Entertainment – Thiefhunters in Paradise

Castellers, the Human Towers – with video

Castellers build human towers of intricate design, topped by little children—called angels—who scamper up five or more levels of adults, raise a hand to the sky, then slither down the other side of the tower. Human tower-building is a 200-year-old Catalan tradition, and one the Catalans are particularly proud of.

Can you even imagine standing on someone’s shoulders? Without holding on? And while fighting to maintain your balance, allowing another adult to climb up your body and stand on your shoulders? And again, and again? Castellers are not professional acrobats. They’re ordinary people of all ages, all sizes, and they’re all members of human tower-building social clubs based on neighborhood.

Two or more clubs meet up and take turns building their towers, each carefully designed and rehearsed. Members of one club help strengthen the base of the other club’s tower. Tower-building is a collaboration, not a competition. Human tower-building clubs are built on teamwork, integration, solidarity, and democracy—values the Catalans hold dear.

Our thiefhunting mission in Barcelona coincided with the confusion, protests, demonstrations, and celebrations over Catalonian independence. We were smack in the middle of it, our hotel being opposite the national police building. The tiny, one-lane street our hotel was on was flanked by armed officers 24 hours a day, probably the safest hotel in the city. During demonstrations the street was blocked off and we couldn’t easily get into our hotel.

One day, Bob and I were rushing across town to pick up our translator (for interviewing pickpockets) just as independence was declared. Plaça de Sant Jaume, usually empty, was mobbed with joyous, singing people. We didn’t realize just how mobbed it was, how tight the pack, and how far into the feeder streets it reached. We dove in. I mean, we had to get across! Bob was carrying multiple camera bags and an ungainly camera sprouting a microphone and accessories. I was toting a large tripod. We burrowed and tunneled and pushed our way through the crowd. It took about 40 minutes instead of three. Half way through I realized just how stupid it had been to press forward, and got in a panic about the potential of a stampede. A single firecracker could start it. Headline in my head: “86 trampled to death, 2,000 injured!”

Castellers, the human towers

Castellers de Badalona logo

As always, I checked for Casteller events and was thrilled to find one happening during our stay. I’d only been to one long ago, in Plaça de Sant Jaume, which was as crowded as on the recent independence celebration day. I couldn’t get close to the towers. Now, on our second to last day in Barcelona, we trekked across town and arrived in time to see two Castell clubs gathering, members twisting into their black sashes, tying on their bandanas, and finally organizing a strong, jigsaw-like base for the first tower to be built.

I was excited, but the Castellers seemed nonchalant. Probably due to their constant rehearsals. This was to be an exhibition of what they’d designed and practiced. Each club would build three towers of increasing complexity. Watch in my video (below) how the first human tower morphs into a “pillar” as it is dismantled, and how three Castellers per level, way up there, gracefully step down, backwards and blindly, without using their hands. Incredible!

Castellers del Poble Sec logo

I interviewed a team member, who explained the Casteller’s long Catalonian history, lull, and recent surge in activity. The tradition of Castellers is now considered an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO.

I asked my Barcelona-based friends once, would you let your 6-year-old climb way up there? Sure, they said. All the people forming the base make a soft mattress if the child should fall.

The music, too, is unique, and I can’t get it out of my head. High-pitched wind instruments and drums play specific tunes at different stages of the tower-building, and set the pace for its construction.

I was right there, at the edge of the base, as the towers rose. So close I couldn’t capture the entire height of them. So close I actually stepped back when one tower appeared to be unstable, its members shaking, intense, trying desperately to keep the structure together.

The informative Castells website explains that only about 3% of attempted towers fall. I didn’t know that as I watched, but I knew that this tower was doomed. The three smallest children managed to slither down; then seven layers, or levels, or flights, or stories of humans came tumbling down. You have to see it in the video posted here. See it on the biggest screen possible. Look at their faces, their concentration, their sweat.

Here’s the video:

Living statue street performers levitate

Living statue street performers

Living statue street performers in Europe have learned a new trick. Now they levitate.

I’ve seen these floating swamis in several cities this month, all sporting minor variations on the theme. My favorite is the solo act I saw on a sidewalk in Rome. Unfortunately, there were three versions of the act in a row, which takes away a little of the surprise and mystery.

Aside from the lone meditating man in Rome, all the others I saw were duos—still a great effect.

And here’s what I really liked. The actors, and their assistants if they had them, hid their set-up. One morning, I saw a giant gray tent-like cover, billowing in the breeze on a sidewalk, as some mysterious activity took place within it. Though I enjoy watching the better living statues apply their makeup and don their costumes, I would not like to observe the secrets of this effect being revealed. It pleases me that the actors bother to prevent exposure.

How have the cities so suddenly become flooded with floating swamis? Is there one magician somewhere who sells or rents the gear? Does he own the franchise? Or did one clever living statue street performer take his act public, only to see a rush of copycats proliferate all across Europe?

At least one of these groups is from Bangladesh. Perhaps they all are. I didn’t have a chance to ask if they all descend from a single purveyor. Only one group I saw had a guard-assistant-controller nearby, with whom I could speak.

In general across Europe, the quality of living statue street performers has come down. I can be impressed with the creativity of some: their concepts, costumes, stillness, face expressions, and movements to reward a coin donation. But just as often now, they’re disappointing. Boring, with their faces covered by commercial masks, allowing them to lick their lips and twitch and scowl to their hearts’ content. So many now are cheap copies hopping on a bandwagon. If you’re going to be still—and do nothing—you better be really something to look at.

street entertainment

The Impersonator: Double Duplicity, Innocence, Intrigue

Film options for The Impersonator, by Ann Mann, are sure to be promptly snapped up. I’ve seen the film in my mind, so richly drawn and fully developed are the novel’s characters. Not that a film requires such depth when its action moves so quickly…

Double duplicity, innocence, and intrigue rush the story forward, while heavy doses of eroticism heat it up to an X rating—and I’m not sure it could be toned down. A family film this won’t be.

