The Mesmerist with Rufus Hound at Watford Palace Theatre – review

The schizophrenic nature of Rufus Hound’s more-or-less solo show honouring his estranged late grandfather, who was apparently an obscure magician, is also one of its strongest aspects. Is it an old-fashioned variety show? Is it a celebration? A family history? Is it stand-up comedy? Is it a confessional? An exorcism? Actually, it’s all of these things, and Hound, plus a team of four writers (Maheni Arthur, Georgia Crowther, Lancelot Ellis, Chris York), keep the goalposts on the constant move and the audience guessing throughout. What The Mesmerist certainly is, is a totally delightful yet unsettling slice of pure entertainment.

Steve Marmion’s staging, like the writing and central performance, is a lot more complex and accomplished than it initially seems. One moment you’re rolling with laughter, the next gasping in surprise and wondering what the hell just happened. Belly laughs, sheer amazement and the pleasurable shudder up the spine of creeping fear and suspense are skilfully woven together in a production that always carries the sense of very real danger being just a whisker away.

Taking as its starting point the discovery by Hound, after the death of the grandfather he never knew, of boxes of props and journals pertaining to a magic show that was never performed in its entirety, The Mesmerist is partly a recreation of that performance. There’s mind-reading, escapology, illusions, audience participation, and even the famous trick of sawing a woman in half. Hound, puppyishly enthusiastic and cheeky but with an underlying edge, turns out to be as insouciant and skilled a magician as he is a comedian and presenter.

As the evening draws on, he also reveals himself to be a far better actor than one might expect, and one of the challenges of writing about this unusual show is in urging you to go see it, and raving about how mercurially brilliant Hound is, without revealing anything vital.

Jasmine Swan’s cluttered set, all dusty bric-à-brac and bespangled jumble, atmospherically lit by Philip Gladwell, adds to the ongoing sense of seedy showbiz flamboyance and simmering unease.

Intelligent, quietly compulsive storytelling and meta-theatricality, coupled with Hound’s chummy, playfully aggressive persona, keep the audience both on-side and on the edge of their seats throughout. There are sections when you can feel and hear the whole crowd breathing and reacting as one, and it’s in those moments that real enchantment sets in. The humour, much of it irresistible, some of it groan-worthy, provides a degree of release, but the tension never truly lets up, and nor does a growing sense of mistrust in what is unfolding right in front of us.

There’s not a lot else I can tell you, except that if you fancy seeing something that simultaneously feels cosily familiar yet bracingly original, then this is your show. If the Watford Palace (built in 1908) has ghosts, then one imagines they are smiling. Preposterous, remarkable and, yes, genuinely magical.