JOE MARTIN HAD gone wild. Apeshit, you might say. Lips curled back into an angry grimace, with a defensive hunch and a stony expression, the great animal star of the early silver screen was having a temper tantrum that would make Joan Crawford look like a pushover. The ape was on the roof of a building on the Universal lot, surrounded by onlookers, among them his befuddled, usually authoritative trainer, Al ‘Curley’ Stecker. The orangutan-actor of silent comedy had become a household name in the 1910s, but he was in no mood for monkey business on that day in late July of 1919, having escaped his enclosure at the renowned Universal City Zoo.
In his so-called three-day rampage, Joe reportedly ripped his cage door off its hinges before freeing 15 wolves and his friend Charlie the elephant from their respective shackles. He went on to break into and wreck his trainer’s office, snatching up a shaving razor as he went. No-one was harmed, but panic was widespread, with all manner of productions thrown into chaos. Different reports surfaced. Some folks claimed that Stecker lassoed his hairy friend, who escaped the studio gates and —others said — terrorised a church meeting, before Stecker dragged him back into captivity. Los Angeles newspapers dashed out column inches by the dozen about the ape that had run amok.
But Joe was no ordinary ape: he was a movie star who, at the height of his fame, would delight millions with his short silent comedies, keep the public ensnared in tales of so-called ‘insanity’, and when all else failed… he really did join the circus.