Owen Gleiberman Chief Film CriticEven in the late 1960s, when it seemed like the world was turning upside down, no one had ever seen anything quite like Tiny Tim.
Standing onstage in an oversize plaid jacket, a mop of curls draped over his face, strumming his ukulele as he sang “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” in a trilling falsetto quaver so high it sounded like he was being tickled and tortured at the same time, he was like a troll and a little girl in one body — a flower child who was also a come-hither vampire.
He presented himself as an “angelic” creature, not quite of this earth, and maybe that’s what he was. Yet there was something else going on in those bedroom eyes, which he would bat like a silent-movie ingenue.
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