Magic is the means by which things pass mysteriously from one place to another. It is the gap between what appears to be going on and what is going on. Magicians call this 'misdirection' - the technique by which attention is drawn to what is irrelevant and away from what is crucial. In the best magicians, the power of misdirection will be very strong indeed. But what distinguishes the great magician is the ability to create a dramatic narrative, a story to hold up the magic apparatus to prevent the show becoming a mere chain of magic effects. Channing Pollock at the beginning of the 20th century used doves, the bird of peace, as part of his exquisitely choreographed presence; Houdini took on the laws of Nature walking through walls; the inimitable, cerebral Ricky Jay has his cards his 52 assistants.
       Marc Salem, the American internationally renowned reader of minds, in his seventh London appearance, comes on looking like a slightly chubby and cheery psychoanalyst. . 'You've entered my home' he says looking round at a stage furnished like a schoolroom, complete with books and blackboard and easel. But the guise of the academic/intellectual is undermined by his repertoire of sturdy, reliably funny gags and the sense of machinery that needs a bit of cranking up is reinforced by his repeated mantra: 'Just warming up...'
Through this strange admixture of diffidence and authority Salem anticipates winning his audience round. He promises nothing supernatural, nothing occult, but a demonstration of twenty years of observation and practice in the art of reading non-verbal communication. What he gives us is a mix of classic magic in a modern guise.
       Money features prominently. Avarice is, after all, a pretty basic drive. Salem randomly takes a five pound note from a spectator and intuits its serial numbers. In a version of the three card monte, three differently coloured envelopes, only one of which contains a cheque, are proferred to a member of the audience. Salem will steer them away from the one with the cash. He is more impressive in a later trick in which audience members are invited to lie about ownership of pictures they have drawn. He scored 100% on this, persuasively arguing that he was in fact making a psychological reading of nervous tics. Reversing the magic lore never to perform with children the logical adult mind being far easier to steer - Salem invites a young boy on to the stage and correctly guesses which item he will choose from a box of tricks a brightly coloured globe. But giving the little boy a copy of his new book as a reward was a psychological misfire. The kid wanted the globe.
In addition to being a human lie detector, a reader of minds, Salem can make his pulse stop and start at will. He can tell you the letters at the top of a page of a book opened randomly. Thrice blindfolded, he can identify objects at will. In a game of Chinese whispers he has already written down the final sentence. But his emphasis on randomness reinforces a sense of his own rather random selection of tricks. Quite simply the tricks are too attenuated, the apparatus too clumsy, for the effect they produce. If the greatest trick a magician can perform is to turn scepticism to blind awe - on this night, for this spectator, Salem failed.
Suzie Mackenzie