Houdini Dangling Upside Down after Having Just Flung Off the Straitjacket One hundred and fifty feet above a street, a writhing man fights to be his own greatest self-liberator, the performance linking risk and recovery. Death and some version of rebirth. Let’s simply admit it’s the body he wants to dispense with. Let’s say this takes place in July in Brooklyn, the straitjacket an American emblem of the menace of economic catastrophe. He’s earning $3750 a week. Chaplin has a signed photograph in an office that reads "Houdini with a hawk on his shoulder" as if escape is one art raptors know to practice all the time. Now the straitjacket floats belt-side down, flutters once, recalling a shimmying of feathers from wings in flight. He has his arms out, having earned a big-gesture tada! in the manner rehearsed playing Hindu yogi conjurers before the King of Cards, the King of the Handcuffs. Whoever has caught the certified-authentic restraint isn’t letting go but tugging at a keepsake of history. In the heat of summer, Harry Houdini rights himself. Waves to come down to the work of being part god and part again-triumphant man who, most days, has to request to be released at least long enough for the blood flow to return to an arm or a leg. Copyright (c) 2013 by Roy Bentley. All rights reserved.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Jul 2013 18:03:33 +0000
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