The real Tom Thumb

A topic such as mine—freak shows in the nineteenth century—is ripe for that notorious word: ‘impact’. People seem intrinsically interested in difference.

The very subject matter conjures the dilemma of voyeurism: telling a story which might excite curiosity, titillate the reader, as they confront the ‘Fat Man’, ‘Bearded Lady’ or ‘Siamese Twin’ while, at the same time, trying to transcend voyeurism by analysing a historical phenomenon.

And while I type historical, the subject-matter is still, very much, a contemporary phenomenon: just flick through a glossy magazine, pick up the Guinness Book of World Records, have a gander at Jeremy Kyle (etcetera etcetera); the ‘abnormal’ is still on display.

Yet while contemporary culture is littered with examples, the problem of voyeurism remains inherent in the historical research (and the lure that ‘impact’ compels. 

The stories I confront in my research—about the disabled actors behind the public performance of ‘freakery’—need, I believe, to be told. They are human tales of tragedy and triumph. 

With all of this in mind, last year I brought such a story to an independent TV production company. I had just finished researching the history of General Tom Thumb, a little person who measured not two feet in height, and whose real name was Charles Stratton. ‘Discovered’ by the (in)famous American showman, P.T. Barnum, Tom Thumb came to England in 1844 and wowed the country—from Queen Victoria to commoner—before conquering the world as one of the first international celebrities.

After an informal ‘pitch’ to the Creative Director, I was asked to write a thorough ‘treatment’: a document to be taken to the BBC, outlining a proposed TV documentary. It was an interesting change of gear; having spent my life in the world of academia, I suddenly had to think visually, write (dare I say it?) commercially and literally ‘sell’ my idea. Who would present such a story; what would be the narrative and analytical threads; what were the dramatic moments; where would it be filmed; who and why would people watch it? These were the questions I had to confront.

Luckily enough, my work paid off: the documentary was commissioned by the BBC! Immediately, the ante was upped: I was now the Researcher, working closely with a small team which included the Producer, Director, Creative Director and the presenter Lord Michael Grade.

It was a shock to the system: the world of TV is fast-moving, intense and all-consuming! But surrounded by a fantastic team (honestly, I have never met such practical, intellectual and creative individuals), I was carefully guided.

The intellectual content and narrative arc had to be deciphered; potential locations and contributors found; scripts written; props located; images sourced; budgets worked, filming arranged—all were part of the mix. I was even lucky enough to accompany the team on the English film shoot and even made my debut on screen.

Seeing a thought germinate into a TV documentary is a wonderful experience. I owe everything to the Creative Director who gave me a shot and guided me throughout the process; as well as my fantastic PhD supervisor who gave me the freedom and support to embark on the project.

I stood in awe as I watched the Producer and Director work their magic and revelled in the skill of Lord Grade and the Production Manager. More than that, it was personally warming (and important) to see a character I had come to know so well—General Tom Thumb—take one last stage-bow. The story of Charles Stratton is truly fascinating and deserves to be told.

And my own adventure did not end there. After the Tom Thumb project was completed and I returned to my PhD books; I got a call from another independent production company. This time the project was on Queen Victoria. It was being presented by A.N. Wilson. Would I work on the project as the Assistant Producer? It was a no-brainer.