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The politically correct term is “little people,” abbreviated to “LPs.” “Dwarf ” is acceptable, the plural being “dwarfs” — not “dwarves” (which conjures Tolkien or Snow White’s pals). “Midget” long has been considered offensive, referred to by many LPs as “the M-word.”
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Little people in Hollywood face many terrible woes: "Nobody asked to be born little. We just want a chance to show our talents like everybody else."
In the basement of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, behind a trick library bookcase, lies the cabaret Beacher’s Madhouse. Nightlife impresario Jeff Beacher describes his creation as “circus meets nightclub” and rattles off a litany of A-listers who’ve popped in over the years — including George Clooney, Sandra Bullock, Quentin Tarantino, Leonardo DiCaprio , Michael B. Jordan and Zac Efron. Running this circus pays; Beacher , 43, says he has amassed a $50 million fortune from his mini-empire. When I visited the club in October, the last time it was operational (it’s set to relaunch Sept. 18 after a remodel), the mood inside was raucous, with assorted douchebags pounding $28 cocktails amid a whirlwind of athletic go-go girls, Hollywood Boulevard-caliber costumed characters and little people — about 20 in all — dashing around with vodka bottles in hand. At one point, Ryan Seacrest entered with two beautiful women, a blonde and a brunette, on each arm. Across the room, a neon sign flickered: “MIDGET BAR.”
The first act featured two impersonators, introduced as Mini Kanye West and Mini Kim Kardashian , jumping around to “Gold Digger.” The crowd ate it up. (Another routine featured the 4-foot-1 Mini Kim “delivering” an even smaller woman, about 2-foot-6, from between her legs.) Later, a little person dressed as an Oompa Loompa , his face painted a Trumpian orange, crossed the room on a ceiling-mounted conveyor belt to deliver a champagne bottle. It was like watching a minstrel show, one with little people painted orange instead of white actors painted black. A discomfiting feeling settled in.
Five months later, I learned that the woman who played Mini Kim (real name: Kimberly Tripp) had died. Her body was found by her boyfriend, Mini Kanye (real name: Ricky Sells Jr.), on the balcony of the Las Vegas apartment they had shared. He had been out of town, competing in a Micro Wrestling Federation event. The couple had moved to Vegas in 2013 to perform at a new Madhouse location in the MGM Grand, where little people offer aerial bottle service after emerging from a faux elephant’s rear end.
“I think I could train any midget to perform,” Beacher tells me six months later. “We do funny performances, whatever’s big in pop culture. We had Mini Kim Kardashian, who just passed away.” I’d been reluctant to bring Tripp up, as the investigation into her death was ongoing.
“Just old age, unhealthy,” he says. “A lot of them don’t have long life spans. Little hearts and the whole thing.” She was 32.
For as long as show business has business has existed, little people have been delighting audiences — usually for the wrong reasons. In the early 1800s, they were billed as “midgets” and put on display alongside oddities like the “Feejee mermaid” in dime museums, precursors to freak shows that served as entertain- ment for the unwashed masses.
The root of people’s fascination with little people is hard to pin down. “There is a psychoanalytic theory that somehow we’re attracted to them because we have a fear that we’re never going to grow up,” says Robert Bogdan, author of the 1990 book Freak Show . “But I think that’s mostly bullshit. I think people just found them cute.”
By the 1840s, P.T. Barnum was operating the biggest dime museum in the country, Barnum’s American Museum in New York, and making huge profits off of his midgets. He gave them fake military ranks and royal titles and concocted illustrious backstories. There was the 3-foot-6 Commodore Nutt, who wore a naval uniform and traveled in a tiny carriage shaped like a walnut; Lavinia Warren, a 2-foot-8 fashion plate; and General Tom Thumb, standing 3-foot-4, who was taken by Barnum from his family at age 4 and whose Napoleon impersonation always killed. At the height of his celebrity, Thumb — who appeared before Queen Victoria and met Abraham Lincoln — was the biggest celebrity in the world.
More than 200 distinct medical conditions cause dwarfism, but 80 percent of modern cases are achondroplasia. This disorder, which occurs in about 1 in 25,000 births, inhibits the growth of limbs, resulting in adult heights of 4-foot-10 and under, a rate that has remained unchanged for centuries.
Historically, the term “midget” referred specifically to pituitary dwarfism, which produces LPs with proportions similar to average-size adults. Advances in growth-hor- mone therapies have made that kind of dwarfism extremely rare, though a handful still exist. The most famous of them today is Deep Roy, 58, a veteran actor best known for playing all 165 Oompa Loompas in Tim Burton’s 2005 Wonka film Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
“I am proportional and I’m very lucky for that,” the 4-foot-4 Roy tells me at a diner a few blocks from his Santa Monica apartment. Kenya-born to Indian parents, Roy dresses dapperly (he shops in the Harrods boys’ section) and exudes a put-upon sophistication, which has served his career well. He does not involve himself in little-person organizations (“not my cup of tea”) and in fact does not view himself as a little person: documented on current reality tele- “Whether you’re a dwarf, whether you’re a midget, it’s all branding.”
