The Advice of the Sages
By Shane

I'd like to begin this month by quoting our own beloved Scott Guinn, from his article this month entitled "The Lost Art of Routining." In that wonderful piece, Scott makes the following comment:

"I’m going to upset some folks here, but I’m going to say this anyway. Most (not all—not the few good ones) bizarrists are Overextenders. Someone once asked me for a definition of “Bizarre Magic.” I replied, “most of the time, it’s, ‘Long, boring, overly-theatrical presentations for weak tricks with no payoff.’” My friend Vic Brisbin had a similar response: 'A Bizarrist is someone who dresses in black like the Grim Reaper and then bores you to death!'"

Scott starts with an understatement; yes, he's going to upset some folks here. I think he probably expected myself to be one of those, being only one of two bizarrists here at Visions. But, as is usually the case, I agree with Scott implicitly, which should irritate the bejabbers out of other bizarrists reading this.

Tough.

My only comment to Scott and Vic (who I do not know, nor, judging by his comment, would he want to know me) is they fall into the same trap of stereotypical thinking so many of us suffer from. Not all bizarrists are boring, Vic, or dress in black. Scott, not all bizarre magic is weak, long, or boring. I say this knowing full well Scott did not intend his remarks to be a complete swipe at bizarrists, but it does irk somewhat, since it's akin to saying all magicians wear gaudy clothes and do corny card tricks.

Tough. I still agree with him.

Yes, one and all, I agree that most magic (whether bizarre or not) is long, anti-climatic, and weak. The overly-theatrical part belongs mostly to the realm of bizarrists, because I think so many of us try to overcompensate for the complete lack of any theatrical leanings in magic as a whole we get carried away with our stories, our framing, our presentations to the point of complete boredom. I have personally witnessed a bizarre Cups and Balls routine that seemed to have the length of "MacBeth" with none of the interest. This bizarrist's heart was in the right place, but, Heaven and Earth, how terrible was it all in execution!

Jean Baudrillard: "Boredom is like a pitiless zooming in on the epidermis of time. Every instant is dilated and magnified like the pores of the face."

I've said before boredom is the mortal sin of magic. It's worse still and yet for bizarre magic. As bizarrists, we acknowledge tricks are secondary to presentation, and the most important tools to presentations are words. Still, so many times we use our words too much, like turning a screw with a screwdriver too many times; we strip the head off the screw in our zealousness and cause ourselves and others nothing but aggravation.

Aggravation, brought to you courtesy of Boredom.

Having seen my share of bizarrists perform, and having been there trying to learn as I go in the fog and haze, it seems we fall into The Great Boredom Production in three chief ways:

1) We have a tendency to talk our way into it at the outset. Before an effect begins, we set up the framework as we know we must do. We weave the story, introduce characters, set the scene... and we take on the aspect of "War and Peace" as we do it. I once watched a bizarre Hopping Half routine that began something like this:

"Bill Lomax and Lucy Smithson were in love ever since they saw each other across the swing sets on the school's playground back in the third grade. Such was their love for each other that even the prepubescent dislike of the other gender never entered their child hearts. Throughout grade school, into high school, they were inseparable, for as each day passed their love for each other grew stronger and more vibrant, eventually becoming as vital for the two of them as the air they breathe. When time allowed, they began dating, which came as no surprise, and as they entered college, they attended the same school so they could remain as they had since the third grade: inseparable because of their devotion to each other and to their love. Unfortunately, as is sometimes the case, the parents became involved in Bill and Lucy's life, in their love. The parent's you see, could not accept the fact a cute puppy-love had continued to grow, changing exquisitely into true love, and could not especially accept the fact Bill Lomax was white and Lucy Smithson was black. Oh, they considered themselves quite liberal, all four of the parents, and quite worldly and sophisticated. But deep down they could not..." Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Now, this whole time, the coins were not even shown or brought into play. And there was still roughly a minute more of this to go. I'll tell you, I was about ready nod off myself, and I'm a big fan of such things; imagine how this guy's poor audience felt! When he finally got around to doing the effect itself, it was almost a relief because that meant we were close to this thing being finished.

Relief as the chosen emotion to evoke? Not with this routine. The performer had something to say, something he felt needed to be said, but never stopped saying it to begin with!