The story takes place in 1960s London, within the entertainment industry. If you’ve never been backstage, in the darkened wings of live theater, in the star’s dressing room, or in an agent’s back office, this book will have you wiping the greasepaint from your fingertips, sweating from the dressing table lightbulbs, and waving away the cigarette smoke and whisky fumes. Having worked in the entertainment world for twenty-five years, I can verify that the competitive atmosphere, individual insecurities, and artist anxiety that Ann Mann has evoked is authentic and exists today.

The book’s two protagonists are intensely likable. One is Jack Merrick, a hard-working, principled entertainment agent whose company has grown to be respected and powerful. Jack inhabits a parallel secret existence that complicates his life; a secret that today would hardly be worthy of a whisper, but in his era, carried moral and criminal repercussions.

The other protagonist is his 15-year-old Rhodesian niece, suddenly and traumatically orphaned and sent to live with Jack, her only kin. Elizabeth is a sharp cookie but, having been raised on a farm in a remote corner of Africa, is woefully naive compared to London teenagers—or any teen raised in a developed nation. With hormones raging and emotions in a delicate state, she’s thrust into a milieu so far outside her realm—actually so far outside most people’s realm—that only her backbone and fortitude see her through. Her coming-of-age is sudden, muddled by her wide-eyed gullibility and bolstered by her pluckiness.

There’s an antagonist, of course. A magnetic Machiavellian who employs his universal charisma to manipulate those who love him—or think they love him—toward his egocentric goal. A magnetic Machiavellian might be a loathsome bore drawn by another author, but Laurie Christian, a physical beauty, is fascinating in a sort of feak-show way: you can’t quite take your eyes off him, waiting to see what he’ll do next, how far he’ll go, how many suckers he can string along. Today we’d label him a consummate social engineer, but back in the 60s his type were simply called con artists.

Finally, a strong supporting role is filled by Sylvia, Jack’s competent partner and confidante. She’s a fully-fleshed character whose vivid past drives her principles today. A character who, I hope, will spin off to feature in this future film’s sequel. (I’m looking very far ahead!) Sylvia is the omniscient glue between the others: their conscience and voice of reason. Reticent, yet brave and stalwart, she grits her teeth and does what needs to be done, through tears, exhaustion, or cold sweat.

Three of the main characters are achingly, palpably lonely, and carry secrets like needy pets. While Jack is weighed down by his, Elizabeth giddily collects her secrets, confiding to her diary then reveling in the grown-up feeling of safeguarding them. Sylvia’s are repressed until events force them to surface and give her the strength to take dramatic action for the sake of those she loves.

Few of us have previously glimpsed the theater and cabaret underworld we inhabit while reading The Impersonator. Ann Mann escorts us like a practiced guide or a trusted friend. And, as if that isn’t a fascinating enough setting for a story, she gives us a peek—then thrusts us inside—even more alien territory (at least to me) when we slip behind the bedroom door to witness the homosexual intimacies between men. The door clicks shut behind us and our eyes are wide open.

Notice I haven’t revealed a word about plot? I can’t bear to give away the slightest hint. Let me just say it’s a page-turner, replete with cheating, lies, deceit, inappropriate intimacies, surprises, rough sex, plot twists, a delightful reference to pickpocketing, drunken orgies, gratifying vengeance, illnesses, injuries, backstage secrets revealed, and a very satisfying ending.

I can’t wait for the film, even though I know that books are always better. I really enjoyed The Impersonator.

TV studios today

We did a lot of television these past few weeks, and I’m struck by the differences in studios and the effects on the interviews. The Access Hollywood studio in Burbank was full of bustling people: producers, hosts, camera operators, gaffers, powder-puffers, etc. The atmosphere was lively, jokey, fun, and efficient. Among the crew, there were winks, high-fives, and laughs, though within a sense of electric urgency: let’s get this done, but have a good time doing it.

On the set of Access Hollywood with hosts Kit Hoover and Billy Bush.

KCAL's human-free newscast studio. — KCAL’s human-free newscast studio.

Contrast that with KCAL’s Studio City set at KCBS. The huge set was dark and completely empty of humans, except for the two hosts. Acres of polished cement were trod only by electronic cameras, which glided silently, each trailing a thick tail of bound cords. The atmosphere was…dead. The interview was humdrum. Uninspired. Perhaps there was a party going on in the control room, I don’t know.

Same went for the KNBC Studio. Robotic cameras clicked and whirred in the darkness, rolling across the floor, rising, lowering, like ghost-spys. Their thick yellow umbilicals were, presumably, coiled by flesh-and-blood hands. Lack of human warmth leads to stilted talk, at least with a performer used to working in front of a live audience. The interview with Colleen Williams was interesting and informative, but dry.

Electric Playground's adorable Miri Jedeikin interviews Bob Arno in the street — Electric Playground’s adorable Miri Jedeikin interviews Bob Arno in the street

Understandably different were the streetside interviews. Electric Playground’s adorable Miri Jedeikin obviously had a blast interviewing Bob in the heart of Hollywood, and it shows in the finished product.

The Examiner‘s Danielle Turchiano and KABC-TV’s Ric Romero did lively sidewalk interviews in which Bob was able to demonstrate on passersby—always fun and successful.