According to Stephen Cox, author of The Munchkins of Oz , there was a turf war between proportional and disproportionate little people in Hollywood’s golden age, and some of those attitudes and resentments still linger. “Midgets feel they were ‘above’ the dwarfs, and the dwarfs resented that they’re not in proportion,” says Cox. “In Hollywood, midgets got many more jobs because they were correctly proportioned.”
In any case, little people have always been drawn to Hollywood. In the early days, before the non-profit support group Little People of America (LPA) was founded in the late 1950s, movie sets were one of the few places they could meet people just like them. In Los Angeles, they not only found work — they also fell in love, married and had children. In fact, nearly 20 percent of the 10,000 little people in America call L.A. home.
There’s a 50 percent chance that two parents with achondroplasia will produce a child with dwarfism, a 25 percent chance the child will be born average height, and a 25 percent chance the child will not survive at all. It’s a risk many LP parents are willing total, one well documented on current reality television shows with names like Our Little Family and 7 Little Johnsons . (Pituitary dwarfism, by contrast, is nonhereditary, though it does tend to recur among siblings.)
Dwarfism is so rare, and a result of so many genetic abnormalities, that it isn’t screened for in normal pregnancies. “What might happen is someone would show up for a routine ultrasound,” says Colleen Gioffreda , an administrator at Johns Hopkins’ skeletal dysplasia center. “They’d see the baby’s limbs are shorter and the head is a little bit larger.” A test could be given to detect skeletal abnormalities; at that point, the pregnancy would be at least 28 weeks along.
“Little people don’t seem to be upset if they have a child with skeletal dysplasia,” she says. “It’s something they tend to celebrate.”
The Wizard of Oz still holds the record for the most little people in one film. “Legend has it the studio wanted 300 midgets,” says Cox.
In the end, MGM had to settle for 124. That’s how many perfectly proportional dwarfs Leo Singer, a German-Jewish emigre who collected little people for his traveling review, rounded up. Singer bought LPs outright from the parents, typically poor farmers who had no use for offspring they couldn’t put to work. The Singer Midgets were treated pretty well, given salaries, meals, lodging and custom-made wardrobes. They performed in A-level vaudeville theaters and populated such attractions as the Midget Village at the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair.
(A similar concept, Kingdom of the Little People, opened in 2010 in China, where tourists pay $9 to watch performances by little people who pretend to live in mushroom-shaped homes. The park has drawn condemnation from LPA president Gary Arnold, who asked, “What is the difference between it and a zoo?”)
There were stories that the Munchkin actors, who mostly were put up at the Culver Hotel, got wasted every night and engaged in orgies. Those rumors, refuted by the Munchkins themselves, were seemingly started by the film’s producer, Mervyn LeRoy, who pressed crewmembers each morning for gossip about their antics the night before. The stories also were spread by Dorothy herself: In a 1967 TV interview with Jack Paar, Judy Garland called them “little drunks” who “got smashed every night” and had to be rounded up “in butterfly nets.”
A neon sign hanging inside the club’s Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel location.
For their contribution to Hollywood history, the Munchkins were paid less than Dorothy’s dog, Toto, who earned $125 per week for her owner and trainer. Singer Midgets were paid $50 per week ($900 in 2016 dollars) and never saw their names on the big screen.
“It was monumental and it will never happen again,” Cox says. Today, only one Munchkin survives: Jerry Maren, who played a Lollipop Guild member in green. At 96, his family says he’s too frail to submit to an interview.
On April 7, at the Red Rock Resort in Las Vegas, several hundred LPA members met for the Western states spring regional, where LPs and their families attend panels with names like “Acromesomeliac Meet and Greet” and “LPA Fashion Show: Inspiring Confidence.” I was invited by the LPA’s treasurer, Thomas Hershey, 53, a former executive at Sony Pictures who oversaw visual effects and postproduction. Hershey, who gets around in a motorized wheelchair, greeted me at the hotel Starbucks.
“I’m undiagnosed,” says Hershey, 4-foot-8. “They don’t know what kind of dwarfism I have. I have a lot of similarities to achondroplasia, which explains my head.” (His skull is slightly misshapen.) “I have a lot of similarities to cerebral palsy, which affects mobility. I may have both.” Hershey grew up in Vero Beach, Fla., the son of a lifelong Navy man who specialized in explosives. “He was the head of nuclear materials, so, you tell me.”
Gifted in math and computer science, Hershey attended MIT as an undergrad, then moved to L.A. in 1986 to attend UCLA’s MBA program. His wife of 13 years, Gina, 3-foot-9, died of ovarian cancer in 2015. These days, Hershey oversees LPA’s District 12, which encompasses California and Nevada and has about 700 members, many of whom work in the entertainment industry.