Imagine how much less boring and cumbersome the effect would have been if it had proceeded something like this (which, I admit, is off the top of my head and therefore not refined at all; I elect not to tip my own routine just yet):

"They began their love in the third grade, and felt that love mature as they matured, growing larger and stronger with each passing day. Eventually, they awoke one day to themselves a young white man and a young black woman (showing and emphasizing the coins here so the audience knows who is who and which is which and what they represent), in true love, but a love their parents could not accept because the children were... not alike."

Nice, short, says the same thing, brings the props into play so the visual context is there, and yet sacrifices none of the framework or story. Everything that needs to be said has been said, and the effect has started. That quickly. Without any chance of boredom to creep in... yet.

The morale: use just enough words to create the story in the minds of the audience, no more than absolutely necessary, and move into the effect quickly by at least introducing the props as your story is laid out.

2) We add to the presentation during lulls in the effect itself. I've actually seen this less and less, but it still occurs. I taught my routine "Having Writ", to a friend of mine, including all the trance-inducing hooks I had placed in the routine and all the Wonder Word and Kentonism type things I had spent a great deal of time developing. Hey, he's a friend -- I do that type of thing. He took the routine and decided to give it some flash and realism by including some actual spells from Dee's Enochian Keys. All well and good.

At the point in the routine where some summoned critter is about to scratch a revelation on a card held in the spectator's hand, he began the actual spell.

Oh, did I tell you the spell is over five hundred words long? And that he included every word and action as proscribed by Dee?

So, here were his spectators, waiting for him to finish summoning this thing by evoking all the Great Names from Astrothoth to Zemilir, calling forth all the powers of the universe one at a time... for almost five minutes. I felt so incredibly sorry for the one spectator, who he had holding this card in her outstretched hand for all that time, I was about ready to hold her hand up for her.

I think by the time he hit upon Rofocale, his audience was done. Done with the story, done with the effect, done with him. And he still had three minutes of "casting" to go.

Any effect -- any effect! -- has a lull to it, a time when nothing critical is happening. A card is chosen, a deck shuffled, a moment before the climax is revealed... these are all "slow" times for the audience. More often than not, they need some "dressing up", especially if the lull is caused by a spectator doing an action, like writing a message or drawing a picture. This is to keep the rest of the audience involved as you go. On some occasions, these times, especially if they are just before a climax, need to be left with as little involvement on your part as possible.

There has never been a lull of such magnitude you are required to actually stretch the momentary break in the action out into some ungodly length. Ever. You cover the lull with a small swatch of fine silk, not a burlap tent cover. In my friend's case, a carefully edited summoning, done long before the time of the climax, would have been marvelous; as it was, he trampled all over the quiet time.

The morale: when a lull occurs, fill the hole; never enlarge it. And be wary of filling it in the first place.

3) We feel the need to reiterate what has just happened after the effect is over. This is almost a rarity among bizarrists, having been taken up by mainstream magicians for the most part. But we still suffer this ailment gladly, I'm sorry to say.

You've probably seen this one: the performer tells the tale, does the effect, then, when the effect is over and done, insists on taking a minute to tell everyone what has happened, from beginning to end. If the audience is at all lucky, this will be the Reader's Digest Condensed Edition, which is still much too long. Usually, the audience is unlucky and hapless, being subjected to the Whole Thing all over again.

If the moral of the story and the effect is so hard to grasp, no retelling will make it clearer. The whole routine must be reworked, refined, so that retelling is not necessary. There's no other way. If it can't be redone to eliminate the retelling, then get rid of it. Cast it aside. Better to fall to the better part valor than inflict something like this on an audience.

If the moral of the story warrants added emphasis, then by all means emphasize! Use my rule of thumb in such cases: divide your story into a beginning, a middle, and an end, then devote a single sentence to each part in your summary. Even that can be too much, but it gives you a starting point.

The key here is to let your story and your effect work together so that a repetition of things is simply not needed. Your audience is not stupid, no matter what anyone tells you; if you give them the basic premise at the beginning, you don't have to hold their hand at the end. It's really that plain and simple.

Now, the root cause of these three things is simple: too much talking! There are other pitfalls, to be sure, and I'll cover them later on. For now, though, talking is the thing, and I'm going to leave you with three sage quotes to serve as your guide for a time:

Baltasar Gracian: "Good things, when short, are twice as good."

Tyron Edwards: "Never be so brief as to become obscure."

Gene Poinc: "Damn, Shane, you talk too much! Brevity, man, brevity!"

Shane