In two trips to New York City, Bob appeared twice on Fox & Friends and once on The Today Show (which I can’t find online).

Yep, we’ve been busy.

Bob Arno interview tv

On touring

Just For Laughs Comedy Tour 2010: Gina Yashere, Ryan Hamilton, Bob Arno, Robert Kelly, Frank Spadone, and Jeremy Hotz (not pictured)

Bob and I are presently touring. It’s just three weeks across Canada—nothing long or exotic. We’re not roughing it, either. Well…15 cities in 21 days is a little rough.

We’re part of the Just For Laughs Comedy Tour—bringing raucous humor to large and small cities from east to west. The tour has been organized to the smallest detail with the dual goal of putting on fabulous shows almost every night and making it as easy and pleasant as possible for the artists. That means our hotel rooms are ready no matter how early we arrive. Keys are handed out without our needing to check in. Our frequent flyer numbers and hotel loyalty program numbers have been entered for us. We’re pre-checked in for flights, and cars, vans, and buses are always ready when we are.

When we get to each theater, our names are on the dressing room doors and our favorite snacks and drinks are backstage in the green room. Our own secure wifi network has been set up. The backstage ambiance is relaxed at first, but energy quickly builds as the comedians gear themselves up for their sets. Each has his or her own way of mentally preparing. One sings and does little dance steps. One reviews notes. One snipes at anyone he sets eyes on, warming himself up. And one doubles over with stomach cramps from anxiety. Each is a seasoned professional and hits the stage in attack mode, ready to tear the audience apart.

New to Canada, we never know what to expect as to theater or audience demographic. It’s fun to experience the differences. The theaters range from beautiful, old, traditional ones like the Capitol Theatre in Moncton, New Brunswick, to the big beer-barn of Centennial Hall in London, Ontario, to the enormous Massey Hall in Toronto. Our audiences, from 800 to 3,000 people each night, have paid to see us and are therefore vastly different from the corporate attendees who basically challenge us with “go ahead—prove yourself.”

The Just For Laughs Comedy Tour stage set at rehearsal.

We’re no strangers to life on the road. 200 to 250 nights a year in beds not-our-own, for the past 17 years is the experience I speak from. This tour is high-intensity-travel.

We’re in a different hotel every night or two. After the third or fourth hotel, I lost track of our room number and now make notes for my pocket every day. Yesterday we actually entered the wrong room. Housekeeping was there and let us walk on in. We saw other people’s stuff and realized we were on the wrong floor. Such a weakness in hotel security. We keep the do-not-disturb sign on our door.

Road food is tiresome. We want a breakfast better than Starbucks, but not as big and bland as hotel buffets. We found a good restaurant chain for breakfast, then got sick of it. It’s a struggle to find an independent restaurant or diner we can walk to with so little time to spare. Dinners are mostly impossible. We leave for the theater at 5:00 or so, and are busy until 10 or later—exactly restaurant dinner hours in all but the biggest Canadian cities. We usually manage a decent lunch; sometimes very good ones. Since we stay in city centers, we must usually be sure to go for lunch before the joints close up at 2 pm.

Artists, staff, and some crew board our little jet

Mostly, we fly from city to city. We’ve also traveled by tour bus, the big comfortable kind with sofas, bunks, kitchen, bathroom, and internet. Between Prince Edward Island and Halifax, we took a private chartered jet.

While we were flying among the Maritimes, all the tour gear and sets also flew, or was driven overnight. We used smaller, packable sets and limited sound and light equipment. Now we have an 18-wheeler that carries the huge Just For Laughs set pieces, sound, lighting, catering, and office. I can’t imagine what’s in the many, many trunks that are unloaded every day and packed up at the end of each city’s gig.

For us, it’s important to have packed every thing we want or need, but nothing else. Packing every single morning makes you think about what you really want to unpack. What you really want to unpack varies vastly from person to person. Especially from Bob to me. I am the minimalist in our family. He brought his espresso machine. Touring in cold weather is an extra complication, having to look after such easily losable items as gloves and scarves.

Just a few of the sea of trunks and set pieces carried by the truck.

We thoroughly enjoy the company of the other comedians in the show, as well as the staff and crew. We don’t sense any of the competitiveness or jealousy common among magicians. From our perspective, the mix of personalities on this tour is harmonious, and the beginning of lasting friendships.

Bob Arno just for laughs travel

Just For Laughs Comedy Tour of Canada

Today is the third day of a three-week tour across Canada with Just For Laughs. This is a blast, and very different from my usual corporate gigs. The Just For Laugh Comedy Festival is the world’s oldest and most prestigious comedy event, held every July in Montreal. It attracts major comedy talent from around the world and has grown into be a two-week global showcase of the best and rising-star comedians, very much like the Cannes film festival.

Just for Laughs now takes a show across Canada. This year the featured comics are Jeremy Hotz, Gina Yashere, Robert Kelly, Ryan Hamilton, host Frank Spadone, and me, Bob Arno. The beautiful theaters we play hold 1000 seats to several thousand. For me this is a first, and hanging with bright, talented comedians is as much fun as interacting with pickpockets in Europe, or hanging with undercover security agents in the USA. The pendulum swings from one extreme to another.

We have just concluded filming in Europe for our documentary, done a corporate event in Toronto, attended the annual convention for professional mentalists (MINDvention) in Las Vegas, and now this comedy tour. How more varied can our work be?

The first night the show got an instant standing ovation. Huge applause for each comic. Very different from performing for a corporate event, where the management and event planners are often sticklers for squeaky clean content. The extent of the censoring can be extreme, including a preview of the performer’s spoken lines to make certain that nothing may offend any sub-group among the attendees.

