“I’d love you to be my partner in crime, Mr. Harvey.”
“Hell, yes!” Steve Harvey eagerly replied, “I’ve been wanting to do this my whole life!”
See Bob Arno steal from Steve Harvey on Little Big Shots Forever Young, which aired July 19, 2017. [Wait a sec—video may be slow to load.]
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.
“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.
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.
David Avadon, a friend and associate of mine, died of a heart attack in a gym in Los Angeles. David was recently billed as The King of Pickpockets. Although he wasn’t a close friend, we had many long and interesting chats over the years. Our intense passion for the research of stage pickpocketing was equal both in seriousness and determination to find hidden truth and facts. But we were competitors and, as such, we were cautious of sharing information.
I first met David in 1990 when he used to visit the Bally/MGM showroom in Las Vegas where I was the featured attraction for three years in the Jubilee! show. He would always come with Ricki Dunn, another pickpocket entertainer (and good friend of mine). Ricki and David were close friends for over twenty years, and Ricki was later profiled extensively in David’s book Cutting Up Touches, probably the best book ever written about stage pickpocketing and the artists practicing the art.
For his book, David managed to track down obscure facts about the jealously and infighting among stage performers. The anecdotes come fast and furious; the guarded secrecy surrounding techniques were a dominant factor in all relationships among vaudeville pickpocket entertainers then, and pickpockets now.
I never saw David perform in a live show so I cannot comment on his skill, but I know that he was a warm and outgoing performer with a tremendous knowledge about this very narrow and secretive performance art. I’m quite certain that his library on the art is far more extensive than any other private collection anywhere today. David was not a criminologist, but a collector of performance memorabilia on pickpocketing. It will be interesting to see where this library eventually goes—hopefully to an institution where aspiring performers can have access.
The art of pickpocketing is a tightly protected art form and it’s darn impossible to get the real facts or true techniques revealed. Basically because stage pickpocketing (versus stealing in the streets) depends on the individual persona of the performer and how he adapts his mannerism and personality to the extraction techniques. It is a marriage of the two that fosters a dynamic pickpocket show. Other related artists, like magicians and jugglers, might succeed without projecting a personality, on sheer finger technique and practiced skill. Pickpocketing incorporates psychology, reading the body language of a victim, creating good diversion techniques, and of course timing during extraction. It also requires a strong sense of comedy, and to some extent quick verbal skills and improvisation. Without those combined ingredients the show will fall flat.
This is why there are few pickpocket entertainers today (or ever). It’s extremely hard to learn and turn into effective entertainment. David’s book mentions many of the deceased pickpocket entertainers of the past three or four decades. Few had much impact outside the country or city where they worked. The successful ones could be counted on one hand: Borra, Dominique, Vic Perry, and Giovanni.
Today, major production houses and television talent shows like Cirque du Soleil and America’s Got Talent attempt to incorporate the art of pickpocketing—without much success. Manufacturing this talent, from a producer’s point of view, is not easy. Cirque du Soleil tried by gathering all the known video tapes of successful performers and invited aspiring pickpocket talent to come to their workshop in Montreal to screen the routines of the masters with the intent of creating a pickpocket segment in their show. And when was the last time you saw a good pickpocket segment on a talent show, like America’s Got Talent? And yet, every season they send out requests to agents and managers for pickpocket entertainers. The art form has few practitioners.
David Avadon helped keep the spirit of this murky art form alive. His book and his research will live on. Cutting Up Touches was small in size but large in content. Goodbye, David. Let’s hope you meet your old pickpocket pals and mentors in the next waystation.
Other fine pickpocket performers:
Borra, Â April 26, 1921—October 11, 1998
Ricki Dunn, April 2, 1929—January 29, 1999
Chappy Brazil, Nov. 26, 1964—June 27, 1998
The Hoodwinked show tour was a resounding success.
I’d like to credit the director, Jim Millan, for his vision and clever construction of the production. And con artist Todd Robbins, the brilliant writer and deliveryman of subtle humor, the best of which is stated under his breath, reserved for those paying attention.
Hoodwinked was reviewed at length here and here.
Someone gave it a nice compliment here.
And on Twitter, I saw: “Sun 23 Nov 08 | 02:56 GMT just got home from Hoodwinked, starring Todd Robbins, Banachek, Bob Arno, and Richard Turner. Fabulous! | twitter.com”
Hoodwinked opened Tuesday night at the gorgeous State Theater in Easton, PA. It was the first show of our five-city east coast tour and we couldn’t be happier with it. Spectacular theater, perfect tech, 1,000 people packed in, all of whom shot out of their seats for an enthusiastic standing ovation.
It was a huge success.
We’re playing Lyman Center for the Performing Arts in New Haven tonight. The tour is only six shows in five cities in five days. Here’s the remaining show schedule.
“If it weren’t onstage, it would be illegal” —The Montreal Gazette
Montreal—Our new show, Hoodwinked, opened July 15 in the Gesù Theatre as part of the Just For Laughs Festival. We had three performances, all to nearly packed houses, and all received instant standing ovations.
We were all thrilled, having come together only three days earlier to put the show together. In fact, we considered these performances our technical rehearsals.
“Prepare to be conned” is the show’s subtitle. The cast is made up of four consummate con artists who manipulate, baffle, and social-engineer the audience until they don’t know what to believe. But let me emphasize: this is not a magic show.
Take Richard Turner: cheat, card mechanic, card sharp. To be honest, card tricks bore me to to death. What Richard Turner does is riveting. His control of the cards is other-worldly, especially since he allows his audience to shuffle and cut the deck as much as they want to. He deals a winning hand at will, places the queen in three-card-monte exactly where you know she isn’t, and flips out aces from portions of the deck chosen by an audience volunteer. Simply amazing. How does he do it? “When the gambling gets heavy,” he says, “I cheat.”
Richard is famous for his dirty dealing, which he demonstrates in the show. In fact, he demonstrates it with a card face up on the deck, so you see it stay there while he appears to deal normally. Two video cameras capture his work and project it on a huge screen behind him. Still sounds so-so? Richard demonstrates a perfect faro shuffle, in which he neatly splits the deck into equal halves (one-handed), then interweaves the two halves exactly every other card. His feel for the cards is barely believable. Pick a number, he tells his audience volunteer, holding out a deck with one hand. She says 14, or 27, or 36, or whatever. The instant she says it, he twists a chunk of the deck out, one-handed. Count them, he demands. Incredible.
Richard, a fifth-degree black belt in karate, is blind. At least that’s what they say in Hoodwinked. Is this just another con? If it’s true, you’d never know it by watching him and he largely ignores the fact himself. If it is a fact, of course. I had the enormous pleasure of spending a week with him and I can tell you, his life has been more colorful than anything the rest of us have seen. In Hoodwinked, he weaves a few anecdotes into his card work, so that jaws drop over his manipulation and control of the cards, and stay dropped throughout.
For me, a card scoffer, Richard Turner is a highlight of Hoodwinked. Of course I’ve seen Bob Arno a million and a half times. And the show wouldn’t be possible without Todd Robbins and Banachek. All the other cast members are worthy of their own articles; I will get to their stories later.
Hoodwinked will tour the East Coast in November, with big things scheduled for 2009.