Nightclubs: Some Enchanting Evening

On a hill overlooking Hollywood, a musty, turreted old Gothic house broods amid mist and smog. The traveler who reaches the lonely relic stands damply in a small reception hall presided over by a surly owl with satanically gleaming eyes. But there is no apparent way for the new arrival to get out of the room. Then the receptionist makes a quiet suggestion: a few words, perhaps “Open sesame!”, to the owl? The visitor speaks, and, lo, the innocent-looking bookcase near the bird swings open, revealing a crowded bar. The visitor is in The Magic Castle, the U.S.’s only private supper club specially devoted to magicians and magic lovers.

Co-Founders Milt and Bill Larsen are in both categories. After a boyhood with “The Larsens—America’s First Family of Magicians,” they grew out of the family trade and into TV writing, until they heard about the planned demolition of the old house on the hill. They bought the place, then spent a year refurbishing it with bits of vanished Victorian homes and pieces of spooky abracadabra. Opened less than three years ago with 64 members, the club has conjured up a membership of 1,300, a third of them amateur or professional magicians. The rest are just writers, businessmen, professional people and a few show business sorts who like the idea. Guest privileges are liberal, and the combination has made the Castle the freshest off-beat nightspot in offbeat Los Angeles.

Unoccult Skeptics. First-timers have the most fun. After the bookcase, there is the bar stool where a newcomer is inevitably seated. Slowly, very slowly, it sinks until the guest suddenly notices his companions towering over him and his neck straining to keep up with the conversation. A cocktail table unobtrusively revolves, mixing up drinks and drinkers. A “dead body” glares from an open coffin. In the gilded-cage elevator, a monster rattles and bangs the bars. And then there is Irma.

The legend goes that Irma has haunted the house since its days as a residence, unable to rest because of guilt feelings about some piano lessons she never took proper advantage of. So, invisibly, she takes her place each night and bangs out tunes. The bartender often places a glass of spirits with a straw near the keyboard; it is soon drained. Irma plays a little less surely after that. But she always tries to answer requests, except for songs written after 1932. She died then. Skeptics claim that the music is played by a hidden, live pianist on a keyboard mechanically mated to the keyboard that shows, and that the drinks are emptied through a hole in the bottom of the glass. The management sneers at such ridiculous unoccult thoughts.

“Pick a Card.” Gimmicks and gadgetry are not all. The club has an unusually warm atmosphere. “It’s the friendliest place I’ve ever been to,” says one recent visitor. “When you stand on the fringe of a group, it opens up to include you.” Members, staff, even the bartender patiently introduce people to one another. A cozy fire burns constantly in the air-conditioned bar. Best of all, there are the magicians. The house maintains two strolling legerdemainists, but the member magicians themselves cannot resist trying to fool fellow pros and other guests. One or another of them is constantly dropping by different tables to request that someone “pick a card.”

The result is almost always an enchanting evening, although the overall secret of the Castle’s charm is hard to isolate. The Larsens will not try. Good magicians always refuse to give away their tricks.