But a comedy tour is a very different animal altogether. Here the audience buys tickets and expects raw and cutting-edge comedy, which by nature will nearly always offend someone. The bigger the appeal or the stronger the ticket demand is, the more controversial the material may be. This tour has a sponsor — Capital One Bank — and therefore even our cast got a briefing of sorts to not embarrass our client. Otherwise we have practically free reign.

During the next couple of days we will chat with our fellow comedy team members and share what they have to say about touring, the comedy scene today in North America, where their careers are, and how to expand and climb the ladder. We will go inside the minds of some of the very best new and successful comedians out there today.

Bob Arno comedy Entertainment

Neither courteous nor honest

“I loved your show.”

Bob and I both had our mouths full of Roquefort and pears and sourdough croutons. We raced each other to swallow awkwardly in order to answer. The man stood at our table expectantly and watched us chew. One of us finally managed a polite reply.

“You’re really good at reading people,” the man continued, and went on, full of praise and compliments. He was referring to a routine in our show in which Bob analyzes the personalities of five or six audience members. It had gone especially well that night and the man was raving about it. Bob and I set our knives and forks down and smiled up at him while he recalled “a similar show” in which a woman’s brassiere was ripped off.

We detest the comparison to this goofy magician’s coup, but we nodded and smiled some more. Our courtesy encouraged him. He gestured with enthusiasm, sloshing a bit of red wine onto the table. I folded my hands in my lap and realized the bouillabaisse would arrive before we finished our first course.

The man was now relating how he was almost pickpocketed once, long ago. Oh, you’ll like this story, he promised, and asked permission to sit down. Sure, we had to say, but my smile was thin. The man launched into his ancient near-catastrophe. Just as he was getting to the good part, how he foiled the theft before it ever happened, his wife arrived at our table, wine in hand.

“Oh, he hasn’t imposed himself, I hope,” she said. “Shelly, why are you sitting at their table? They’re trying to have a nice dinner.”

“I’m not bothering them, we’re having good conversation!” he said jovially. “They look conservative but I bet they like to get wild! We can join you, if you like,” he suggested. “I’m sure the waiter wouldn’t mind moving our plates! And a bottle of wine, please!” He gestured to a hovering waiter.

“Of course we won’t do that, Sheldon! Get up right now and let’s leave these people alone.” The woman turned to me. “I’m very sorry, he must be a little drunk.”

“Not at all! Sit down, Phyll. I’ll tell the waiter.” The man rose.

“Shelly, don’t be rude. You can’t just—”

“You’re welcome to sit,” I finally said, “just please don’t stand over us arguing.”

That was all it took. The couple’s cold, half-eaten meal was quickly brought to our table and Bob and I picked up our silverware. At least we didn’t have to say much. The man was full of stories and his wife supplied timely prods. Bob made appropriate replies, dredging up authentic courtesy from some stale reserve. My well was dry.

The bouillabaisse arrived steaming; its clear broth, fragrant with fennel, covered barely-cooked fish. I had the distinct impression that the couple had designed their finagle from the start, despite their bickering role-play. The way the wife sauntered over with her lipsticky wine glass, like a suburban housewife ready for twilight gossip. Why, otherwise, were their plates brought over so readily? And the bottle of wine. They must have cued the waiters. I took another sniff of soup scent and lifted my spoon.

“I know!” the man said looking at me. “Let me read your hand. You’ll love this.”

“He’s really good at it,” his wife said. Silver charms on her necklace flashed as she leaned back anticipating our satisfaction.

“Hold up your right hand.”

I dropped my spoon and limply raised my hand, wondering how long I had to allow this. We’d intentionally taken a table at the back of the restaurant, but that had meant parading through the whole room.

“No, fingers together. Open your hand hard!”

Yes, like a protest, I thought. Enough!, I silently gestured at him. Stop! But he didn’t read my mind or body language. He was going to read my palm and I gave him the pose he wanted.

“I can see right away that you don’t like spending money. Your lifeline is long, but your loveline is broken. You’ve had multiple relationships, yes? Or you will.” He stretched to pour me some wine. “I think you like the lifestyle…?”

I gave away nothing with my stoneface. I felt mean and I wasn’t going to let him cold-read me. I took a spoonful of broth, noticing a faint essence of orange peel.

“No, I’m not finished! Hand up!”

I put my hand up obediently and tuned out as the man droned on. My anger brewed and my tolerance withered. We’re often interrupted at meals, but most people are polite enough to keep it brief. And how many simply forego interrupting our meal at all?

“isn’t he wonderful?” the wife was saying. “Is he right? Isn’t he exactly right?”

“You’ve said a lot,” I offered, “and it was remarkable. I’ll have my dinner now, before it gets cold.” I wished for once that Bob would tone down his manners. He was too gracious about the intrusion. As always just after a show, he was high on endorphins, talkative. I was the only sourpuss.

I imagined the accidents that could occur with shellfish in broth. How well could I aim a recalcitrant mussel shell? I’ve splashed myself enough times to know how to orchestrate a brothy geyser. Or, the crab claw—might it squirt when I straighten the joint? Amusing myself this way made me feel a little better. What the hell, we were in it. Can’t change the situation now.

“This is only the second time he’s read someone’s hand,” the wife said. “Really, he doesn’t do it all the time. I don’t know what made him do it. It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Are you hot?” She waved her hand in front of her neck, then lifted her silver necklace, as if it to let air under it, or to dislodge it from sweaty skin.

