By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
Despite the well-manicured bushes and steep driveway, the pale Victorian cupolas can be seen from Franklin Boulevard, framed by palm trees, rising against the foot of the Hollywood hills. At night, the old mansion lights up like an amusement park ride. Red-coated valets politely offer their services as music streams from under the main portico, which is bathed in the verdant glow of a large stained-glass window overhead, and a small, gaudy fountain, framed by two stone lions, sprays and splashes in time with the tune. Everything about the Magic Castlesays "tourist attraction," but the casual sightseer would be disappointed: The richly ornamented lobby leads nowhere except into a closet-size gift shop. Only those whose names are written in the leather-bound ledger are given the magic password, which activates the jewel-eyed owl statue that opens the secret door in the sliding bookshelf. The magic word is a mere formality since it could not be a more obvious, corny incantation, and the owl is nothing more exceptional than something my neighbors might put out for their Halloween ball, but oh how I have wanted to make its little eyes glow. Not a time has gone by that I have driven this stretch of road without wanting to get inside this building.
"It's a members-only clubhouse. You have to be a magician," explains my native-born L.A. friend for the 20th time. "Or the friend of a magician."
This last piece of information is new.
"I'm a liar and a cheat and your new best friend," says Paul Nathan in his one-man show Devil in the Deck.
A departure from Nathan's regular work as a touring magician and the star producer of San Francisco's annual Dark Kabaret, Devilis the narrative tale of Jack Swindell, a Southern boy who learns to manipulate cards so he can evade a Gypsy prophecy. Nathan himself is a fourth-generation San Franciscan who learned magic to avoid regret.
"After I got out of the Army, college was already paid for," says Nathan, a gracious, baldheaded, broad-shouldered man whose mien still suggests force as much as finesse. "I didn't need a real job, and I had always wanted to be a magician, so ...."
The childhood dream, which started when Nathan saw the great Japanese magician Shimada perform on The Merv Griffin Show, became a pastime. At 22, while attending college in Southern California, Nathan garnered a coveted weekend slot at Vertigoin Los Angeles that was to last more than five years. Within six months after Nathan was hired, the club received national attention, and the fledgling magician found himself in a media vortex, surrounded by celebrities, performing for princes, appearing on MTV, HBO, and Lifestyles of the Rich and Famousno fewer than three times. But all of that didn't earn him membership to the Magic Castle.
"You have to audition in front of a panel of other magicians," explains Nathan. "I was petrified. I was a good magician, but not a very good technician at the time. But I had wanted to be a member since I was 11."
His fears notwithstanding, Nathan garnered a membership card at the age of 23 and full access to the Castle. "My favorite [room]," says Nathan, "is the library. I used to spend weeks buried in those arcane tombs, researching obscure methods and effects. They have a felt-topped table with a mirror on it so you can practice handling small effects while you study. ... The Castle has one of the most comprehensive magic libraries in the world. It's a dangerous place. You can get lost and never come back.
"You wouldn't have seen it. It's closed to the public."
Technically, the whole Castle is closed to the public, but a good word from a member and the all-important membership code delivered over the phone with a reservation request garner me a guest pass. The bookshelf slides away, revealing a dimly lit passageway lined with rich wooden paneling that spills out into a salon where elegant men and women are sipping cocktails at a bar accented by slides from the old Hippodrome Vaudeville Theater. The small crowd looks me over lightly, determining quickly whether I am showman, shill, or rube, and resumes conversation indifferently, leaving me to explore the building.
With three open floors, three theaters, and a grand dining room situated under a dome of Tiffany glass, there is more than I can manage to see before dinner. Posters and autographed playbills from the world's finest prestidigitators decorate the hallways; crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings; in the subterranean Hat and Hare Pub, two magicians sit at a table poring over a book of card tricks while gossiping about a fellow magician who remains unnamed. I find W.C. Fields' trick pool table on display, along with Jimmy Durante's breakaway piano, the only pair of handcuffs that are said to have gotten the better of Harry Houdini, and countless dioramas depicting the likes of Madame Blavaskyand Dion Fortune. In the séance room, the disembodied voice of Houdini issues forth from an Edison cylinder surrounded by old photographs, straitjackets, and milk cans. Though those in attendance show obvious reverence for the surroundings, the conversation in the dining room is animated and as off-color as one might expect in a room full of show people. The menu, also a tribute to great magicians and lesser wit, includes Scallopini Dante, Roast Prime Rib Blackstone, Filet Mignon Thurston, and Rack of Lamb Larsen. Despite the delicacy of the dishes and the attentiveness of the waitstaff, I can hardly eat a bite.