Waxworks are the creepiest thing in this world. There is nothing more sinister than the deadened eyes of a looky-likey as it attempts to be something it is not. But they hold a power that is beyond the sum of their parts.
It may be the height of Benedict Cumberbatch, it may be the colouring of Benedict Cumberbatch but it is just a shell of malleable drippings adopting a Benedict Cumberbatchesque shape. It would all boil down to the same pool of blubbery ingredients if heated. That freaks me out. Perhaps because we would all melt down to the same ingredients? I don’t know the psychology behind my fear of waxworks, clowns and the word “pamphlet”.
It’s like viewing a corpse. In fact the real Madame Tussaud used to make death masks of guillotine victims in her native France before taking her skills to London where they became wildly trendy among narcissists like the Duke of Wellington who loved looking at his own effigy.
As an attraction, it tries to be all normal and human but there are too many decidedly creepy elements that set my skin crawling. For instance, the website cheerily insists they “ethically source all human hair.”
Oh gawd, I hadn’t even begun to wonder how they went about getting hair but now I’m definitely imagining the worst. If this is a thing they feel the need to spell out on their website perhaps more unethical waxworks are leaving a trail of bald children in their wake.
I have never welcomed the prospect of spending time in a room with humanoid shapes and this is a storyline Doctor Who has mined repeatedly with Weeping Angels and Mannequins suddenly becoming animate and attacking.
I thoroughly dreaded our Addison Primary School Fourth year trip to Baker Street and Madame Tussauds in the ’80s. As we trailed along chewing-gum-flecked-carpets and baroque royal tableaus the braided ropes kept our clammy hands to ourselves. We ate salt & vinegar crisp sandwiches and pushed each other, and I blustered through it and felt quite sure I would never ever have to queue up under that green dome that attracted tourists like flocking pigeons.
In retrospect, the ’80s/’90s era was probably a low ebb for the wonders of yesteryear like waxworks. We had the immediacy of colour TV to make us feel close to celebrities and royalty. We didn’t need to size up our celebrities in person.
Flash forward a bunch of years and the number three sight on my kids London wish-list (behind stalking Dan & Phil and the Harry Potter Studio Tour) was queuing up for nine or so hours in order to get into the updated Madame Tussauds.1
It turns out waxworks are the cockroach of attractions. In a highly improbable turn of events they not only outlasted the bathing machine and kept up with fun fairs, they actually totally outlived diversions like video rentals, arcades and the North American newspaper industry.
This digital age has led to the wise corporate decedents of the Madame herself untying the ropes and letting humans and non-humans intermingle. It’s a blinding bit of modern marketing and a masterful stroke of genius.
The Narcissists have taken over the asylum.
oonawoods 
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