And of course, calling attention to her delicate chain made me notice the oddness of its four silver charms. They were two identical male gender symbols, and two identical female symbols.

Bob and I worked on our soup while the couple egged each other on with their stories. I guzzled the Chardonnay, thinking another bottle would be fair compensation.

The couple was not particularly obnoxious. The man, Sheldon, had certainly behaved badly when he imposed himself and then his wife. He didn’t notice (or ignored) my discomfort when he insisted on reading my hand. So he had poor judgment. Or was a little drunk. A life-of-the-party type, he’s probably accustomed to spicing up dull conversations. Full of himself, though, he failed to pick up our signals.

Maybe we failed to pick up his, too. Was this some sort of pitch or come-on? Did we miss some subtle clues embedded in Edward’s hand-reading blather? Maybe I should have paid attention.

Bob and I excused ourselves before dessert, preempting the invitation I now think would have been inevitable. But we’ll never know what Phyll and Shelly were plotting or what activities they had in mind.

I often struggle with the choice between courtesy and honesty. I’d like to practice both, but sometimes the two are mutually exclusive. In this situation, I was neither. And I hated it. Honesty was not called for, but I should have been able to dredge up some grace, if not courtesy.

behavior body language corporate entertainment Entertainment

A visit to Iran

Iran today looks quite like in the 60s. — Iran today—looks quite like in the 60s. Photo ©Copyright Rafael Derkson 2010.

In Iran: Bambi with fresh, warm Persian bread. — Bambi with fresh, warm Persian bread.

Iran: Salt shaker from the Shah of Iran — My souvenir from the palace, obtained the day I became a real thief.

These young men struck an impromptu pose when they noticed our cameras.

Iran

Bob Arno here, on our recent visit to Iran. The country has been in the news lately regarding the arrests of 30 persons accused of a U.S.-backed cyber war. We passed through last week, while also visiting Oman, Kuwait, Bahrain, and India. This is not an in-depth analysis about the stability of the present government in Iran or what lies in the future regarding its precarious relationship with Europe, Israel, and the U.S.; simply some observations from a short visit. [Way below!]

I first visited Iran in the mid-sixties as a young entertainer, performing in a shabby nightclub in Tehran. The booking was for two months and quite typical of the kind of engagements I was getting all over the middle East in those years, in Beirut, Cairo, Dar Es Salaam, and Teheran. These clubs were basically a front to sell alcohol and what were then called “consummation girls.” Even today, Lebanon advertises for girls to work as dancers and consummation hostesses in clubs across Lebanon.

The nightclub shows were simply an excuse for the management to have a license and to be allowed to stay open in a Shari’ah society. These were tough audiences, not especially interested in a young Swedish comedy performer, but the novelty of pickpocketing was intriguing and different from the usual fare of belly dancers, jugglers, dance teams, and singers. My show at the time was rough around the corners and I hadn’t yet acquired the confidence or slickness which later became my trademark and is essential to being a good pickpocket. With a few simple pickpocketing stunts I was able to bamboozle this nearly-ninety-percent male crowd and hold their attention.

Halfway through my booking, the club management informed me that I had been invited to the palace to do a private show for the Shah. No, there was not going to be any extra fee; this was an invitation to entertain the royalty (as if I were a court jester), and I should consider myself honored that his highness the Reza Shah had requested my services.

My manager at the time was a British show-business entrepreneur—Lord Anthony Moynihan. Moynihan was married to his second wife (he would eventually be married five times), a Pakistani belly dancer called Princess Amina. A diva of considerable proportion and a nightclub attraction with great popularity throughout the Middle East, she always guaranteed large audiences. Lord Moynihan was in Teheran, together with Princess Amina, who was performing in the same venue as myself. There have been many colorful stories written about Princess Amina. The most accurate one was written in 2002 in The Daily Times (of Pakistan) by Kaleem Omar.

Lord Moynihan was instrumental in structuring my career and coordinating my early bookings from the mid- to late sixties, culminating in several gigs at the London Playboy Club run by the infamous Victor Lownes. We parted ways in early 1970, when the Lord became one of the most wanted men in the UK for financial fraud. I, too, had long suspected Moynihan of “unusual” business practices, but I was never able to nail him with evidence, despite our close association. I finally got hip to his shenanigans when Victor Lownes told me that Moynihan could no longer enter the club premises, because he had been caught operating a cheating syndicate, pushing roulette chips over the table lines, with sophisticated diversion techniques involving beautiful girls leaning and shading the line of sight of the dealers. I don’t know who learned most from whom during our eight-year relationship. But that’s another story. And another post.

The Lord, Princess Amina, and I were brought to the Palace in downtown Teheran and invited to dinner. No, not with the Shah and Farah Diba, but at a separate table in a different room. Most memorable were the table settings, the porcelain, and the gold utensils. For a young impressionable Swede this was certainly a first.

A security adviser soon told me to enter the sitting room and do my show. Gathered on a large sofa were the Shah, Princess Farah Diba, King Hussein of Jordan, and his young wife, Queen Noor. But there were parameters. I was firmly instructed not to touch the Shah during my performance. How does one do pickpocketing if he’s not allowed to touch his subjects? Further on, the Shah wore a gold Rolex Presidential watch—at the time one of the most expensive watches in the world, and certainly not something that I would experiment with. The only thieves who are able to lift Rolexes are in Naples, Italy (then and now), and their technique is most certainly not appropriate for light dinner entertainment in a royal setting. I had to resign myself to some other table magic routines, which were my usual fallback material when all else failed. My evening with the royal rulers in the Middle East was not a success to boast about. I never ripped off the Shah of Persia. Well, not the official way.

