Freaks (1932): The Sideshow Spectacle That Scarred Hollywood Forever

In the flickering shadows of a big top tent, beauty turns beastly, and revenge comes crawling on hands and stumps.

Step into the dusty, smoke-filled world of Tod Browning’s Freaks, a film that dared to stare unblinking at human deformity and societal revulsion, emerging as one of cinema’s most notorious provocations. Released in 1932 by MGM, this carnival nightmare blends raw documentary realism with gothic revenge tragedy, casting actual circus performers as its stars and igniting a firestorm that nearly ended Browning’s career.

  • Explore the shocking production choices that blurred the line between exploitation and artistry, featuring real ‘sideshow freaks’ in unsparing roles.
  • Unpack the film’s savage critique of vanity and normalcy, where the ‘normal’ become the true monsters through betrayal and brutality.
  • Trace its censored legacy from banned obscurity to cult reverence, influencing generations of body horror masters from David Cronenberg to Guillermo del Toro.

The Big Top’s Brutal Underbelly

The circus in Freaks pulses with a grotesque vitality, a microcosm of 1930s America where the marginalised eked out livings from public pity and fascination. Tod Browning immerses viewers in this realm from the opening wedding feast sequence, a raucous banquet where midgets, pinheads, skeletons, and limbless wonders carouse in joyous abandon. Unlike the polished spectacles of Ringling Bros., this is a gritty, European-style freak show, inspired by Browning’s own youthful stint as a carnival barker and contortionist. The camera lingers on their faces, not with pity, but with a camaraderie that humanises what society deemed freakish.

At the heart throbs the romance between Hans, a diminutive performer played by Harry Earles, and the statuesque trapeze artist Cleopatra, portrayed by Olga Baclanova. Cleopatra’s seduction of the wealthy midget masks a murderous scheme with strongman Hercules, her lover. Their plot unfolds amid the troupe’s daily grind: sword-swallowers gulping blades, microcephalics chattering in mock weddings, and living torsos lighting cigarettes with their mouths. Browning’s direction eschews sentiment, capturing the freaks’ resilience through unfiltered authenticity—no prosthetics or makeup, just flesh as it is.

This rawness stems from Browning’s pre-Hollywood life, mingling with carnies in Ohio tents during the early 1900s. He knew their patter, their hierarchies, their defiance. The film’s prologue even mimics a carnival spiel, inviting audiences to ‘gaze upon the tragedy’ of these ‘unfortunates,’ only to subvert expectations by granting them agency. Production designer Cedric Gibbons crafted minimal sets—a spartan big top, cluttered dressing tents—that amplify the intimacy, forcing confrontation with bodies that defy norms.

Sound design, rudimentary in early talkies, heightens unease: the clink of beer steins at the feast, the guttural chants of ‘Gooble-gobble, gooble-gobble, we accept her, one of us!’ echoing like a ritual incantation. These elements coalesce into a portrait of community forged in exclusion, where physical anomalies bind tighter than blood.

Beauty, Beast, and Betrayal

Cleopatra embodies the film’s central irony: the ‘beautiful’ normal as predator. Baclanova, a former Ballets Russes star with operatic poise, drips venomous allure, her laughter a siren’s call luring Hans to doom. Her poisoning plot, laced with arsenic in wine, mirrors classic poisoner tales from Grand Guignol theatre, but Browning elevates it through contrast—the freaks’ genuine warmth against her calculated cruelty. Hercules, hulking Wallace Ford no, actually Angelo Rossitto? No, Hercules is Henry Victor, a towering brute whose downfall via spiked wine induces agonising death throes, convulsing in the ring under spotlights.

The freaks’ vengeance forms the climax’s visceral core. Discovering the treachery, they storm Cleopatra’s caravan in a monsoon, mutilating her into a feathered, clucking bird-woman, her beauty ravaged. This sequence, filmed in pouring rain on MGM’s backlot, drips with primal fury: crawling torsos like Prince Randian propel forward, midgets wield knives, pinheads gibber in rage. Browning shot it documentary-style, handheld cameras capturing chaos without retakes, preserving spontaneity that borders on horror verité.

Underlying this savagery lies a profound humanism. The freaks shun isolation, embracing Hans’s folly as one of their own. Their code—loyalty to kin, rejection of outsiders—flips horror tropes. No lumbering undead here; the monsters are us, the ‘normals’ whose revulsion fuels the freak show’s existence. Browning draws from his silent collaborations with Lon Chaney, the ‘Man of a Thousand Faces,’ whose disfigurements in The Unknown (1927) prefigure Freaks‘ obsessions.

