Magicians

In a city that is usually impossible to shock, the savaging of Roy Horn on Oct. 3, 2003, onstage and in front of a live audience at the Mirage, created one of those rare moments where all locals can say where they were when they heard the news. Steve Wynn, who spent millions to have the theater at the Mirage customized for the "Siegfried & Roy" show, remembered his first reaction in an interview this week: "I could not believe one of Roy's cats attacked him."

"There's a special gut-check moment the first time you write a scene in which somebody casts a spell," says novelist and Time book critic Lev Grossman, over drinks at a hotel bar in the Time Warner Building. "I remember ['Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell' author] Susanna Clarke telling me about the first time she wrote a scene with a fairy in it and saying to herself, 'Am I really writing a book with a fairy in it?' It's definitely a naked-lunch moment where you're going through the portal and declaring yourself as a fantasy novelist."

The wails of a girl suffering from third-degree burns over her body seared a deep and lasting memory into Kevin Kaplowitz's mind. "I remember I was about 10 and this little girl was wheeled into the hospital, and she was crying so bad," Kevin said. "I went over to her and made her a balloon animal, and she started smiling and laughing. I got her to forget about her pain." At least for a moment. He was visiting the hospital to perform a magic show for patients when the girl was brought in.

Credis quod habes et habes, "What you believe is real is real." That's the motto at Caesars Magical Empire, a $35-million magic venue and scripted dining experience that officially opened last week here at Caesars Palace. Never mind that after the motto has been repeated a few times, it starts to sound a little like Que sera sera, "What will be will be." If seeing is believing, the 66,000-square-foot Magical Empire figures to be churning out believers at the rate of 2,400 per day.

Johnny Ace Palmer and Loren Christopher Michaels have a few things in common. Both are magicians, deemed among the best in the world by their peers, and both specialize in close-up magic, working literally right before your very eyes. Both began studying their craft as preschoolers, learning to read in order to devour magic books. Both live in Orange County, within a few miles of each other.

Siegfried and Roy and billboards notwithstanding, magicians historically have been an itinerant breed, relying on posters to sell their tickets. They might advertise--as, for instance, does a 1928 poster for the magician George--"a carload of scenic effects." That poster--one of 35 vintage magic-show posters on display through Aug. 22 at the Kissler-Painter Gallery here--happens to be Lonnie Painter's favorite.

The "willing suspension of disbelief" is a tricky business. When we're very young, we can easily believe Mickey Mouse is a huge rodent who happens to look good in formal wear and Santa Claus is a benevolent old guy with aeronautically advantaged reindeer and a lot of time on his hands. As we get older and start to look at things more critically, we tend to dismiss those beliefs as "childish" and put our faith in sure things like, say, the stock market.

Soon, the violence and deception will begin. Ricky Jay will take the stage, produce the tools of his aged trade and shuffle them in a pair of small, fleshy hands. Queens will migrate. Aces will huddle in foursomes. Simple playing cards may spring to service as boomerangs or knives, sailing high above the stage or piercing a watermelon's hide at 10 paces. But for now, the hands are at rest. The magician, bearded and paunchy, sits in the front row of a dark and empty theater.

The wails of a girl suffering from third-degree burns over her body seared a deep and lasting memory into Kevin Kaplowitz's mind. "I remember I was about 10 and this little girl was wheeled into the hospital, and she was crying so bad," Kevin said. "I went over to her and made her a balloon animal, and she started smiling and laughing. I got her to forget about her pain." At least for a moment. He was visiting the hospital to perform a magic show for patients when the girl was brought in.

When magician-illusionist Chuck Burnes toured the movie-house circuit in the early '50s, he could work audiences waiting to see monster movies into a dither by conjuring a couple of "real" monsters and dispatching a few shrieking spooks over viewers' heads. Then he would pack up his bag of tricks and move on to the next town and the next thrill. Burnes, 65, has spent more than five decades in the entertainment business as a performer and a producer.