And now we go forward, to the present day. I haven’t been back to Iran since the sixties. Today, hopefully, I am more astute at reading security trends and the political winds. I especially wanted to talk to ordinary young people about their feelings on Iran now and how they see their future in relation to Europe and the rest of the world. I expected to see parallels with Turkey, where the dialog about joining the European Union is intense, if not conclusive. Our first destination was Bandar Abbas, a city of around 370,000.

Driving through the center of the town I noticed an abundance of graffiti, or recently overpainted graffiti. I was curious about whether the slogans or messages were political, and for or against the government. I got the most amazing replies to my questions—mostly outrageous explanations, with no grounding in reality. For example: people are allowed to advertise for a month on the walls and then the municipalities paint over the walls to allow for new messages.

Or, an even better explanation: young people are encouraged to express themselves artistically on the walls, and then they are repainted for new creative expressions. I could not find a single person who would insinuate or say that these were angry statements from the opposition which had been removed or painted over by the authorities. End of that story.Â

But I did find several people in their mid- or late twenties who proclaimed that most of the young people hated the present regime, that they were robbed of their election, and that nobody cares or pays any attention to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. True, these were people who spoke English and had a good education. Had I been out in the countryside and had a similar conversation with farmers, I might have gotten an entirely different story.

The most significant reflection I can pass along is how friendly everyone was, regardless of where we walked. We were obviously a novelty to the people, but there was absolutely no anti-American mood expressed or observed anywhere. People were genuinely friendly and open, and wanted to communicate and interact. There are many countries around the world where we Americans are sneered at, or receive a cold reception; Iran, at present is not one of them. That is not to say that the regime is not presently jockeying and manipulating world opinion. They are facing an embargo or trade sanctions in the UN, and perceptions of European visitors, tourists, or business travelers can shape the dialog.

We did notice civilian dressed security personnel following us from time to time, when we traveled and stayed with a group of other Americans, but mostly we were on our own and without escort, supervision, or secret surveillance. We spotted a few young clumsy pickpockets on the perimeter of a large crowd that had gathered around a troupe of shady “three card monte” men, operating just like they do in the rest of the world—spotters, shills, and a main operator. And, as usual, they scattered when a motorcycle with two cops approached.

In the souks we saw many social subgroups in their traditional garb. One should certainly not point a camera at these conservative women without permission. Some gave us the okay; others declined. Yet others struck unbidden poses and begged to be in our photos.

Iran is clearly at a turning point this year. It will be interesting to see the developments the next six months. Because I recently wrote about the Mahmoud Al Mabhouh killing in Dubai, I will conclude this post with an observation about Dubai, and its latest chess move: barring entry to any person with an Israeli passport. There has been a lot of speculation about whether this presumed Israeli operation was sloppy, arrogant, or ill-informed of the quality of the surveillance equipment. Senior analysts in the intelligence communities have expressed conclusions that they must have underestimated the advanced surveillance technology in Dubai. Security guru Bruce Schneier opened his recent Crypto-Gram newsletter with an interesting summarization.

I recently spoke with Samuel Lewis, former Ambassador to Israel for eight years during the Carter and Reagan years (and later director of the State Department’s Policy Planning Staff during the Clinton years). Ambassador Lewis has a deep understanding of the Iran-Israel conflict: he too thinks that the Israeli Mossad had underestimated the Dubai technology advances. That is, if the Mossad are the people behind the assassination. My own theory on this is that the Israelis wanted to send a clear message both to Dubai and its banking system, and to HAMAS. The software and the technology going into the camera surveillance systems must surely be well-known to the Israeli intelligence community. In weeks to come, we’ll hear more interesting revelations about the Dubai affair.

Bob Arno Entertainment Iran travel

Pickpocket heaven at Oktoberfest

Psychology is an integral part of a good cannon’s skill-set. He must be able to read the mark. More than one good pickpocket has told us that the rush is better than a drug high (which many have the experience to compare), when he sinks his hand into a mark’s pocket and touches a wallet, even if there’s no actual extraction. Just being there—inside a complete stranger’s pocket—is a rush. Pickpockets often come up with nothing, for many reasons. The poke was lying sideways in the pocket. It was too thick. In a woman’s handbag, the zipper opening was not large enough to let the wallet slide out, The mark made a move sideways, or suddenly changed face expression (to anger or strain). Grift sense informs the pickpocket’s next move in the game.

Early this month, Germany’s RTL Television Network sent for Bambi and me for its program, Extra. Over the past six or seven years I’ve had several segments on RTL’s Extra, all with high ratings; which may explain why the network flew two people all the way from Las Vegas to do only a ten-minute spot in a one-hour news-program.

RTL Extra producer Burkhard Kress with pickpocket Bob Arno

This time the assignment was different and demanding. The producer, Burkhard Kress, wanted me to steal from the public at Munich’s enormous Oktoberfest, where more than eight million people congregate over a two week period. The goal was to illustrate why pickpockets love crowds, and that Oktoberfest is a strong magnet to international cannons.

During the festival, hundreds of international pickpockets descend on Munich and practice their trade, not just on the fairgrounds, but also on public transportation, in hotel lobbies, and everywhere tipsy revelers rally—pickpocket heaven for sneak thieves. Cannons who usually operate in St. Petersburg, Bucharest, Rome, Naples, Athens, Paris, Marseilles, Barcelona, Lima, and Santiago, to mention just a few cities with a high level of whiz mob activity, come to Munich for the festival with hope of making a big kill.

