slouches in, glowering in a shiny cagoule – Hoodini? – you expect suspense and mystery. You get a video of a nimble man with an extraordinary ability to hold his breath. Like the old Black Magic selection: not enough coffee creams and too many montelimars.
