David Blaine has spent the past few days electrocuting himself, which is something that we can all cross off our bucket lists now. Gone are the days that we stalk the New York underground just on the off chance he might step into a puddle that we had threaded a live cable through. It’s a happy day, a future filled with a new series of X Factor and Nigella Lawson’s breasts. We should be rejoicing, except that Blaine has managed to survive yet again.
Blaine is renowned the World over for putting himself right in the pathway of certain death; only to thwart it and go on to annoy the rest of the World with his ‘look at me, even suspending myself in ice isn’t slowing me down.’ After the apocalypse the only things that are going to be around to populate the Earth and parts of Cher’s face, Mormons and David Blaine, cracking himself out a giant block of cheese to rapturous applause from the armies of cockroaches ready to strike for World domination.
Blaine, 39 has fought the wind, sea and the Earth itself and come up trumps, without a blemish on his stylish yet attractive beard. By the time that you read this Blaine will have finished his most recent extravagant spectacle and gone back to amazing his wife with card tricks, where he uses wet knives instead of cards. In a wind turbine. At dusk. He’s that good.
Except he’s not that good really.
David Blaine is one of the most arrogant men on the planet. He’s insufferable. With his desire to gain acceptance from everyone, his increasingly extravagant showing off just puts people off. Big whoop, you’re invulnerable to the forces of nature, I can make a great cheese toastie. What do you think about that?
When it comes to Blaine, the charisma that a magician needs to hook his audience isn’t there and this often leaves me feeling a bit deflated.
When it comes to dramatic spectacles, Blaine’s performances always excite and attract lots of attention, but the effect doesn’t last for long. You don’t hear anyone talking about when David Blaine stood on that pole that time, whereas people can’t stop talking about the time that Dynamo turned that bottle of Rose into a cat. A cat that could sing dirty limericks. The specifics of Blaine’s acts seem to fade slightly over time, eventually becoming a forgotten memory about something someone might have seen, but could also be a really boring dream.
I love magic. Being shocked by something that you can’t explain is unashamedly juvenile and one of the few times that it’s alright not to have work something out, but when it comes to Blaine, the charisma that a magician needs to hook his audience isn’t there and this often leaves me feeling a bit deflated about the mad deeds that he gets up to. Yes, you’re buried alive, but could you maybe tell a joke or two while you’re at it? Or tell a funny anecdote about when you met TV’s Quincy M.E., Jack Klugman? It’s a shame that he hasn’t realised how entertaining being entertained is, instead of watching him essentially do nothing in a variety of places. It might be called magic, but it’s definitely magic in the loosest term possible. David Blaine is as magical as making a fart stretch out for as long as possible, just because you can. Or having a shower so hot that you fear you may never grow hair on your back again. It’s more endurance challenges than feats of magic and wonder; which is fine on it’s own, look at James Cracknell. He’s had to put up for years talking to Ben Fogle; a man so dull that even bacteria eating his face failed to lively his Countryfile reject personality, but maybe when David Blaine takes up his position against an active volcano, or an army of pyrosexuals he could crack a few jokes sometimes; perhaps something about Simon Weston?
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