My Magic

Francis is a broken man. A Tamil immigrant in Singapore, the former magician is an alcoholic nightclub cleaner and single father. His 10-year-old son, Rajir, is neglected – not through lack of love but through a chronic inability to overcome his battle with booze. Thankfully, his son is capable of looking after himself and his father – as well as earning a dollar for completing other kids’ homework for them.

When Francis is offered an unexpected opportunity to return to the world of magic, he grabs it with both hands, despite it proving to be both painful and dangerous. As his relationship with Rajir strengthens, so Francis weakens, eventually leading to a tragic resolution in a dilapidated old building…

It would be very easy to mistake My Magic as the heart-warming tale of father and son learning to love each other set against a backdrop of magic, mystery and romance. It’s not like that at all. In fact, Eric Khoo’s film is a much nastier production, filled to the brim with sadistic cruelty and neglect.

My Magic opens with Francis (Bosco Francis) downing shot after shot of whiskey in a dingy bar. A huge man, Francis’ ill-mannered and gluttonous drinking do nothing to endear him to the audience – especially when he attempts to intimidate the barman by eating his glass tumbler. It’s a very uncomfortable scene to watch. It’s claustrophobic and repetitive – as are many of the scenes which will follow.

The ‘magic’ of the title is hardly magical at all. Rather, it consists largely of Francis performing feats of endurance or self-mutilation. Billed as one of Singapore’s few genuine magicians, it’s easy to see why the country places little stock in the performance of conjuring tricks: those on display here lack spectacle or charm. There’s only so many times an audience can view a man piercing himself with a skewer before intrigue gives way to boredom, revulsion, or both.

It’s difficult to escape the feeling that Khoo made this film and tailored the narrative specifically to its star. Sadly, other than his huge frame and ability to withstand pain, Bosco Francis shows little to suggest that he deserves to be a leading man. His acting ability is limited to say the very least – he’s monotone, inexpressive and impossible to sympathise with. He’s given little to work with in the badly written script. Perhaps this was a deliberate attempt at avoiding putting too much dialogue in the hands of someone incapable of coping with it? It seems more likely that it’s just poorly written – other characters fare little better with their lines.

My Magic is at its best when young Rajir (Jathisweran) is on screen. He’s the only character with a hint of depth, and certainly the only one worth caring about. He has the acting ability to utterly outshine his screen father, and the scene in which he is forced to clean up his drunken father’s vomit is truly touching. He’s even given some throwaway scenes with other children which add virtually nothing to the plot – it seems these half developed ideas were designed merely to maximise Jathisweran’s screen time. It stinks of poor plotting, but at least these interludes are relatively interesting.

Punctuating these scenes are some vile and occasionally disturbing scenes of human suffering and torture. As Francis’ sadistic new paymaster grows bored with his conventional magic (fire-eating, walking on broken glass, etc), he calls for ever more outlandish acts from his new employee. Some of these are akin to the kind of scenes you might expect to see in so called ‘torture-porn’. They’re horrible and unnecessary – a braver director might have chosen to be less explicit in what is depicted. Sadly, Khoo is determined to exploit his sickening storyline to the maximum in a picture designed to shock as much as to entertain.

Along with some lame editing, My Magic suffers from some terrible visuals. The colour palate is washed out and dull – even in the ever-so-slightly more colourful dream sequences. The camerawork is uninspired. It’s not at all surprising to find that the whole shoot wrapped in little over a week.

As the film grinds to its sentimental and predictable conclusion, one can only imagine what a great short film this might have been. A father/son relationship with the added intrigue supplied by a little magic told over half an hour would have been a vastly superior production. As it is, My Magic is repetitive, stuffed with padding and overly long.