Automatonophobia is a legitimate psychological state, defined in the New England Journal of Medicine as "[the] irrational fear of ventriloquist's dummies, wax effigies, mannequins or [other] lifelike models of human beings." It is closely related to pediophobia, the irrational fear of dolls.

Alas, your humble reviewer suffered from all of the above, thanks to a certain piece of shit whom I will refer to here as "Cousin P" (although his real name is Phillip). Seems Cousin P (whose real name is Phillip) discovered that four-year-old Gregory was a bit disturbed by the presence of a disembodied doll head with a missing eyeball in a moldy basement, and seizing on a malicious opportunity, proceeded to chase him all around the house with it, until four-year-old Gregory was reduced to a blubbering pile of goo huddling in a corner. Needless to say, little Gregory was thenceforth in dire need of counseling... but this was around 1971, and counseling hadn't been invented yet. Well, that's probably not true, but it might as well not have existed, since Gregory didn't get as much as a popsicle for his pains.

Funny thing about phobias: the mind tends to extrapolate elements from them, transferring the fear of, say, floating doll heads onto other, similar objects - for example, grinning department store mannequins and, inevitably, ventriloquist figures. This was proved conclusively in a field experiment conducted by another one of my older relatives, with my now six-year-old self as an involuntary participant. Although his motives were less sadistic than Cousin P (whose real name is Phillip), his demonstration of his new ventriloquist dummy's glow-in-the-dark head was facilitated by turning the lights off and carrying it toward me in total darkness, thus replicating the effect of another floating disembodied head... which, as a bonus, was glowing a foul radioactive green and talking to me in a funny voice. Oddly enough, I don't remember anything else from that evening.

Sure, my experience may be more... uh... intense than some, but I think I am hardly alone in suggesting that the idea of a short little man made of wood or plastic with an oversized head and bulging eyes firing off stale one-liners from the lap of his warm-blooded companion is really, really creepy. Sure, ventriloquy is a highly refined art form dating back centuries. Sure, it's a tough skill to master, and one of the most respected tools of many a stage illusionist. It's not that I disrespect the trade itself... far from it. In fact, I would never disparage the ventriloquial arts, out of fear that a little guy named "Mr. Stanko" will show up at the foot of my bed some night with a gleam in his eye and a rusty hacksaw in his little gloved hand.

But enough about my deep emotional scars. Let's get to the movie that managed, by way of a single TV commercial, to violently re-open them in a mere 30 seconds.

What is it about the mention of this movie that triggers a reflexive shudder in certain individuals, particularly those who would have been somewhere between six and ten years old at the time of its theatrical release? Well, the opening paragraph that serves as the preface of this review describes a very real psychological condition, not as uncommon as it might seem - a condition which, among those who suffered from it, was given fuel in the winter of 1978 like gasoline being poured on a campfire. It came in the form of the original TV spot for this film, in which the camera slowly pushes in on an oddly articulate ventriloquist's dummy who, as eerie strings trill in the background, recites a little poem with which automatonophobics are all too familiar:

"Abracadabra, I sit on his knee... Presto, Change-o, and now he's me! Hocus Pocus - we take her to bed... Magic is fun... We're dead."

If any of you reading the above passage are experiencing cold sweats, shivers down your spine, shortness of breath, or other unpleasant sensations as you recall the exact, precise frozen moment in time you were ambushed by this TV spot while innocently watching your favorite prime-time program, you are not alone. How do I know? Because I was one of you.

Sure, I'm fine now (he said, shakily pouring his fourth glass of vodka), but it wasn't always so. Fortunately, I managed to drive away my fears and render them nearly impotent by subjecting myself to every killer doll/dummy/mannequin movie I could lay my hands on, and believe it or not, it worked. The dummy movies proved the most plentiful - ranging from the Eric von Stroheim classic THE GREAT GABBO and the legendary omnibus film DEAD OF NIGHT (probably the most revered installment in the dummy-possession genre), to the rather dull and goofy DEVIL DOLL, and of course, this film, which is for all intents and purposes the final cinematic word on dummy horror. Some would say MAGIC was the ultimate realization of this theme, while others believe it effectively killed it. Regardless of which side one falls on, this movie continues to polarize audiences to this day - it's definitely one of those love-it-or-hate-it sort of things.

Having cured myself by the total-immersion phobia technique, I can now comfortably say I am in the "love it" camp where MAGIC is concerned... due in no small part to the amazing performance by a 30-year-old Anthony Hopkins, who displays all of the mighty thespic skills he would later hone to perfection in his Oscar-winning turn as Hannibal Lecter in SILENCE OF THE LAMBS, over a decade later.

Hopkins buries himself in the complex role of brilliant stage illusionist Charles "Corky" Withers, understudy of dying Vaudeville magician Merlin (E.J. Andre). Despite his mentor's assertions that he's "as good as the game," Corky is plagued with insecurity about his inability to personally connect with his audience; this self-doubt reveals itself in an explosion of sweaty rage during Corky's first-ever live performance. Corky is assured by his feeble teacher that he will find a way to charm people if he just looks within himself...

