Thoughts on Schlitzie
Reflections on an iconic sideshow performer
How do you write about somebody like Schlitzie? First of all, who was he? As far as anybody can tell he may have been born in 1901 in The Bronx, and his name may have been Simon Metz. What is certain is that he had microcephaly, which gave him a smaller than average skull and developmental disabilities, and that he performed in sideshows until the late 1960s.
In those days, sideshow performers didn’t often start out seeking that kind of work. It had a knack for finding them. Put yourself in their place. Let’s imagine you’re unusual in some small way, say, you have a subcutaneous horn growing out of your forehead. It’s a rare enough condition that the local newspapers will write you up after the growth first begins to sprout. The story gets picked up by the newswire and before you know it the carnival and circus people are seeking you out for an interview. Or perhaps the show is in town, and after looking over the gallery a member of the local citizenry will say, “You think these people are freaks? We got a guy in this town that beats ’em all!” Again, the show’s owners will come knocking on your door.
What were you doing with your life before they came along? Working in a bank? Doubtful. You can wear the nicest suit in the world, but when people look at you, all they’ll be able to see is that horn. Let’s say some money goes missing, even a small amount, five dollars or so. You will be the first employee who gets questioned. The thief couldn’t possibly be an “ordinary” person. No, it’s the one everybody stares at, the most conspicuous man in each room he enters. He can’t be trusted.
Perhaps you’re working in a restaurant. What do you think you would be doing there? You can’t be a waiter. The management says people will lose their appetites as soon as they see you. You can’t run the register — that old money problem again. You certainly can’t be a cook. Customers will be afraid your horn is dripping something into the soup. What’s that? You say your horn doesn’t drip? Doesn’t matter. You won’t even be able to wash dishes, the lowest rung on the restaurant ladder of responsibility outside of busboy. People will forever be asking to eat off of dishes you didn’t touch, lest they begin to grow horns themselves.
Face it. The best you can hope for yourself is after-hours janitorial work. That is, until the general populace discovers you’re working there. Then you’re out on your ear. Or your horn, as it were.
By contrast, on the sideshow stage your horn is an asset. No longer will you be required to hide it, or yourself, from others. Instead, it will make you renowned, exotic — dare I say it? — a star. Your time as Bob, local weirdo who never leaves his house because of the thing jutting out of his face, is over. You are now The Esteemed Robert, Unicorn Man. If that is too fey a title, Brutal Robert, the Human Rhinoceros, may be more suitably masculine. Ceasing to be a liability, your horn is now your livelihood. When your show passes through Anytown, U.S.A., people from all over the neighboring communities will come not only to take a gander at you, but will pay for the privilege of doing so. You earn more money than you ever dreamed possible. Much more than a janitor. For that matter, maybe even more than a bank clerk.
Now pretend you’re Schlitzie. You didn’t have the luxury of choosing. In all likelihood you were sold into show business by your parents. You’re billed as all kinds of things. In 1909, when you’re eight at the oldest, you’re Schlitzie the Aztec Girl, touring with the Herbert A. Kline shows. That’s right. Girl. For the rest of your performing life you’ll have most of your head shaved, save for a ponytail jutting out the top of your head, and be outfitted in a long dress. From the beginning you’re a very big draw in the sideshows. Not that you see any of the money you earn. That stuff goes to your manager, who could be more accurately described as your owner. But you’re treated relatively well. The other sideshow performers look out for you.
The next year an article appears along with a photo purporting to show a woman holding you in the palm of her hand. You’re small, but you’re not that small. The article that runs with the photo says, among other things, “This is Schlitzie (named, by the way, after one of the men who made Milwaukee famous). Schlitzie is (whatever else) a female, and is said to be one of the last survivors of the Aztec Indians. She was born in Camp Peacha, Yucatan, Mexico. She is 19 years old and 27 inches high, weighing 22 pounds. Schlitzie dances, imitates and does a stunt at singing. She understands English, a smattering of Spanish, and some German.”
It’s all hogwash, of course, but that’s how these things are.
If Schlitzie is remembered at all today, it is for two things. The first is Freaks, a film from 1932 in which Schlitzie was one of the featured players, and the second is Bill Griffith’s long-running comic strip, “Zippy the Pinhead,” for which Schlitzie served as inspiration. (Incidentally, Mr. Griffith has also written a full-length biographical comic about Schlitzie. It is called “Nobody’s Fool,” and it is well worth a read.)
