Famously the nephew of the late, great Paul Daniels and his wife Debbie McGee, Phelan carries a notable legacy. But heritage alone does not sustain two hours of live theatre. What he demonstrates here is that he has stepped firmly beyond inheritance and into authorship of his own story.
In recent years he has made significant waves at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, drawing near-capacity houses and building strong word-of-mouth buzz. I had hoped to catch him there last summer, but despite being on my wish list, I didn’t manage to find the time. In Stockport, that Fringe momentum translated into palpable anticipation.
The show unfolds in clear segments. The first half leans heavily into audience participation — and Phelan thrives on it. Volunteers are invited onstage with warmth rather than mockery, treated as collaborators rather than punchlines. Card work is handled with crisp precision. Randomly chosen words are revealed. Names are spoken aloud that he could not reasonably know. Throughout, he insists there are no stooges, no plants, no prior knowledge of anyone present.
Amid the playful mind reading comes a quieter, reflective interlude. Phelan invites a young child from the audience to represent his younger self and speaks of discovering magic as a boy — how it offered confidence, courage and empowerment. It is brief but heartfelt, grounding the spectacle in something personal and sincere.
On a stage the size of the Plaza’s, some of the intimate close-up magic inevitably risks losing immediacy for those seated further back. This was largely mitigated by a large projector relaying live video footage of the sleight of hand, ensuring visibility throughout the auditorium. Yet the question remains whether projected magic can ever fully replicate the electricity of witnessing it inches away — a delicate balance between theatrical scale and close-up wonder that Phelan navigates with assurance.
The second half builds towards larger-scale mentalism. Random words selected by audience members from a collection of books are impossibly mind-read, culminating in a striking finale that drew audible gasps. Phelan understands pacing: silence stretches, tension builds, and then comes the reveal. The rhythm is confident without tipping into self-satisfaction.
Audience response proved an intriguing counterpoint. Astonishment was evident — sharp intakes of breath, laughter, murmured disbelief — yet applause occasionally felt hesitant, as though the room needed an extra beat to decide the trick had concluded. Perhaps modern audiences, conditioned by tightly edited television magic with musical cues and reaction shots, struggle to calibrate responses in real time. Or perhaps we have become more sceptical, instinctively scanning for hidden mechanisms even as we applaud.
More broadly, the evening prompted reflection on theatre etiquette. Live performance relies on a shared contract of attention — performer and audience meeting fully in the moment. In recent years that collective focus has felt more fragile, with distractions and uncertainty sometimes diluting the atmosphere. Magic, above all genres, depends upon concentration and mutual investment; when that wavers, so too does some of the immediacy.
None of this detracts from Phelan’s achievement. The show is tightly structured, emotionally considered and technically assured. He never tips into arrogance, instead balancing charm with control. His repartee with audience members is easy and generous, never at their expense. Even when handling moments of tension, he remains composed and affable.
What lingers most is not simply the mechanics of the tricks, but the performer himself. Affable, charismatic and hugely likable, Phelan comes across as genuinely sincere and polite, with an instinctive warmth that fills the room. There is an ease to him — an ability to connect without forcing it — that feels reminiscent of Paul Daniels at his most charming.
Two near sell-out nights in Stockport suggest audiences are paying attention. On this evidence, they should continue to do so. James Phelan is not trading on nostalgia; he is building something distinctly his own — personal, polished and increasingly confident.
The Man Who Was Magic succeeds not only because of the impossibility of its illusions but because it still left oppositional opinions of it’s all a fix and a set up to this reviewer’s gut opinion. He must be magic as what he did was impossible.
Reviewer - Kathryn Gorton
On -12th February
No comments:
Post a Comment