We jump forward to a couple of years later, to find Corky a smash success, performing to sold-out audiences at the very club where he once bombed so spectacularly. The performance is attended by crusty, battle-hardened William Morris agent Ben Greene (Burgess Meredith, in one of his finest performances) and a curious NBC executive (M*A*S*H's David Ogden Stiers) whom Greene has mysteriously told would be witnessing a star in the making.

At first, it seems like more of the same, with the soft-spoken Corky performing old standards like the rising-aces routine... until we hear him being heckled by a shrill voice in the audience. "You think you can do better?" Corky asks, to which the voice responds, "abso-fuckin-lutely!" (It would take 20 years for this catchphrase to finally enter the public parlance thanks to SEX AND THE CITY.) The "heckler" is actually Corky's ventriloquist figure Fats, whom he brings onstage to thunderous applause... and we instantly discover where Corky found his confidence.

The combination of one of the world's top magicians and "the first X-rated dummy on the block" scores big points in the entertainment world, and TV execs are beginning to take notice - thanks to the savvy Greene working his own brand of magic. The boyishly naïve Corky looks up to Greene (whom he dubs "Gangrene") as a new father figure - it is implied that Merlin is long-dead by this point - and the agent promises to nurture his career slowly and carefully over time (something they just don't do in showbiz anymore, I might add). Corky even eschews a contract with the agency, telling Greene that if he truly believes in his talent, his word is good enough. (Did I mention Corky was naïve?) Of course, as you might imagine, there's just one itsy-bitsy problem... when offered a shot at an NBC pilot, Corky is told he will have to undergo a compulsory medical exam... and he promptly freaks out, claiming it's against his principles. The agent tries to find a loophole, but the network stands firm on its policy.

[Allow me to nitpick for a moment... I find the whole "mandatory medical exam" thing a bit dodgy. Imagine if any of the coked-up comics of the same period had to undergo this exam as a precursor to employment? Saturday Night Live would have folded overnight.]

In a panic, Corky packs up Fats and heads to the Catskills, arriving at the sullen, nearly deserted remains of his boyhood hometown for an impromptu sabbatical. Once there, he looks up the address of his erstwhile teenage crush, former cheerleader Peggy Ann Snow (the still-gorgeous Ann-Margret), and finds her managing a cozy lakeside resort, trapped in a loveless marriage to her high-school sweetheart Duke (Ed Lauter).

In Duke's absence, we learn that Corky's feelings for Peg have not diminished, and he sees this opportunity - as well as his newfound self-confidence through Fats - as a chance to sweep her off her feet at last. But it seems taking her away from Duke is the least of his challenges; someone else is not at all pleased with the prospect of breaking up the act... someone who seems to have acquired a will of his own... and a taste for murder.

Those of you familiar with this story know where it's going from here, and I won't spoil it for the rest of you... suffice to say that this tale does not end happily, but you are nevertheless in for one of the creepiest love stories ever committed to film. Although the concept itself is not entirely unique, the execution - with the legendary Richard Attenborough at the helm - is a thing of rare beauty; the film's mastery pulls you into Corky's troubled world with the very first shot, panning across a dark, squalid apartment filled with Vaudeville curios and vintage magic props as the title theme (by the late, great Jerry Goldsmith - one of his best, in my opinion) augments lush, melancholy strings with the low harmonica drones of Fats' theme. The slate-gray, cemetery gloom of the off-season Catskills - virtually dead as a performing venue by the time this film was made - creates a lonely, nightmare world that serves also as a model of Corky's increasingly fragmenting mind.

Speaking of which... there's always been some debate among fans of this film as to whether the Corky/Fats schism exists entirely in Corky's brain, or if there is a supernatural influence at work. Apparently, William Goldman's source novel (which he adapted very closely for the screenplay) straddles the fence where this issue is concerned, but Attenborough was adamant that there be no hint whatsoever that Fats may be operating independently... except for one brief shot, which actually began as an accident, but which the director ultimately decided to leave intact. Those of you who have seen the film know exactly which shot I'm talking about; it's one of those rare "what the hell" moments film buffs love so much.

Personally, I say forget about the whole "is Fats alive?" issue, and concentrate on the brilliant performance of Anthony Hopkins. Virtually unknown in America at the time, Hopkins was a last-minute choice for the role, after a slew of box office-friendly candidates came and went (chief among them being Jack Nicholson, who reportedly declined the part because he didn't want to wear a hairpiece!). Selected by Attenborough (who worked with him on A BRIDGE TOO FAR) for his intensity and skill in wrapping himself fully in a performance, Hopkins learned to master several card tricks and other sleight-of-hand routines, and studied the finer points of ventriloquy under the tutelage of Fats' designer, Dennis Alwood (a protege of Edgar Bergen), learning to throw his voice by speaking with a pencil in his teeth. Although Alwood operates the figure's movements in most scenes, it is still Hopkins' voice we hear through Fats - in that coarse, nasal whine that still causes the little hairs to stand up on my neck.

