Magicians, being a crafty bunch, had rigged the door so you need proclaim "Open Sesame" to a little robotic Owl with red eyes to gain entrance. I tried to bend the rules by threatening the tiny guy with violent force, saying "Step aside you foul minion of serpentine sorcery, lest I cast you to the depths with my crimson staff", but he stood strong and only allowed us passage with the appropriate magic words. The door opened, and we hightailed it to the aforementioned bar part of the castle to replenish our liquids and case the joint. Magic indeed.

To his credit, Paul looked pretty sharp, but I must say my navy blue sport coat and unwieldy tie didn't lend much to my attempts at casual conversation with my fellow bargoyles. Also, since you were supposed to be invited to the Magic castle by a magical friend, and we were there merely as the uninitiated webmasters of a internet site about a movie featuring a puppeteer we had never met, we were a few steps behind the average occupant in the information department. So, rather than hassle the more-knowledgeable clientele for ancient secrets of scripture, we simply had a few more drinks and let it ride. The enlightening elixir, as it were, eventually delivered us to the showroom where the Huber Marionettes would perform.

We were greeted by a towering golden man in a tight, bright, blue suit, and if ever a mortal were graced by magical light, this was the guy. He, we soon found out, was David Alexander, partner to the headlining shaman of the eve, Mr. Phil Huber. He tossed us some drink tickets, mesmerized us by his blinding smile, and whisked us to our seats. I made sure never to look to deeply into his eyes, for I knew within lay the power of hypnotism, a special form of manipulative magic, and I briefly entertained the idea that the Huber Marionettes were not puppets at all, but the captured souls of unlucky men entranced and incarcerated in wooden tombs, dancing at the seeming will of their puppet-master. Then Lance showed up with this digital video cameras, and the thoughts slipped forgivably from my mind.

The room darkened and a succession of mediocre magical acts commenced, and although I hate to make fun or criticize people who have put a lot of time and energy and love into something, let's just say magic needs a good kick in the ass. Rope tricks and smoke and making pigeons appear from your nose are old, old, hat, and as I watched, suddenly magic didn't seem as ominous and mystical as when I first entered the castle- it seemed trite and tired. I mention it, not because I want to incur the vengeful hatred of possibly-dangerous magicians, but because magic is good stuff and shouldn't fall the way of tired Vegas lounge routines, white tigers, and sequin bell bottoms. (What happened to Houdini? He was punk as hell. I digress.)

My expectations having been lowered, when Huber took the stage, I was a little worried that live puppetry might be a similar disappointment. Man, was I wrong. We sat through five or six of the most realistically rendered little wooden people I could have ever imagined, dancing and singing and swinging on trapeze and playing the violin and lord knows what else. It went beyond entertaining, even to the point of creepiness, I'm afraid. It was difficult to remember that the puppets were puppets, and having suffered through the typical drama-department productions of an average American high school, I have to say these particular puppets showed a lot more charm and subtlety of character than most actors. Suddenly I was worried about the magic again, for here was a man- performing at the Magic Castle- who was displaying no magic at all, simply amazing mastery of motor skills and dexterity. If there was magic, it was unseen, and not hidden behind smoke and mirrors, but possibly crawling through the blood of the undead, imprisoned souls of Puppet Madness.

The show ended, there was more tasteless magic, and finally the room cleared. We were greeted by the towering golden man once again, and he led us to the master's chambers. I braced myself for the final conflict, did this puppeteer prove evil, and his sycophantic brigade of wooden demon children descend on our unsuspecting, helplessly unmagical persons.  But, Phil turned out to be a real nice guy. I hesitate to expound too much on the psychological factors that would lead a person to a life of puppetry, and I feel that the film (man this sounds like a plug as I write it, but I'm being honest) provides a much more interesting and insightful expose than I feel I am capable of right now. Mr. Huber grew up making puppets, and gives them a life that undoubtedly comes from extending a certain amount of his soul into their lifeless bodies. In return, I imagine, they lead him through a vicarious life of portly soul singers, delicate trapeze artists, loving pets, Liza Minnelli, and whatever else his hands desire.  We bid farewell, shook our heads in astonishment, converted our drink tickets to liquid currency, and saddled up for a long, enriched night in Hollywood (I ended up at La Poubelle, a cheesy bar on Franklin, approaching fancy tarts in my Security Guard regalia, only to be summarily dissed at every instance.)

Leaving, after some friendly conversation with the bartender, we stepped to the exit door to leave. I stopped in my tracks, and looked for a final sign of magical trickery. "You have to say 'Open Sesame'", called the jovial barman over my shoulder. I wasn't falling for his Jedi mind tricks- the only dark magic of the evening. I pushed on the bar, the door opened, and we breathed deep of the evening air.