Freaks came about because of Dracula, released by Universal the previous year. Tod Browning, who had directed Dracula, was approached by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer with an offer: “Make a Dracula for us and we’ll give you a lot of money.” He would be a fool to resist. Given carte blanche, Browning decided he wanted to make a film out of a short story called “Spurs.” Written by Tod Robbins, the plot deals with a little man who marries a big woman. They’re circus. The little man has money, and the big woman wants it. She plots to kill him. She pretends to be struck by Cupid’s arrow, and the little man is seduced by the attention. They marry. However, the big woman doesn’t succeed in her plans, because it turns out the little man is the more vicious of the pair. And so, as punishment for her evil deeds, he rides her across the country in a saddle and spurs, hence the title.
The film fleshed it out a bit more. Instead of just one conniving big person, there are two: The trapeze artist and the strongman. They plot to kill the little man and take his money after he marries the trapeze artist. The other members of the sideshow discover the plot, and they all take their revenge. What that revenge is, I will leave for you to discover should you ever see the film yourself. All I can say is, don’t Google it. If you do, it will be spoiled for you.
Where does Schlitzie fit in all this? He’s one of the sideshow performers. In his best and most sustained scene he is shown talking to a clown, who promises to buy Schlitzie a hat with a long feather on it.
As part of the promotion for the film, a long article was published in the April 1932 issue of Motion Picture magazine. Titled “The Amazing Life Stories of the Freaks!” the article purported to tell the biographies of some of the film’s featured players, including Schlitzie. The article called him (albeit as a her) “the pet and favorite of the M-G-M lot during the entire filming of Freaks. It was positively amazing the way people, from Norma Shearer down to the smallest prop-boy, made up to Schlitzie. Here was a triumph of personality, if I ever saw one.” The article then goes on to speculate about Schlitzie’s gender and rehash some of the bits of non-information about his alleged birth in Mexico.
The article reads, “She cannot speak, save to make guttural and meaningless sounds. She is affectionate and demonstrative. She makes a great to-do over new dresses, tricks of magic, gay hats, bits of string, the Sword-Swallower, games of tag and Tod Browning. She takes violent likes and violent dislikes. One of her special likes was for Jackie Cooper, much to that small trouper’s terror. He did not reciprocate the affection. One of Schlitzie’s most ardent admirers said of her, ‘She is not a ‘pin-head.’ She is just a little girl who has never grown up, a little girl who laughs and plays and is eager for affection like any other small child.’ Well — maybe. But when you see her in ‘Freaks’ and remember that remark, you will know that love is blind.”
Not many people went to see Schlitzie in Freaks. The studio must have known there was going to be trouble, for they excised a good portion of the film before it was even released after a bad preview. “Well, I asked for something horrible,” head of production Irving Thalberg said after seeing the finished product. Or words to that effect.
The reviews were not kind and can probably be best summed up by the one that appeared in the Los Angeles Daily News. The headline, in all caps, was, “‘FREAKS’ GHASTLY FILM DEALING IN MISSHAPEN LIVES.” The review itself read in part, “Freaks is a revolting picture that deals with bitterness and hatreds of unfortunate humans who have misshapen bodies.”
It’s very difficult for me to relate to a review like this because I’ve loved the film since the first time I saw it. I had grown up reading about it and seeing production stills, but never actually watched it until I was 19 or 20. Since then I’ve enjoyed showing the film to other people to see their reactions. One of my fondest memories of this took place when I was in college and three friends and I watched a VHS copy with horrible sound that I had taped off Turner Classic Movies at my grandmother’s house.
It took decades, but Freaks finally has an audience that appreciates the film for what it is. And a favorite among that audience is Schlitzie. It’s hard not to like him. He’s sweet and engaging, and it seems a shame that he’s not in more scenes.
After the movie wrapped Schlitzie went back to the sideshow stage, traveling all over the country. But times change, and eventually people began to reconsider their positions on whether Schlitzie should be allowed to perform or not. In 1962 in San Bernardino, the sheriff shut down Schlitzie’s act using an obscure 1873 statute prohibiting the exhibition of “deformed” persons. After that Schlitzie is in the papers a lot less.
His story gets sadder all around in the mid-1960s. His “guardian” died and Schlitzie found himself in the care of the man’s daughter, who either didn’t want or couldn’t cope with the job of looking after him. She had him institutionalized. He stayed there for a long time, until he was recognized by a sword-swallower who was working at the hospital in his off-season. Eventually Schlitzie was released, and he lived out the rest of his days happy, occasionally performing. He was buried in California in 1971. He was about 70 when he died. His grave was unmarked.
That was where the story ended until a group of fans organized a fundraiser and paid for the stone. If you Google Schlitzie, one of the images that comes up features this stone. On top of it sits a hat with a long feather on it.
Quite a story! I remember him from "Freaks."