Marceline Orbes

Born in Saragossa Spain in 1875 he began clowning in circuses, mastering his craft and working his way up to playing the London Hippodrome for five straight years.

He came to this country under the management of Thomson & Dundy bolster the lineup at the opening of the New York Hippodrome in 1905 where he was partnered with Frank "Slivers" Oakley. He played the NY Hippodrome successfully for nine consectutive seasons then he went back to circus clowning, just another Alley clown doing walkarounds with Ringling. He returned to the Hippodrome in 1920 but silent film comedy had changed the public's taste in clowning and Marceline had a hard time entertaining audiences who had adored him just a few short years before.

Like his former partner, he died alone and broken, committing suicide in 1927. The largest wreath on his casket came from Charlie Chaplin who had performed onstage with him as a small child.

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From Time magazine November 14, 1927...

Essie Goodman, maid in a smallish Manhattan hotel, at two o'clock in the afternoon, tiptoed into a room, followed by the manager and a policeman. The room was in some disorder. Photographs were littered across the bed; a few had slid down to the floor. A picture of a girl was propped up on a chair near the window and in the corner three theatrical costumes were heaped on top of a trunk. A man was kneeling by the bed, his hands stiffly and desperately twisted together, his head pushed down against his arms. He did not say anything when the three people came into the room. The policeman touched him, shook him a little, then saw the smear of blood that ran down his cheek from a hole in his temple. "I guess he bumped himself off," said the policeman, "I'll have to have his name." "Orbes," the manager told him, "Marceline Orbes."

Twenty years ago the policeman would not have had to ask how to spell "Marceline." He would have been accustomed to seeing it in big shiny letters over the entrance to the Hippodrome, biggest Manhattan theatre. The little, inexpressive brown face with the smear of blood would have reminded him of another face, with the same features, set in a foolish pointed smile. He would have recognized the dusty, madly tailored evening clothes that Marceline had taken out of his trunk before he killed himself, as the uniform of the most famous clown since the days of Grimaldi.

According to legend, in 1876, aged three, Marceline, perched on the shoulder of an old clown, entered a bullfight arena where his helpless sprawlings made him funny. Marceline preferred to say that he had run away from the tailor to whom he had been apprenticed, crawled under a circus tent and fallen asleep. Then an old clown had saved him from the crouching lion against whose cage he had dozed and taught him the astonishing art of making people laugh. All the legends made Marceline a Spaniard, but he talked with a tight cockney whine in his voice.

In 1905, already famous after a five years' run in London, Marceline came to New York. The people who saw him during the nine years he played at the Hippodrome, damaged his reputation by trying to tell their friends how funny he was. "He just comes out," they said. "He sort of comes out on the stage and moves around ... he looks so funny . . . and his shoes, well they look like broken coal shovels . . . you have to see his face ... it makes you laugh. . . ." Marceline hated to be called a clown in those days. Clowns are the silly fellows in the circus who get guffaws by contorting their inane rubber faces, by painting big spots on their cheeks and putting putty on their noses. Marceline was a droll, or better still, an

"august;" he wore, not pantaloons, but a baggy tailcoat; he could make a thousand people roar with laughter by saying nothing, merely looking at his left foot.

In 1912, Slivers Oakley, his partner, killed himself. When Marceline came back to the Hippodrome in 1915 after a trip abroad, his crowds were already beginning to prefer the silent flutter of faces on a screen to the gayeties of a nimble droll. A mocking shadow ran after him for the next few years, whispering an insult in his ear every time the crowds at Ringling's sat silent when he twisted an eyebrow at them. By 1920, he used to pick up dollars by coming in at business men's dinners and trying to make the solemn faces crack.
All his money was gone, but he still gave his wife, who had left him, $35 every month. At the last he pawned his ring for $15. . . .

In his hotel room he got out the photographs that had been taken of him years ago. Marceline himself had to smile a little at those merry mocking faces. Then, at four o'clock in the morning, he reached for his revolver and shot himself. His body slumped down by the bed on which the photographs were spread out; when Essie Goodman came in the first time, she went out again very quietly, because she thought he was praying.

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This from the "Dark Humor" website...

MARCELINE

In the days before video games and pornography on the "information superhighway," people were often entertained by clowns.

Yes, gaily painted idiotic creatures in funny clothes with very little on their minds and no talent...would come into a theater to see clowns.

One of the greatest clowns was Marceline Orbes, who left our world on November 5, 1927.

As Mr. Smith, chronicler of chronic comics, reports in his "Who's Who in Comedy," tales of "defeated, broken-hearted "Pagliacci" clowns may have been widespread in literature, but it was the tragic reality of Marceline...Not confined to the circus, Marceline played the finest venues including five years at England's Hippodrome...One critic wrote of his stage act, 'part of his appeal lay in a bewildered expression, as though life puzzled him. He picked something up only to drop it. He sought to help others, but always got in the way. Children, and adults too, howled and rocked in their seats with laughter as Marceline grew entangled in the rugs...meanwhile dropping trays of dishes.'

"Just ten years later, the same Marceline played the Hippodrome in 1915 to far less praise. His comic routines were evidently now deemed old fashioned. Under such conditions, it was hard for him to even perform his old standards with enthusiasm.

Unable to recapture his old form, Marceline lent his name to a restaurant. When it failed, he invested his money in a second restaurant. It too failed. He and his wife separated and his remaining savings withered away.

"The proud Spaniard couldn't find a way create new material or to revive an act that was now viewed with scorn and indifference. The years passed slowly for him, but quickly enough to make his name only a dim memory for audiences. Nearly broke, he checked into the Hotel Mansfield at 226 West 50th Street in New York. The manager recalled that in many months, "Nobody ever telephoned him; he never received mail, he never smiled or complained. We knew nothing of his business."

"On November 3, he pawned his diamond ring for $15. Two days later, between midnight and 4am, Marceline knelt at his bed, staring at the photographs of himself he had placed there, like cards. His first trembling pistol shot went into the wall. The second did not miss.

"Marceline was found "kneeling as though in prayer" the following morning. The shots had been heard and had been ignored. Six dollars was all he had left besides the pictures of a once-loved clown."

His ex-wife was one of the few at the funeral. She had great compassion for the great Marceline. As reporters gathered around, she announced, "I expected something like this."