At the beginning of their sold-out Sydney Opera House debut, Penn Jillette, one half of this legendary magic duo, told the buzzing crowd that it has long been an ambition to play Australia's most iconic stage, and not just because of its celebrity status. As was evident from the electric vibe in the Joan Sutherland Theatre, the land Down Under boasts an impressive number of Penn and Teller superfans, and this thoroughly charming greatest-hits style show was an ideal in-a-nutshell display of why they command such worldwide reverence.
There are many archetypes that spring to mind when we think about magicians, from the sparkle of the ‘80s showman and their glamorous assistants to the hokey cruise ship entertainer with their close-up sleights of hand and the bad boy ‘90s mavericks who wow with death-defying stunts and devil-may-care nonchalance. But Penn and Teller stand apart from those stereotypes. They come from much the same pedigree as most magicians, who can trace their calling back to the heyday of vaudeville and the traveling carnival. But where they differ from their counterparts is in the vital role that storytelling and comedy play in their act, and their willingness to share the tricks of their trade.
Their two differing personas alone create a fascination; Penn, the gobby yet endearing raconteur, Teller the entirely silent yet innately puckish antithesis. It’s the irresistible charisma they both channel in tandem that powers what is, by most magic show standards, an otherwise rather austere production. Not that this show feels at all like it's lacking in substance. There’s an old saying that the most impressive tricks are usually the most expensive, but with little more than a small array of fairly humdrum props, a lot of playing cards, and a stage presence that has been more than four decades in the making, Penn and Teller are able to hold a packed-out auditorium in the palm of their hands.
The biggest ta-da moments are the ones involving the audience, with two of the main set pieces calling on every person in the house. Fear not if you find audience participation is a spell too far – there is no awkward patter or ritual humiliation involved, just a gentle and expertly corralled interaction that never feels intimidating and yields a payoff that even the shyest theatregoer would find hard to begrudge. And while there is perhaps a bit of a dearth of spectacle, it’s the warm, affable humour that thrives in this 90-minute performance that supplies the serotonin over pyros or smoke machines. There’s an honest simplicity and a touching respect for the craft of the carnie at the heart of Penn and Teller’s show that needs no additional bells and whistles, and in its own magical way, it’s this lack of dazzle that makes their tricks all the more impressive.