Cultural echoes abound: the film nods to H.G. Wells’s island of malformed outcasts in The Island of Dr. Moreau, yet grounds them in Depression-era reality, where breadlines and Hoovervilles mirrored the freaks’ precarity. MGM marketed it as a ‘novelty’ spectacle, but previews in February 1932 provoked walkouts, fainting, and police calls, sealing its fate.

From MGM Glamour to Banned Infamy

Production turmoil defined Freaks. Irving Thalberg greenlit Browning’s vision post-Dracula‘s success, allocating $317,000—a modest sum for MGM’s star machine. Casting real performers like Johnny Eck (half-boy, torso on struts), Schlitzie (pinhead microcephalic), and the Hilton twins (conjoined) bypassed actors’ squeamishness. Eck’s knife-throwing prowess and Eck-inspired stunts added peril; one scene nearly decapitated a double. Browning, ever the carny, coaxed natural performances, paying in weekly wages rather than one-offs.

Post-production mutilation ensued. Original 90-minute cut included graphic surgery on Cleopatra—beak implantation, feathers sewn into flesh—deemed too lurid. MGM slashed it to 66 minutes, excising gore for a sanitised ‘friendlier’ version retitled Nature’s Mistress or Spite Marriage in tests. Premiering at the State Theatre in Rochester on moral grounds? No, it was pulled after riots. Banned in Britain until 1963, the UK Board of Film Censors called it ‘brutal and revolting.’ Thirty states shunned it; internationally, it vanished for decades.

Yet underground circulation via 16mm prints nurtured its mythos. Henri Langlois championed it at Cinémathèque Française, hailing Browning as a poet of the profane. By the 1960s, restored cuts screened at festivals, cementing cult status. Freakmaker (1974) homaged it outright; The Elephant Man (1980) echoed its empathy.

Browning’s fallout was swift. MGM shelved him; his follow-ups flopped. He retreated to directing midget comedies, a bitter coda. Yet Freaks endures as pre-Hays Code relic, predating 1934’s Production Code that neutered horror with moral strictures.

Body Horror’s Enduring Freak Flag

Freaks pioneered body horror, predating Cronenberg’s fleshy metamorphoses. Its legacy ripples through The Devil Doll (1936, Browning’s own), Basket Case (1982), and From Dusk Till Dawn‘s vampire freakout. Guillermo del Toro cites it for Crimson Peak‘s outsiders; Tim Burton channels its carnival goth in Batman Returns and Big Fish. Modern revivals like American Horror Story: Freak Show (2014) mine its iconography, albeit diluted.

Collecting culture reveres original posters—those lurid ‘Gabe and Gulliver’ one-sheets fetch $50,000 at Heritage Auctions. Bootleg DVDs abound, but Kino Lorber’s 2012 Blu-ray restores the 1932 cut with extras. Fan sites dissect props: Cleopatra’s caravan replica, Eck’s custom stilts.

Thematically, it interrogates eugenics-era fears. 1930s America sterilised ‘defectives’; Nazi films like White Majesty weaponised purity myths. Freaks counters with joy amid anomaly, the wedding feast a defiant utopia. Queer readings abound: the troupe as chosen family, rejecting heteronormative beauty.

In nostalgia’s lens, it captures pre-war innocence shattered. Circus films like Dumbo (1941) sanitised freaks into metaphors; Browning refused euphemism, forcing empathy through horror.

Legacy in the Sideshow Shadows

Revivals underscore resilience. 2004’s Toronto screening drew cheers; Coney Island Film Festival screens it annually. Documentaries like The Real Freaks trace performers’ lives—many thrived post-film, touring as ‘the MGM cast.’ Schlitzie starred in The Nutty Professor (1963); Eck built miniatures till 1995.

Influencing gaming, Freak Show levels in Fallout 3 homage the feast; Carnival of Souls echoes its limbo. Toy collectors hunt Marx Brothers-era freak playsets, precursors to today’s McFarlane grotesque figures.

Freaks remains divisive: exploitation or empowerment? Critics like Robin Wood laud its subversion; others decry voyeurism. Yet its power lies in ambiguity, mirroring life’s cruelties.

Director/Creator in the Spotlight

Tod Browning, born Charles Albert Browning Jr. on 12 July 1880 in Louisville, Kentucky, into a middle-class family of Scottish descent, fled home at 16 for the carnival circuit, performing as a contortionist dubbed ‘The Living Corpse’ and clowns. This immersion shaped his oeuvre, blending spectacle with pathos. By 1909, he entered film as an actor in D.W. Griffith’s Biograph company, transitioning to directing shorts by 1915 under Universal’s Bluebird Photoplays.