My challenge was especially tough because I couldn’t operate in the same environments or locales as my criminal colleagues, and had to work with serious limitations and restrictions. First of all, there was a time issue. We had only two days for the project. That meant starting work immediately upon arrival in Munich (from Las Vegas), without being able to first scout the venues, the crowds, the hidden cameras, where the undercover cops were patrolling, and where the best spots were to extract the pokes without being caught by law enforcement.

And RTL wanted “money-shots”—all television programs seek these emotional moments. They’re what drive viewers and ratings. They make for tense television and, most important, they stop viewers from switching to other stations. It’s why programs like America’s Got Talent are actually scripted, dripping with confrontational emotion when participants are ejected from the show.

The television money-shot in pickpocketing is when the reporter asks the victim about safety, and how he or she perceives the threat of theft and cons. The questions are usually: “So how do you feel about pickpockets? Could one steal from you?” The answer, hopefully, will be a confident: “No way, I’m too aware, my stuff couldn’t be stolen.”

Packed into this two-day visit, we had scheduled camera shoots (me stealing from the crowd), interviews of me, my analysis of security at Oktoberfest, and lessons in theft-avoidance. We also needed time to transfer some of my crime footage that illustrates new pickpocket techniques relevant to Germany and its visitors and viewers. A project like this really needs five days.

We arrived at the hotel and changed into the working uniform, this time traditional lederhosen. We rigged cameras and wireless microphones, experimental wrist-rigs, and the usual button-cams. We also had to take into account the local laws, like what can be filmed with audio (privacy laws).

A pickpocket (in striped shirt) uses a coat to hide his work as he steals a wallet from a man boarding a bus.

Next step was a briefing with the film crew to make sure everyone understood the logistics of filming thievery. Cannons will always shield the hand going into a pocket or purse with a jacket, a bag hanging sideways over the chest, or something. This allows the thief to hide his entry into the victim’s pocket, purse, or fanny-pack and the world around won’t see the extraction. My challenge was to keep my theft hidden from the vic and his friends while enabling the camera crew to film it.

We review the day's footage while waiting for duck dinners in a beer-hall. Nearby men climb on a table and strip.

I work fast, and my hands often fly lightly all over my mark. Usually, Bambi is the only one who can anticipate the item I’m after and where to point the camera. She was thrown a camera and became one of the crew.

Most of the drinking and much of the partying at Oktoberfest takes place in the many enormous beer-halls on the grounds, huge tented restaurants which are each sponsored by a different company. RTL did not receive permission for me steal inside the tents, where the crowds were dense, but the police knew that I was working with the film team at the festival. Therefore, we had to be aware of surveillance cameras and how they were monitored. Were they actively watched by humans, or was it a system that simply records everything so that officers can go back and view footage in case of an incident?

I also wanted to avoid the inebriated. Partiers were putting away six or seven one-liter mugs of prime Oktoberfest beer. Stealing from a drunk does not make for great television in my opinion—among criminal street pickpockets this is ranked at the lowest level. It’s entry level thievery and gets no respect from the whiz mobs. They call this kind of lowlife a lush worker.

Bob Arno tells RTL reporter why pickpockets hang around ATMs. Man in green shirt is Bob's next victim.

I hung around a row of ATMs for a while to watch for a taschendieb or two on the lookout for good marks. A team of four caught my eye. I was itching to go up and introduce myself—talk shop. It usually takes me thirty seconds to determine in a conversation if they’re thieves or not. But there was a fly in the soup here. Oktoberfest management had hired undercover cops from Romania to look for Romanian pickpockets and these guys could have been them. My suspects spoke only Italian and one of them just a tad of English. Yes, we had fun talking, but I didn’t get the confirmation I hoped for.

One by one, a few good potential marks walked away from the ATM after cash withdrawals. I telegraphed to the film crew that I was ready to go into action and got an approving nod: “go for it.” I lifted a few wallets and we got superb money-shot reactions when we returned them. It was “in the can,” and everyone was happy.

'No way you could take my wallet,' the victim said before Bob dangled his wallet before him.

What made this spot so successful? First and foremost, I saw where the marks placed their leathers (slang for wallets) and how thick they were. I could immediately determine the print of the poke. Translation: the four corners of the wallet and where the top of it was in relation to the top of the pocket—how deep down it was. That’s significant information because it allows the me to pick a technique of extraction: what fingers to use and where to grip. Yes, there are different methods to extract a wallet.

In an ideal scenario you want to nip the top edge with your nails and stay still while the mark moves away, he simply walks away from his property. The vic’s own motion hides the sensation of the poke sliding out. An alternative, for a good cannon, is to create a small diversion when the leather is lifted. A light brush against the legs is enough, or perhaps a more demonstrative push by a female whiz mob partner (or a stall). Each extraction need a slightly different approach and technique. Is he in motion or standing still?, how tight is the crowd around him?, and so on. Each factor counts and on top of it all, the equation changes constantly depending on my read of the mark’s face. Pickpockets call this skill—reading their marks—grift sense.

A crowd gathered as Bob lifted one item after another from this man.

In the two days, I made several misses—as any cannon does. Yes, I had my hand in the purse or bag, but there was nothing significant to pull out. In one case, when I was about take an entire handbag from a woman sitting on a bench, I saw that she suddenly got uncomfortable with my presence. Another time a man’s wallet was too thick for me to remove smoothly. These are typical complications which all pickpockets experience.

