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Orson Welles was a natural born magician. While still a young boy, the prodigious Welles proved so adept that he impressed none other than Harry Houdini himself while visiting the maestro backstage. As a reward for his precocity Houdini taught the young boy a simple trick. Unfortunately Welles’ enthusiasm was quelled after his attempt to repeat the trick back to the escapologist went awry. Houdini’s advice to his new found protege: never perform a trick unless you have practiced it at least a thousand times. Such early forays into stage magic were all in good fun, of course, but when the prodigy grew up, and his career began to blossom, Welles had a decidedly grave encounter involving much darker arts…

Welles’ directorial breakthrough came with the production of Macbeth at the Lafayette theater in Harlem, New York City. Welles sought to put a modern twist on the production by setting the drama in colonial Haiti. ‘Voodoo Macbeth’ was defined by heavily stylized backdrops, characters that included voodoo priestesses, and the hypnotic pulsing of African drums, with which Welles invoked an foreboding atmosphere reminiscent of the jungle primeval.





Welles’ Macbeth did not suffer for want of authenticity. A dance troupe of West African dancers had been brought in to perform an onstage voodoo ceremony. The leader of the group was a dwarf named Abdul who, on the first day of rehearsal, requested 12 black goats from Welles in order to manufacture a set of “devil drums” he deemed necessary for the scene. Perhaps because of Abdul’s standing as an actual witch doctor, Welles acquiesced. The goats were purchased at the expense of the federal government, who was funding the production as part of the depression-era Federal Theatre Project, and, after the animals were slaughtered and made into drums, wild insinuations concerning occult activity taking place at the theater began to flood the streets of Harlem. The first victim of Abdul’s devil drums was an unfortunate stagehand who was no doubt ignorant of the persistent rumor circulating that anyone who touched the drums would die. A broken neck, following a fall from the theater scaffolding, was the fateful result. The next victim, however, was targeted.





Mr. Percy Hammond, a well-known critic working for the Herald Tribune, had castigated the production when it finally debuted. Despite a plethora of distinguished positive reviews, the cast and crew were distraught with the critics write-up. Following a performance one night, Abdul approached Welles once again and asked the young director if the critic Hammond was indeed no good. Welles replied in the affirmative at which point Abdul the witch doctor proffered a solution: With Welles’ permission he would “..make beri-beri on this bad man…”. With his director’s blessing Abdul’s drum-core played through the night; echoing malicious vibrations into springtime New York. Percy Hammond died less than 48 hours later. Pneumonia was the stated cause, but invoking coincidence under such strange circumstances seems an altogether unsatisfying explanation.

Hammond, Pictured Far Left

He may have gotten the last laugh over on Mr. Hammond, but Welles’ career, while legendary, would ultimately prove tumultuous. Indeed, Welles reportedly acknowledged the prematurity of his success, saying “All the good fortune I ever had all happened before I was 25. After that … nothing.” Welles was 20 at the time of Macbeth. Perhaps the dwarf Abdul was disappointed that he was not offered another role.