MAGIC is first and foremost an actor's movie; Attenborough wisely avoids showy, Hitchcockian flourishes and lets the performances drive the piece, and each of these is a gem. Even Lauter gets to shine in a role that could have been a two-dimensional asshole in less capable hands; instead, we see a bitter, hopeless man who knows he's a loser in his wife's eyes and can't do anything about it. Margret infuses her character with pathos, but tempers her soft edges with dignity and self-determination, despite being saddled with some of the script's weaker dialogue ("Ain't you summin'?" Who talks like that?).

Now, don't let my gushing over these characterizations steer you from the fact that this is also a tense psychological thriller, with some genuine nail-biting moments and a couple of straight-up scares. The buildup to moments of genuine terror is well-planned and reflects Goldman's expertise in sleight-of-hand storytelling, as well as Attenborough's deft use of sound and subtle movement to build suspense and deliver shocks. Of course, when you get right down to it, it's pretty hard not to creep out the audience as long as Fats is onscreen; that TV spot is case in point. Still, they could have exploited the creep factor in over-the-top ways and turned the whole thing into a bad TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE episode, but Attenborough and company wisely chose the high ground, and I credit this subtlety not only for the film's effectiveness, but also for its swift disappearance from the public eye.

Despite modest box-office success and a good run on network TV, MAGIC seemed to pull a disappearing act after the home-video boom of the 1980s (when the Embassy VHS release was a staple of many Mom & Pop video stores), and the only semi-legit video release in the '90s was a pathetic edited-for-TV print, with all Fats' naughty routines re-dubbed with G-rated language. Thankfully, the long wait is over, thanks to Dark Sky's near-perfect DVD presentation, making this underrated classic available to a whole new generation of potential automatonaphobes.

Dark Sky managed to get a hold of the original 35mm negative of the print for an anamorphic HD transfer, and the results are understandably impressive. Despite the light grain characteristic of '70s-era film stocks, the image is sharp and virtually flawless, with dense blacks, sharp definition and near-perfect replication of the muted color palette employed by cinematographer Victor J. Kemper. I have to admit a little disappointment in the lack of a surround or even a stereo mix, because the expert use of sound effects and Goldsmith's superb music cues would have been given a better showcase... but oh well, we get a decent digital mono track, despite a few overmodulated moments where the music swells a bit too much for comfort.

Extras cover just about everything except a commentary track (which would have been nice, however unlikely), and include - of course - that infamous TV spot (it's even available in Spanish... proving that creepiness is universal). That would have been enough for most of us, but we get much more. The crown jewel is the 25-minute documentary "Fats & Friends," hosted by Fats' designer and operator Dennis Alwood. It's not only a very entertaining capsule history of ventriloquy, but is also loaded with great anecdotes about the making of the movie (for example: an unnamed toy company actually planned to market a Fats doll as a tie-in until they watched his foul-mouthed performance in the film!).

Also included is a brief but informative interview with Director of Photography Victor J. Kemper, who explains many of the nearly invisible ways in which he used lighting and camera position to convey the psychological dynamics of the characters - the most striking trick is the way the lighting was aligned to make Hopkins' shadow on the wall appear chillingly like Fats' profile.

But wait, folks, there's more: radio spots for the film (basically the audio lifted from the TV spots); a photo gallery which includes snapshot comparisons between the Fats head model and Hopkins' head shot; a brief interview with Hopkins for Spanish-language TV (the interviewer asks questions simultaneously in English and Spanish, which is kind of hard to follow); a makeup test for Ann-Margret; and a radio interview with Hopkins, accompanied by segments from the outtakes reel and camera tests. I'd say it was worth the wait.

Thanks to this presentation, viewing this film now allows me the perspective I was never allowed as an impressionable kid. I now realize that this is not a film about fear of ventriloquist dummies; that phobia is not exploited by the film proper (although it sure as hell was in the promotional campaign... bastards). This is not even about the dread of losing control of one's mind to darker motivations. To me, this is a story about the all-consuming fear of failure. Most of the main characters are nearly immobilized by this: Corky is afraid of being seen as a chump in the eyes of his various father figures, and can only find confidence in an artificial version of himself; Peg is trapped in a failed marriage, and is afraid to release herself into the unknown at this stage; even Duke is beaten down by a failed career and his realization that he's lost the love of the only woman in his life. This fear drives one man to madness, and expands through the little world of these characters like a cancer, which threatens to devour and ultimately destroy them all.

Pretty deep stuff, coming from a guy who was once terrified of a hunk of wood. But this movie will bring it out of a guy. In a word: fan-fuckin-tastic.