James Bartlett put on his Sunday best and wangled his way into one of Hollywood’s most unsual venues – a dining club for practitioners of the magical arts.
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The Magic Castle looks like a cross between the Disneyland fairytale palace and the house in Psycho, and even to get through its imposing front door is a feat in itself. The Magic Castle is strictly ‘Members Only’. Potential new Magician Members can’t just get nominated – they have to audition in front of the Castle’s membership committee. Only if they demonstrate sufficient magical prowess to pass muster are they welcomed into the Academy of Magical Arts, an exclusive club for the practitioners and performers of magic and illusions. Members also have to be financially responsible and of good morals. It’s possible, if you’re simply an interested party or a supporter of the art of magic, to become an Associate but, as with many posh clubs, you have to be nominated by a member in good standing, which probably means that journalists or anybody likely to reveal magical secrets to all and sundry are not too welcome.

Fees seem reasonable though: this year, Magicians are asked to cough up between 2 and 0 and California-based associates are expected to pay the most – 8–,100 per annum. There is an annual renewal fee too, but with regular events, demonstrations and a fascinating private library included in membership – as well as one of the coolest names to drop – this seems like a good deal.

Having said all that, even a member’s card won’t automatically get you in: reservations are essential for brunch and dinner sittings, which are carefully timed so that you needn’t miss a moment of the magic shows taking place in the three theatres: the Palace of Mystery, the Parlour of Prestidigitation and the tiny Close-Up Gallery.

The whole thing is strictly ‘over-21s only’ – except for that most Californian of institutions, the Sunday Brunch – and the dress codes are strict: business attire for men, evening wear for women. But when you’ve jumped through all these hoops and finally find yourself inside the Magic Castle’s front door, it feels as if you’ve stepped back in time. The stained glass windows and chandeliers are Victorian gothic, and you reel like you’re leaving the bustle of 21st-century Hollywood and going somewhere different, and somehow just a little illicit.

After handing over an entrance fee of , you’ll probably experience a moment of embarrassment before you feel able to say “Open Sesame” to the owl with shining red eyes. A moment later, though, the nearby bookcase slides open – just like in every good horror movie – and you see a red carpet and hear the sound of polite chit-chat.

Built in 1908 by the Roland B Lane Family, the house on Franklin Avenue became the Mecca for magic in 1963, when Bill and Milt Larsen and their colleagues decided to start the Academy of Magical Arts, using this as their clubhouse. It still has the same old and dusty smell that it presumably had then.

Which is appropriate, as the place is really a museum, housing a nostalgic collection devoted to the world of magic. Every wall is plastered in posters, playbills and props from the ‘golden age’ of conjuring – we’re talking Harry Houdini rather than David Blaine here – when magic tricks were the stuff of dreams and nightmares, advertised by posters employing images of the devil, monsters and the ‘other side’.

The Magic Castle is split into three floors and a basement and has, at times, the feel of a fairground haunted house: a staircase you’ve already explored suddenly leads to a room that you could swear wasn’t there before.

‘Handcuff King’ Houdini has his own room on the second floor. Pairs of cuffs that he actually used in his feats of escapology line the walls, including the only pair he couldn’t escape from. You can even listen to his voice on a wax cylinder recording.

Also in this room is a green-baize table, one of many scattered round the castle that are used for close-up magic – ‘pick a card, any card’ and the like – although this one is also used for séances. Houdini told his wife that he would try and contact her for 10 years after his death. He never did speak from the netherworld, although this table can be hired for your own spiritual adventures.

Unsurprisingly, spirits are big in the Magic Castle. One old family friend called Irma returned from the grave and took up residence in ‘Irma’s Room’ on the second floor of the house, where she now plays for visitors; her repertoire can be surprisingly contemporary at times – even Britney Spears songs have been heard on occasion!

There is also another ghost in the castle; apparently one of the magicians once died on stage, and is still seen in the theatre where he last performed.

Spirits of another kind can also be found in any one of the five bars the castle boasts: the Grand Salon, decorated with colourised slides from the old Los Angeles Hippodrome Vaudeville; the Palace of Mystery, the bar of which originally came from a 17th-century London pub; the WC Fields, which contains his trick pool table; the Hat & Hare, and finally, the tiny Owl Bar, where the walls and shelves are covered with owls of every kind – stuffed, jewellery and novelty – to commemorate the Academy’s logo (who looks rather like Hedwig from the Harry Potter movies).

After spirit hunting, you make your way to the Victorian dining room. It looks very ‘olde worlde’, sitting right under a huge Tiffany chandelier, and, indeed, its 160-year-old windows of etched and stained glass have travelled across the Atlantic from their previous home in the Imperial Restaurant in Scotland. The menu consists of simple, if pricey, fare, but people are here for the spectacle, not the food.

The evening’s first show takes place in the Parlour of Prestidigitation, a tiny theatre with seats originally from the original Santa Monica Opera House, and a red-curtained stage from which tonight’s act soon bursts. Australian Sophie Evans – ‘Fresh out of Las Vegas’ – was neither subtle nor funny, and her finale – a ‘levitating’ table – was a gyp, as she seemed to be constantly looking for the wires that made it ‘fly’.

That said, the audience was a bit of a surprise: they were all dressed to kill of course, but they weren’t the sober and serious crowd I’d expected to have made it through the dress and membership hoops. And the alcohol had clearly been flowing – a rare thing here in California, where, usually, if you have more than two drinks, people start slipping you the number for Alcoholics Anonymous.

The 10pm show at the Palace Of Mystery was nearly full and the crowd had a good go at heckling John Stetson, the host, but he kept his head and used it to showcase some very clever and impressive mind-reading tricks. He also introduced the evening’s magicians, Jorgos and Nils Bennett, a pair of Germans wearing odd ‘wow!’ expressions on their faces that went from being initially sinister to hilarious.

There was a 1980s flavour to the act – from the costumes, hair and music to the magic on display, which included producing cards and balls from thin air, and using fire and explosions to make a large cube. You almost expected one of them to emerge in a puff of smoke, chainsaw a woman in half and disappear again. What it really felt like was the kind of cabaret you’d find on any cruise, casino or holiday camp boasting a magician, or in an old David Copperfield show: a charming and campy visit to the magical past.