In & Of Itself: Marvelous sleight-of-film

In & Of Itself (2020) • View trailer

Four stars. Not rated, but contains profanity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.12.21 

Back in 1996, director/playwright David Mamet helmed one of magician Ricky Jay’s stage performances, which gave the resulting 60-minute film its title: Ricky Jay and His 52 Assistants.

 

A brick seemingly frozen in mid-throw, halfway through a shattered window, is disturbing
by its very nature. What Derek DelGaudio eventually does with that brick, is
simply astonishing.

(The two had been friends since Jay co-starred in 1987’s House of Games, and from then on he often popped up in Mamet’s films.)

 

Flash-forward a quarter-century, and director Frank Oz (Little Shop of Horrors, The Score, etc.) has just helmed this sorta-kinda documentary about conceptual magician Derek DelGaudio, and his one-man stage performance. It’s available exclusively via Hulu.

 

“Documentary” isn’t quite accurate, and I’m frankly not sure how to label this whatever-it-is. It’s part filmed stage production, part performance art, part social commentary, part confessional memoir, part head trip, and — oh, absolutely — part magic act.

 

But however we designate it, this is a must-see experience. (Actually, “experience” is an apt descriptor.)

 

Oz also directed DelGaudio’s theater show, which debuted in Los Angeles in May 2016, then moved to an Off-Broadway opening that sold out the 150-seat Daryl Roth Theater every night of its initial 10-week run. When the dust finally settled, In & Of Itself had run 72 weeks and 560 performances — becoming one of the most successful shows in Off-Broadway history — at which point DelGaudio folded his tent, cryptically stating, “I feel like I’ve said what I wanted to say.”

 

And left the public begging for more: an artistic void happily filled by this film.

 

“Cryptic” is another good descriptor, and you’ll likely spend the initial 10-15 minutes wondering whether this will be worth your time. Patience, grasshopper … because yes, it is.

 

At its core, DelGaudio’s performance revolves around identity. The film opens as, pre-show, each audience member selects one card — from the hundreds arranged on a wall — that reflects his/her sense of self. (“I am a geologist.” “I am an opponent.” “I am a drag queen.” “I am a grandfather.” “I am a drummer.” “I am a master of the universe.” And so forth.)

 

Oz, who’d never before directed a stage show, is perfectly suited to this material. He is, after all, an identity illusionist himself, having become famous for transforming inanimate constructs into fully fleshed characters such as Miss Piggy, Fozzie Bear and Yoda.

 

DelGaudio, in turn, is a master raconteur, in the sense of it being an ancient and noble art. He speaks solemnly, earnestly, his expressive hands amplifying a word or syllable. The audience, rapt, hangs on every word.

 

Early on, he recounts the parable of the six blind men who, bumping into different portions of an elephant they’ve never before encountered, separately come to wildly different conclusions. It’s a snake, says the man who feels its trunk; No, it’s four trees, say the next, who has bumped into its large round legs.

 

The metaphor is intentional, because DelGaudio’s show is an elephant of sorts, divided into half a dozen segments represented by compartments on the wall behind him. One looks like a dead letter drop, stuffed with envelopes. Another features the clay bust of a wolf, a deck of cards clutched in its mouth. One appears to be a window being shattered by a brick.

 

(Keep an eye on that brick.)

 

One contains an automaton that periodically continues its game of Russian roulette, the unsettling clicks occasionally punctuating DelGaudio’s words and deeds. His narrative weaves in and out of his own childhood, with brief observations about the career that followed; the memories occasionally reveal painfully intimate details (such as what leads to the brick in the window).

 

The actual magic is sparse but stunning, the dramatic build-up to certain tricks as mesmerizing as the legerdemain itself. His sleight-of-hand skill with that deck of cards is breathtaking, on par with Ricky Jay’s famous trick with the four queens. (I suspect DelGaudio is a master of the “perfect faro shuffle,” which has intriguing mathematical qualities.)

 

The card stuff and a few other close-up amazements are solo material; the show’s emotional heart involves audience participation. The cheekiest bit involves a volunteer who is dubbed “Mr./Ms. Tomorrow,” and is handed a massively fat book; this individual will be kicked out of the theater prior to the final segment, and sent home with instructions to fill the book’s next blank page with how s/he imagines the performance will conclude.

 

Just like all the hundreds of Tomorrows who’ve done the same, and filled the book thus far. (Lord, I hope they’re sent home with armed guards; the book is beyond precious.) The newest Tomorrow returns the following day, passing the book along (and, one assumes, then is able to see the performance to its conclusion).

 

One of Oz’s niftiest directorial flourishes is the montage of Tomorrows, obviously filmed over months’ worth of performances. He repeats this approach later, during the segment prompted by the cubbyholes filled with envelopes; this second montage — given the nature of the magic involved — is highly poignant, as audience members react to what they read upon opening an envelope.

 

By the time we reach the final segment, which is just this side of unbelievable, DelGaudio seems as emotionally spent as a large percentage of the audience. He’s gotta be acting — magicians are, after all, seasoned performers — but, even so, it’s darn near impossible not to get sucked into The Wonder Of It All.

 

“While DelGaudio is one of the finest sleight-of-hand artists in the world,” Oz comments, in the press notes, “he is not actually a magician. He’s something else entirely.”

So is this film.