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Future of Middletown''s ''evil clown'' in flux

The Uncertain Fate of Middletown's Iconic Evil Clown: A Landmark in Limbo

In the heart of Middletown, New Jersey, a peculiar giant stands sentinel along Route 35, its painted grin both welcoming and menacing. Known affectionately—or fearfully—as the "Evil Clown," this towering fiberglass figure has been a fixture of the local landscape for decades. But recent developments have cast a shadow over its future, leaving residents, historians, and roadside attraction enthusiasts wondering if this quirky piece of Americana will endure or fade into obscurity. As urban development pressures mount and ownership changes loom, the Evil Clown's story is one of nostalgia, controversy, and the clash between progress and preservation.

The origins of the Evil Clown trace back to the 1950s, a time when America's highways were dotted with oversized novelties designed to lure motorists. Originally dubbed "Circus Clown" or sometimes "The Clown," the statue was erected in 1956 as part of the advertising for a now-defunct roadside store called Food Circus, a precursor to modern supermarkets. Standing at an imposing 45 feet tall, with a rotund body, oversized shoes, and a face that features a wide, toothy smile under piercing eyes, the clown was meant to embody fun and whimsy. However, its exaggerated features—particularly the arched eyebrows and stark red lips—earned it the "evil" moniker from locals and passersby who found its expression more sinister than cheerful. Over the years, it became a symbol of Middletown's eccentric charm, appearing in films, music videos, and even inspiring urban legends about haunted happenings.

For many in the community, the Evil Clown is more than just a statue; it's a cultural touchstone. Longtime resident Maria Gonzalez, 62, recalls her childhood drives past the figure. "It scared the daylights out of me as a kid," she says, chuckling. "But now, it's like an old friend. Losing it would be like losing a piece of our town's soul." Gonzalez is not alone in her sentiment. The clown has garnered a dedicated following, with fan pages on social media boasting thousands of members who share photos, stories, and pleas for its protection. Roadside America, a website dedicated to quirky attractions, lists it as one of the top must-see oddities in New Jersey, drawing tourists from across the country who stop for selfies and souvenirs.

Yet, the clown's future is now in flux due to a confluence of economic and developmental factors. The property on which it stands, once home to a liquor store that incorporated the clown into its branding, has been eyed for redevelopment. In recent months, reports have surfaced that the site's owners are considering selling or repurposing the land for more profitable ventures, such as a mixed-use development featuring retail spaces and apartments. This comes amid broader trends in Middletown, where suburban sprawl and rising property values are transforming former commercial strips into modern complexes. Local zoning boards have been reviewing proposals that could see the clown dismantled or relocated, sparking debates at town hall meetings.

At the center of the controversy is the question of historical preservation. Advocates argue that the Evil Clown qualifies as a historic landmark, deserving protection under state and federal guidelines for cultural resources. The New Jersey Historic Preservation Office has been petitioned by groups like the Middletown Historical Society to evaluate the statue's significance. "This isn't just kitsch; it's a relic of mid-20th-century advertising art," explains Dr. Elena Ramirez, a professor of American Studies at Rutgers University. "Figures like this represent the golden age of roadside architecture, when businesses used bold, whimsical designs to compete for attention in the pre-interstate era. Preserving it would honor that heritage."

Opponents, however, view the clown as an eyesore that hinders progress. Some developers and business owners in the area contend that the statue deters potential investors, associating the site with outdated or even creepy aesthetics. "We're trying to modernize Middletown," says real estate developer Mark Thompson, who has been involved in preliminary discussions about the property. "That clown might have been fun in the '50s, but today it's a liability. We need spaces that attract families and businesses, not something that looks like it belongs in a horror movie." Thompson points to successful redevelopments in nearby towns, where old landmarks were removed to make way for thriving commercial hubs, boosting local economies.

The debate has also spilled into the political arena. Middletown's township committee has held public hearings where residents voiced their opinions. One session drew over 100 attendees, with signs reading "Save the Clown!" and counter-protests arguing for "Progress Over Pranks." Mayor Tony Perry has expressed a balanced view, stating in a recent interview, "We value our history, but we also have to think about the future. If there's a way to incorporate the clown into new plans, great. But if not, we might have to let it go." Perry's administration is exploring options like relocating the statue to a public park or museum, though logistical challenges—such as the clown's massive size and fragile fiberglass construction—make this a costly endeavor. Estimates for disassembly and transport range from $50,000 to $100,000, funds that would likely need to come from grants or crowdfunding.

Cultural references have amplified the clown's notoriety, potentially aiding preservation efforts. It famously appeared in the opening credits of the 1995 film "The Indian in the Cupboard" and has been featured in episodes of TV shows like "The Sopranos," where it served as a backdrop for dramatic scenes. Musicians, too, have drawn inspiration; indie bands have filmed music videos at its base, and it's even mentioned in songs by local artists. This pop culture cachet has attracted attention from national media, with outlets like The New York Times and CNN covering the story, framing it as a microcosm of America's struggle to balance nostalgia with modernization.

Community initiatives are gaining momentum to secure the clown's survival. A grassroots campaign, "Friends of the Evil Clown," has launched an online petition that has collected over 5,000 signatures, urging local officials to grant it protected status. Organizers are planning events like a "Clown Festival" to raise awareness and funds, featuring clown-themed games, historical talks, and merchandise sales. "We're not against development," says campaign leader Jake Harlan. "We just want the clown to be part of it. Maybe turn it into a centerpiece for a new plaza or something creative."

As negotiations continue, the Evil Clown stands unchanged, its painted eyes gazing out over the traffic. For now, it's a symbol of uncertainty, embodying the tension between cherishing the past and embracing the future. Whether it will be restored, relocated, or removed remains to be seen, but one thing is clear: the debate has reignited a sense of community pride in Middletown. Residents like Gonzalez hope that whatever happens, the clown's legacy endures. "It's more than fiberglass," she says. "It's a reminder of simpler times, when a giant smiling face could make you laugh—or scream."

The story of the Evil Clown is emblematic of broader issues facing roadside attractions across the United States. From the giant Paul Bunyan statues in the Midwest to the dinosaur parks of the Southwest, many such landmarks are vanishing as highways expand and tastes evolve. Preservationists warn that without intervention, an entire era of American ingenuity could be lost. In Middletown, the fight for the clown has sparked interest in other local oddities, like abandoned amusement parks and vintage neon signs, potentially leading to a wider heritage trail.

Experts suggest that innovative solutions could bridge the gap. For instance, integrating the clown into a new development as an art installation or visitor center. Successful precedents exist, such as the restoration of the Blue Whale in Catoosa, Oklahoma, which was saved through community efforts and now draws tourists. If Middletown follows suit, the Evil Clown could become a beacon for sustainable tourism, blending history with economic growth.

In the meantime, visitors continue to flock to the site, snapping photos and sharing stories. For some, it's a rite of passage; for others, a quirky detour. But as the winds of change blow stronger, the clown's grin seems a bit more precarious. Will it survive to scare and delight future generations, or will it join the ranks of forgotten Americana? Only time—and perhaps a few dedicated advocates—will tell.

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