Copperfield

As you know, when I'm not attempting to finagle my way into the Biz, I am doggedly chasing down access to David Copperfield's magical archive. (I say this because now I'm not so certain it actually exists.) Specifically, his much advertised and heralded International Library and Museum of the Conjuring Arts. I imply that I don't think it exists because as of last night my blind faith has been turned into troubling doubt. Last night I went to see David Copperfield.

While I say I saw him, I guess I should say I went to see his show. (Which was great, and amazing, and blah, blah, blah.) But the real drama was to be had in my attempts to get a letter about my project(s) to David Copperfield, or to anyone who would pay attention for two seconds.

This letter was a copy of one that I had sent to his California offices three weeks ago. It was on letterhead and looked terribly official. It actually made me feel somewhat important for once, like I actually had clout to throw around. These dreams are fleeting.

Here's the scoop: Upon entering the theater (in Waukegan, Il), my mother espied an old friend from college. She was lovely and gave me a hug when I met her. She actually worked at the theater taking tickets. I gave my mother an elbow nudge after meeting her, and as my mother was completely aware of my as yet unproductive attempts to figure out how in the heck one gets any sort of message to Copperfield, she was right there for me. Go Mom.

After some awkward conversation (which I think inadvertantly led the nice woman to believe I actually wanted to meet Copperfield), she promised to do what she could and ask around. Then we went to see the performance. Reminiscent of the magicians of old, the soon to be seated audience was greeted with a screen touting all of Copperfield's credentials: "Knighted by the French Government!" "Only Living Magician to be on a Postage Stamp!" "Greatest Magician of All Time!" You get the picture.

I suppose the performance lasted about an hour and forty-five minutes. There were maybe seven illusions, all of which were pretty neat. Copperfield has a thing for brushed steel - go figure. But at the beginning and in the middle, there were huge video montages that I suppose were there to entertain/kill time. The first was in the beginning, and detailed pretty much every reference to Copperfield in popular culture, from the Simpsons, to the Soprano's, to Larry King. My boyfriend was impressed that Copperfield was so self-deprecating. (Although I'm not sure how many times "Magic Dave" should be allowed to say in any one performance: "It's Copperfield, not Cop-a-feel." Creepy.)

The second video, and here it gets good, was a detailed explication of all of Copperfield's credentials listed on the screen when we came in, postage stamps and all. In addition, it also talked about his International Museum of Magic Crap and his Project Magic program - the very two things I discussed in my letter to him. I couldn't help but get excited. If he was announcing these things on stage then surely he'd be willing to entertain the projects of an interested party, me.

After the show, we find the nice lady. She had talked to Copperfield's people and I'll attempt to recreate what she said, along with my respective reactions: "Copperfield is really tough to get to and very private." [duh.] "I asked about the museum, and they said 'No Deal." [Whuuuh?] "They said go to the Museum of Magic. Do you know it?" ME: "Which one?"

At this point I go beyond rational reception of information to outright babbling about what I wanted. No, I don't want to meet Copperfield, I just want to get a letter to him. Here it is. It is very official. I want to do something on Project Magic, but if he doesn't want to participate I'll do it anyway. I work on eighteenth-century magicians, not modern magic. And from my understanding he has some documents about these magicians that aren't available anywhere else in the world. I'd abide by the Magician's Code. Here's my letter. It's very official.

She was slightly taken aback at my vehemence, I think. But by the end of my babble-fest she was completely on board. Never underestimate the power of earnest pleading. We'll see what happens. My bet is on "nothing." I'm certain that letter went in the backstage trash upon delivery.

So, back to my new reasoning about the very existence of his Museum/Library. It's smoke and mirrors. It's a distraction. It doesn't exist. It makes us believe one thing is going on, when something else entirely is happening (like taking over the world, perhaps). I think when we read "International Library and Museum of the Conjuring Arts," we should really be reading "Secret Lair of Fancy Magician: Nogrls alowed." If he's going to advertise it for chrissakes, then frickin' make allowances for people to actually use it. Sheesh.

Does this spell the end of my Melvillian quest? Probably not. I've invested too much time and energy, and at this point I just want a bloody response.

We all need our white whales.