Excerpts
PROLOGUE
"A DAY ON BROADWAY is based on the true-life recollections of a significant day in the life of three people. That day was Monday, August 5, 2002. It is about The Great Throwdini (The Rev. Dr. David Adamovich), a retired professor, minister and professional knife thrower from New York, Dr. Joachim Heil, a doctor of philosophy with a love for dangerous circus acts from Mainz, Germany and Lady Astrid (Astrid Schollenberger), Joachim’s unsuspecting girlfriend destined to become the knife thrower’s assistant. In a nutshell, they came together to perform a live knife throwing performance (the impalement arts) at New York’s longest running magic show, Monday Night Magic, playing at the McGinn/Cazale Theatre on Broadway and 76th Street in NYC. This was Throwdini’s first appearance at Monday Night Magic — something he had been working on for nearly two years. It was Joachim’s master plan to bring Throwdini to Germany to perform for a group from Mainz University AND to introduce his girlfriend, Astrid, to Throwdini with the hope he would use her as his assistant. Did Astrid know what Joachim was planning? Anyway, they all got what they wanted. Everybody’s dreams came true and THIS IS what happened."
FOREWORD by Stanley Brion
"A BRIEF HISTORY OF KNIFE THROWING
— Then and Now.
Skill, sex, danger – three ingredients which the showman uses, not necessarily
in that order, to draw a crowd and provide a show which entertains by thrilling
the audience. The knife throwing act is the classic example, in both fact and
fiction, allowing the spectator to wonder at the skill and daring of the performers
while giving the frisson of excitement in the face of danger."
INTRODUCTION by Simon Lovell
"And enjoy I did. Throwdini, or Throw as I call him these days, dressed in a tux and hand tied bow tie (no wild west influence here!) did some incredible stuff. Not just knifes but axes, machetes and more were hurled through the air around the young lady partnering him. Their execution, timing and interaction were perfect. It appeared as though they had been performing together for years; he threw and she seduced the audience with her courage and charm. It was a rare treat to witness their performance. He threw blindfolded! Damn it, he even threw through an opaque sheet of paper that the lady held up in front of herself and didn’t hit her once. And then, if that were not enough, we then witnessed his lovely partner spinning on The Wheel of Death as he hurled knives on both sides of her body. When The Wheel stopped spinning she threw her arm up in the air and in her lovely accent triumphantly exclaimed, “Throwdini.” Like everybody else in the audience I was on the edge of my seat and, at the end, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief that the lady was unharmed and the knife thrower had won. The applause was both loud and long. This was a class act in every sense of the word!"
FROM THROWDINI’S RECOLLECTIONS
"But wait. Stop the clock. Those little doubting demons start banging around in your head. What’s it like? Assume you’re dreadfully fearful of heights. You suddenly find yourself at the door of a plane with a parachute strapped to your back. It’s your turn to jump. It’s a defining moment in your life. You jump or you don’t. You decide at that moment what you’re made of. That’s the only way to describe what it’s like standing there, for the very first time, in public, in front of a theatre full of people, The Wheel spinning with a girl strapped to it, and you’re holding a hand full of knives dressed in a tailed tuxedo. Can you imagine? It’s not only a do or die moment for the assistant. It’s a do or die moment for the thrower. OK, start the clock. Grab, throw, grab, throw, grab, throw, etc. until all the knives are gone. She did her part. I did mine. I ran in to stop The Wheel from spinning. Astrid threw her left hand up into the air and yelled, “Throwdini.”
FROM LADY ASTRID’S RECOLLECTIONS
"Our performance got into shape. “Can you do a headstand?” Throwdini asked me. Sure I could. But doing a headstand in the privacy of your living room and doing it in front of a knife thrower who is about to throw knives between your legs are two entirely different things. The stunt with the headstand had to be perfect. The boots were not to make a loud noise if they hit the board. Throwdini corrected the attitude of my elbows. He needed sufficient room to put the knives next to my head. The risk of an injury was always there but Throwdini kept it as little as possible. Finally the headstand stunt turned out well. The knives were thrown from the bottom, where my head was, up to my legs. When the knives reached the highest point I had to open my legs in straight V shape to the outside, fitted in into the rhythm of the hitting knives. The last knife lands in the upper third of the board between my legs. And then after all that I’d hear, “Get down without stumbling or twisting, stand, take a bow to the audience – smile!”
FROM DR. HEIL’S RECOLLECTIONS
"David and I have had long talks about what thrill a knife throwing show could hold for an audience. However, we have not reached any definite conclusion. For sure, part of the pleasure the audience gains derives from the knife thrower’s dangerous play with the life of his beautiful assistant. Yet what remains still unexplained is the meaning this fascination holds for the one who watches. If this fascination had its origin simply in the face of pure danger and if what was at stake was simply the kick, then the bungee jumper or the mountain climber would experience the danger of death much more authentically than the audience of a knife throwing performance ever could. The figure of the knife thrower is older than the adrenaline junkie in the fun society. If it was only a matter of sexual appeal, of seeing a beautiful girl in the hands of her tormentor, then this fascination would be trite, and other media would provide greater satisfaction. What is it anyway that intrigues us about this danger which a knife throwing show on the stage presents to us? How must this danger be transported in order to be intriguing to us? Is it actually possible to elevate knife throwing to a form of art? Isn’t it exaggerating to speak about art in this context? These are some of the questions I want to deal with in this essay. I do not pretend to give final answers here. Rather, I want to try to give some hints about what a philosophy of knife throwing, or more accurately, a philosophy of the circus, might be."