I ask Hershey how the LP community feels about Beacher’s Madhouse. “It’s a varied reaction,” he says. “There are those that don’t begrudge anyone entertaining people and taking advantage of their physical attributes. I fall into that camp: Do what you need to do, if you can look yourself in the mirror afterward.”
LPA executive director Joanna Campbell, an average-size woman whose daughter was born with dwarfism, tells me the official LPA stance on those kinds of gigs is that “it is their choice. We try to stay overall neutral.”
TONY COX: “Every time a part comes up for a little person, the competition is fierce because they just don’t write enough roles for us. It’s terrible. And the roles are not good at all,” says the 58-year-old Bad Santa 2 star. “People don’t realize what we go through.” He was photographed July 20 at Edge Studio in Los Angeles.
Still, the LPA will not hesitate to step in if it feels that a business is exploiting little people or putting their lives in danger. It recently demanded that a club in Canada put an end to “dwarf tossing,” a spectator sport in which LPs are thrown onto mattresses or against Velcro-covered walls. It also sent a letter to a London nightclub that provided costumed dwarfs to VIP tables for an “Alice in Wonderland” night. Neither complaint garnered a response.
Peter Dinklage , arguably the most celebrated LP actor of all time, protested dwarf-tossing in his 2012 Golden Globe acceptance speech for his work as Tyrion Lannister, the scene-stealing character from Game of Thrones . His speech sent viewers to Google the sad tale of Martin Henderson, an LP who was tossed by a drunk man during the Rugby World Cup, rendering him paralyzed.
Dinklage, 47, typically resists being a spokesman for the dwarfism community. (“I can’t preach how to be OK with it,” he told an interviewer in 2012. “There’s days that I’m not.”) Still, the 4-foot-5 star, who declined to speak for this story, has several projects relating to his height now in development. One is a biopic of Herve Villechaize, the Fantasy Island star who killed himself in 1993; another is a movie called O’Lucky Day , which Dinklage has described as a “very different take” on leprechaun stories.
Verne Troyer ’s breakthrough role came as Mini-Me in 1999’s Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me . He’s pictured here in 2002’s Goldmember .
The LPA hopes that Dinklage’s success will help change attitudes in Hollywood. “Maybe now that he has hosted Saturday Night Live they’ll think twice about the jokes they’ve made at little people’s expense,” says Campbell — referring to a running gag in Bill Hader’s popular Stefon sketches in which he described “midgets” in demeaning situations. Then there was the scene in Martin Scorsese’s The Wolf of Wall Street that featured DiCaprio’s character, Jordan Belfort, leading his staff in a dwarf-tossing match. LPA leaders pleaded with producers to reconsider, to no avail.
I ask Martin Klebba, the 4-foot-1 actor who plays Marty in the Pirates of the Caribbean films (he flies backward after firing a large gun in the 2007 installment At World’s End ) why more LP stars don’t speak out against the exploitation of little people.
“What are you going to see?” says Klebba, 47. “A bunch of little people protesting outside the place? Then that will be on the news and look funny to the masses, a bunch of little people waddling around with protest signs.”
Arguably, a direct line can be drawn between these performers, typecast as elves and leprechauns, to Hattie McDaniel, Oscar’s first African-American acting winner, who played nothing but maids until her death. More than 150 years after Barnum debuted his world-famous midgets, their modern descendants — bereft of good roles, beset by health problems (spinal compression, bone malformation and neurological issues, to name a few), cruelly commoditized and toothlessly defended — remain closer to the past than the future.
So why did I see a minstrel show where others saw a fun night out? Particularly now, with Hollywood on high alert about its representation of marginalized groups, how is it that the hand-wringing never extends to this one — not even among LPs themselves, at least not consistently? Perhaps it’s because Hollywood’s little people are at once beholden to the entertainment industry, which remains their biggest employer, and enslaved by its vision of them, which, in 2016, largely remains that of the eager-to-please freak.
TERRA JOLE: “Because we’re little, there are many, many stereotype roles that are provided that makes it easy to get in the industry. I mean, I had my SAG card within months of living here,” says Jole, 36, star of Lifetime’s Little Women: L.A . She delivered a healthy son, Grayson, on Aug. 1, but has not revealed whether the baby was born with dwarfism. She was photographed July 21 at Edge Studio.
Tripp’s death, which had occurred a few weeks earlier, was on everyone’s lips at the LPA conference in Las Vegas. Many attendees knew her or someone who knew her.
“It’s almost like we all went to the same school,” says Terra Jole, star of Little Women: L.A. , a Lifetime reality show in the Real Housewives mold. “And if you’re a little person in the entertainment industry, 99 percent of the time, I know you. It’s very 90210.”
Jole, 36, did not envision herself as a reality star. In 2001, against her mother’s wishes, she drove from San Antonio to L.A. to pursue a career as a singer. “I was like a vagabond for a hot minute,” she says. To pay the bills, she honed an act as a musical impersonator, playing pop sirens
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