A good cannon will seldom lift more than three or four pokes in a day due to the sheer tension involved. Some will target their marks carefully, knowing from the appearance of the mark that he or she is likely to have a generous interpretation of “pocket money,” and a high credit card limit. One wallet, when targeted like this, should translate to quite a few thousand dollars by maxing out credit cards. Identity theft is the next natural progression for a good pick. If the whiz mob is technically inclined, they garnered the PIN while the vic made a transaction at the ATM. Europe’s chip & pin cards make this harder to accomplish, but that’s another story.

We had a lot of fun in Munich and I was again able to test my slippery skills in real life scenarios. As a stage pickpocket, I find the level of tension much higher when stealing without the protection of the theater setting. Street thieves call it having heart; and that doesn’t mean having compassion for your vics. It’s the exact opposite: the ability to put your hand in a total stranger’s pocket and be emotionally unaffected by it—feeling cool under pressure. Having heart also means one must have lived at least for some time in the criminal world, and knows the consequences of being arrested and spending time in the box. Though I’ve never been arrested, I think I can still consider myself as having heart. Except, for me, it does mean having compassion for the victim.

Bob Arno pickpocket tv

Oktoberfest: Breasts, big beers, and Bavarian barf

Women wear dirndls: long or mini; racy or demure; traditional, sequined, or alt.

Called in to pickpocket goodies from the massive Munich Oktoberfest crowd, Bob and I, just back from Japan to do a show for Monsanto in Las Vegas, raced to catch the last two days of the bawdy Bavarian festival. (Tokyo, Vegas, Munich in five days. Thank goodness for business class.)

Bleary-eyed, we were surprised to find the RTL TV Extra crew at the airport, cameras rolling. They whisked us straight to the heart of the party for 8 million, pausing only to slip Bob into lederhosen. Most people there wore traditional costumes: men in lederhosen, women in dirndls.

Big big beers and Bavarian barf. Drinking starts 10am. Beers are a full liter. By noon, people are doubled over and hugging trees.

It was noon, and the revelers had been drinking since 10 a.m. Some stumbled along, supported by friends. Others sat on the ground, heads in hands. No wonder: beer is sold by the liter mug and the whole idea is to drink as much as possible. The gutters ran with pee and puke.

Make room for another beer: lederhosen: made for easy peeing.

Right away Bob and I noticed “suspects”—probably pickpockets, in our opinion—scanning the crowds. Time was short though; Bob was supposed to steal from sober partiers. No time for thiefhunting. We stood on a grassy slope among the sick and sleeping, the singing, the happy, the tired. A man lay sprawled face down at our feet, right arm extended clutching his cellphone like a torch, like a fallen statue.

“Let me have this one,” our producer said with a wink. He bent and slipped the phone from the man’s grip. Too easy. Unable to rouse the plastered guy, we finally stuffed the phone into his back pocket and considered it safer than it had been.

Bob and I surveyed the mob, looking for likely marks. We had a to-do list of items to steal; and we hoped for victims who’d be good for television. We didn’t want the type who’d punch Bob in the face if they caught on— granted, though, they’d be great for television.

The failed wrist-cam hinders Bob's movements and misses the steals no matter how it's mounted.

In preparation for this challenge, our special cameraman, Frank Jeroschinsky, built a fancy “wrist-cam,” a lipstick camera he strapped to Bob’s arm with a cord that ran up Bob’s sleeve and into a backpack, where the recording device was stashed. The device was meant to capture the steal as Bob’s hand entered a purse or pocket. We didn’t have the heart to tell Frank how many cameramen before him had rigged similar set-ups. Bob just ran through the tests and trials and Frank saw for himself the disappointing results.

Interesting to watch the regimented Germans let loose. As we mingled, futilely trying to blend in, we saw heaps of humanity crumpled on the ground, and those attending to them. A policeman tried to rouse a man splayed on a sidewalk. A first aid team huddled around an unconscious body. Friends supported friends as best they could.

Roving red cross wheel the sick away on stretcher wagons with yellow vinyl tent covers for privacy, window in vinyl for light.

Before Oktoberfest was over, Munich police had arrested more than 80 pickpockets. They had come from many surrounding countries, as expected. A more inviting gathering for thieves cannot be imagined. Celebrants with traveling cash flooded in from all across Europe and beyond. Flocks of Russians had flown in. Grassy parking lots were lined with hundreds of buses from Italy, Czech Republic, Spain, and more.

Pissoir optional. I was told even women skip the loo queues and use a tree.

Expecting a flood of pickpockets from Romania, authorities had also imported a special team of Romanian police.

Poor guy lost his head. Simultaneaous puking & peeing.

What struck me among all the drunk and sick and out-of-control partiers was the overall peacefulness. In two long days I didn’t see a single fight, didn’t hear shouts, insults, or curses.

Jan, the sweet cameraman always in the right place, uh—'lost' his wallet during the shoot.

Beer-garden veg-free dinner: crispy roast duck, pretzel w/ cheese & onions, beer too heavy for me to lift one-handed. No, couldn\'t finish it. Sample prices: beer, â‚¬8. hotel wifi, â‚¬17. Half a duck with nothing else, â‚¬25.

Fish-on-a-stick. Steckerlfisch grill over fires in long rows.

Bob Arno in lederhosen, pickpocketed the Oktoberfest crowd for German RTL TV 'Extra.'

RTL Television’s Extra segment was broadcast the evening of October 5 to a 27% audience share. 17% has been their maximum, so it’s considered a huge success. Although it’s not officially online, we expect to get a copy of the piece shortly. Perhaps we’ll upload it. If so, I’ll link it here.

Bob Arno crowd pickpocket steal tv

PICKPOCKETS, CON ARTISTS, GANGSTERS, THIEVES, AND TRAVEL