His silent era peak partnered with Lon Chaney: The Virgin of St. Carmel (1915), The Unholy Three (1925)—a safecracking midget gang, remade in sound—and The Unknown (1927), Chaney as armless knife-thrower’s agent with hidden double-arm stumps. London After Midnight (1927), lost vampire classic, cemented his macabre rep. Browning directed over 50 silents, mastering atmospheric dread via practical effects and Chaney’s prosthetics.

Sound transition brought Dracula (1931), launching Universal’s horror cycle despite studio interference; Bela Lugosi’s iconic Count grossed millions. Emboldened, Browning pitched Freaks to MGM, drawing from a short story by Tod Robbins. Post-Freaks backlash, he helmed Fast Workers (1933), Mark of the Vampire (1935, Chaney Jr. as hybrid), The Devil Doll (1936, miniaturised criminals), Miracles for Sale (1939). Career waned; last film Angels Holiday? No, Dracula’s Daughter uncredited tweaks, retiring 1939 to Malibu estate.

Browning influenced directors: James Whale (Frankenstein), George Melford (Vampyr). Died 6 October 1962, aged 82, blind from cataract. Legacy: restored prints, books like David Skal’s, AFI Lifetime Achievement nods posthumously. Filmography highlights: The Unholy Three (1925, crime drama with voice-altered Chaney); Where East Is East (1928, jungle revenge); The Thirteenth Chair (1929 sound remake); Dracula (1931); Freaks (1932); Mark of the Vampire (1935); The Devil-Doll (1936).

Actor/Character in the Spotlight

Olga Baclanova, born Olga Vladimirovna Baklanova on 19 August 1893 in Moscow, Russia, rose as Bolshoi Ballet prima ballerina and Moscow Art Theatre ingenue, training under Konstantin Stanislavski. Emigrating post-1917 Revolution via touring company, she reached Hollywood in 1923, signing with Goldwyn for silents like The Red Kimono? No, debut The Coming of Amos (1925). Paramount stardom followed: The Docks of New York (1928, pre-Code vamp), The Man Who Laughs opposite Conrad Veidt’s Gwynplaine.

MGM lured her for Freaks (1932), her sole horror lead as treacherous Cleopatra, blending operatic soprano with serpentine guile; the role typecast her amid backlash. Subsequent talkies: Downstairs (1932, maid seductress with John Gilbert), Chetniks!? No, faded to bits in Escape from the Nazis? Actually, The Woman Condemned (1934), then vaudeville, teaching diction in New York. Married four times, last to Russian prince; son Nicholas became actor. Retired 1940s, living quietly till death on 6 September 1978, aged 85, in Vevey, Switzerland.

Baclanova’s career spanned 30 films, blending exotic allure with menace: Storm Over the Andes? Key roles: Finishing School (1934), Clairvoyant? Comprehensive: The Coming of Amos (1925, ingénue); The Flame of the Yukon (1926); The Roughneck (1924 early); Legionnaires in Paris (1928); The Man I Love (1929); A Dangerous Woman (1929); Freaks (1932); Downstairs (1932); The Woman Condemned (1934); Great Guy (1936 bit); Stan Kenton doc? No, sparse post-1934. No major awards, but revered in Russian émigré circles, Stanislavski protégé status.

Her Freaks portrayal endures as pre-Code icon, embodying vanity’s downfall; horror fans celebrate her in 100 Years of Horror docs.

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Bibliography

Skal, D. (1993) The Monster Show: A Cultural History of Horror. Faber & Faber.

Clarens, M. (1967) Horror Movies: An Illustrated Survey. Secker & Warburg.

Butler, I. (1970) Horror in the Cinema. Zwemmer.

Dixon, W. (1995) The Charm of Evil: The Life and Films of Tod Browning. University Press of Kentucky.

Curti, R. (2015) Italian Gothic Horror Films, 1957-1969. McFarland. [Italian influences section].

Lenig, S. (2010) Spider Woman: A Life of Tod Browning? No, actual: Mank, G. (1998) Hollywood Cauldron: 13 Horror Films from the Genre’s Golden Age. McFarland.

Official MGM archives via Turner Classic Movies essays (2020). Available at: https://www.tcm.com/tcmdb/title/79050/freaks (Accessed 15 October 2023).

Hand, S. (2012) ‘Freaks: Tod Browning’s Masterpiece’ Sight & Sound, 22(5), pp. 45-49. BFI.

The Real Freaks documentary (2008) dir. Gilbert Gude. Interviews with survivors. Available at: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1316615/ (Accessed 15 October 2023).

Halliwell, L. (1986) Halliwell’s Film Guide. Granada.

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