Curious Biz by Justin McGinley at the Melbourne Magic Festival
Click here if you liked this article 6 
https://melbournemagicfestival.com
Date Reviewed: 09/07/2025
At the Melbourne Magic Festival, I stepped into the intimate theatre of Curious Biz, a family-friendly show of magic, slapstick, and musical mischief. With red and blue pinprick lights bouncing softly off the ceiling, and a stage dressed like a vaudevillian daydream — crushed blue velvet, a mirror framed with toiletries, and a suit jacket on a coat rack shaped like a ghost of a man — the set promised whimsy. There was something delightfully vintage about it. A touch of Charlie Chaplin. A flicker of Samuel Beckett. Or at least, that was the intention.
From the first moment — with the sound of chickens clucking and performer Justin McGinley emerging awkwardly from a box — we are not in a world of illusion, but of physical comedy. This is a show less concerned with deception and more with absurdity. He combs his hair, rolls deodorant onto his shirt (then tongue), and squeezes a forehead pimple that splatters into the front row. The children squeal in delight.
McGinley leans heavily into clowning, borrowing from silent-era gags: suspenders, high-waisted trousers, the faint suggestion of Buster Keaton melancholy. When he shakes a tie into a perfect knot with a dramatic whip, or interacts with a jacket that puppeteers itself into romantic betrayal (offering him a rose then lulling him to sleep), it’s surreal and oddly sweet. The best of these moments are wordless — stylised, strange, and genuinely creative.
But the real challenge for Curious Biz is tone. It wants to be anarchic, but the pacing is hesitant. When McGinley opens a piano only to have the lid slam shut on his hand (cue the ‘missing finger’ gag), the moment fizzles rather than surprises. When he sits down and the chair lets out a farting noise, the kids laugh.
There’s a sweet interlude where he sings a song about turning off phones — unless you’re a doctor, of course — and McGinley himself becomes the butt of a light jab about renting and living with parents. His character, "not quite an adult, not quite a kid" lives in that in-between space where many performers seem to exist, never fully growing up. At times, McGinley's voice is too quiet, his delivery feels overly rehearsed, and his nerves read as tension rather than character. But that vulnerability is also endearing — and it’s clear he’s giving it his all.
There are magical elements: a sequence where he coughs out white juggling balls, one by one, juggling with bowler hats; a bottle of water that lands upright on an umbrella’s tip, water cascading elegantly down the sides. These moments are technically impressive, but their build-up lacks theatrical finesse. Magic, after all, is about timing — the beat before the reveal. Here, reveals often land flat or feel rushed.
The highlight comes in a surprising turn: a juggling duet with an adult audience member pulled onstage. They juggle hats — three, then four — trading tricks with unexpected harmony. For a brief moment, the stage becomes electric.
The final segments — a broken chair leg propped up with a folded card — drift without crescendo.
McGinley has the tools — the costume, the concepts, the commitment to physicality — and there’s a lot of heart in this show. What Curious Biz needs is time: sharper timing, stronger vocal presence, and a deeper trust in the audience’s imagination. Magic is about more than misdirection — it’s about feeling, wonder, surprise. And McGinley clearly has the creative instincts to get there.
There’s a unique spirit in his blend of slapstick, magic, and audience participation that resonated with the younger crowd. Curious Biz is the kind of show that will flourish over time, as the performer continues to find his rhythm and lean into the joy that’s already there.