Monday, November 16, 2009

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 2

Here is the second installment of "The Vanity," a short story by Robert Murillo.

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Before I continue with my tale, let me say I'm not a Beverly Hills kind of guy. But my wife, Jeanne, liked nice things. So when she inherited a bundle from Daddy-dear, we bought this oversized piece of history. That was more than eleven years ago. Then, less than two years ago, Jeanne passed away.  Gone.  I'm still not completely over it. But who would be? We were married close to thirty years and we loved each other. She was a magnificent person, I depended on her, and I miss her. 

Our small mansion was built in the mid-twenties. It is unique, it's gaudy, it's Hollywood. Jeanne and I spent a goodly amount of time and money prepping the house before moving in: new paint, some re-wiring, repaired the plumbing and removed the dry rot. We restored the light fixtures, the cornices, the sinks and tubs with the clawed feet, and the wonderful Art Deco designs over the five fireplaces. We brought in a 'wood doctor' who was able to salvage the handsome built-in cedar bookcases; we fixed the dumbwaiter and added a few Persian rugs atop the restored hardwood floors that have inlaid mother of pearl.  The project was quite an endeavor. And worth it just to see Jeanne's face when we moved in.

This place has six bedrooms, nine closets (four of which you can walk through), a huge dining room (where I've set up my office), a living room (the size of a small Costco), a kitchen that still has the original green and black checkered tile on the floor, and four and a half bathrooms. And there is an abandoned attic and a dark, gloomy basement the size of a hockey rink, both of which remain unexplored. At the end of the driveway, in the backyard, there's a dilapidated, single garage that stands as a monument to what happens to those things forgotten.  This simple, wooden structured, consumed by a vicious blackberry bush, an insatiable ivy plant and Father Time, remains more a tribute to wild, unsupervised plant propagation, than a safe haven for a vehicle or a small warehouse for storage. Yet, surprisingly, it wasn't as unattractive as it was useless.

Jeanne and I did do some research on our new home once we settled in, and, intriguingly, we discovered that the house was originally occupied by a Hollywood actor, later turned director, by the name of A. Edward Sutherland - Eddie Sutherland. And as the story goes, he was fairly famous: he began his career as a Keystone Cop, later worked with Charlie Chaplin in the mid-twenties and, with Chaplin's help, became a director. He went on to direct fifty films over a thirty-one year career. Eddie lived here well into the thirties - 1937 in fact -  when he sold it to some chap by the name of J.D. Stephens from Rochester, New York. Stephens had been transferred to the West Coast to become the new distributor for commercial cameras and film for the Kodak company. He and his wife lived here for over forty-three years. No family. The estate was ultimately sold off to a real estate agent whose intention was to flip it but he ran into a recession. He lived here for awhile, then rented it out and eventually abandoned it. Pretty much that's the story; it was empty when we bought it. Like I said, that was over eleven years ago.

Friday evening Molly staggered in - somewhat red-eyed and lethargic - and we spent the night together, still able to pound out over 2000 words before I finally clicked the 'shut down' button. She had fallen asleep on my shoulder, using my neck as a pillow. I yawned, found the remains of a tepid Corona, finished it, and then moseyed to the kitchen, where I found a fresh one and continued out to the front window to see what was playing tonight. Maybe another rerun of The Car that Stalked Beverly Hills. I checked my watch. Three o'clock. I looked out the window.

And damned if the car wasn't parked in front of the house! With the damp weather having moved south toward San Diego, clearly visible was at least sixteen feet of gleaming chrome and sparkling, black metal - undoubtedly designed by a pencil-mustached German or a monocle-wearing Frenchman. This was no Ford. In fact, this was no car. This was a motorcar. An automobile massaged and molded and stroked into an Art Deco dreamwork on wheels.

Inside, the overhead light glowed, providing some detail of the interior. The driver, sitting on the left, was mostly silhouette. He wore a chauffeur's cap and was staring straight ahead. In the back seat, I saw gloved hands and part of a white hat or a hood. My stalker appeared to be a woman. She leaned toward the passenger window that was closest to the house and there, framed in the glass of that rear door, was a face for the ages: maybe twenty, large dark eyes, and a cascade of black bangs that touched the top of her eyebrows. She forced a smile, and despite the forty feet between us, it was clear she was someone extraordinary. She began to speak- seemingly trying to tell me something, her face now a coil of concern. Then, turning away, she spoke to the driver and sat back in her seat. The massive, gleaming vehicle quietly rolled away, black into black, disappearing into the night once again.

I stood there. What the hell had just happened?

Sunday, November 15, 2009

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 1

This post, the 50th of the new Louise Brooks Society blog, is pleased to present the first installment of a new story featuring Louise Brooks. The story is "The Vanity" by Robert Murillo. I think you will enjoy it. I did.

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“I loathe narcissism, but I approve of vanity.”

­Diana Vreeland


The Vanity

My name is Michael Lundy but you can call me Mike. I’m fifty three, in good health, and I write. I live on N. Bedford Drive in Beverly Hills and spend most nights and early mornings writing the Great American Novel. But that’s another story­ - and one I hope someday you’ll read. Like I said, I’m in good health. Though, as this tale unfolds, you may question that.

It began five nights ago. Wednesday night­ really - in the wee small hours of Thursday morning. Molly, my muse, whose hours are far better than mine, had called it a night. So I stretched, pushed my chair back, got up and strolled from my dining room office, through the living room and to the front window. Outside, the misty October rain had covered everything with a glossy wetness. I glanced at my watch. It was exactly three o’clock. I debated whether to return to the computer and attempt to finish up this chapter without Molly or head for bed, when, down the street to my left, I saw the orange glow of two headlights approaching. I watched as a vintage black sedan rolled by my house, slowing as it passed, and then continued down N. Bedford, disappearing into the mist. Odd, but no big deal. Classic-looking car though; maybe from as far back as the 1920’s. I shrugged, decided to call it a night, and headed for bed.

Most of Thursday afternoon was dictated by an uninteresting list of things to do: lunch with a representative from Westwood Magazine looking to publish a short story of mine, picking up some groceries while I had the oil changed in my Jeep Wrangler, stopping by Best Buy for some black ink for the printer, and then wrapping up my errands with an ice cream from Cold Stone. Flavors: coffee and French vanilla. Too good to sacrifice for any health reasons. Ice cream cone in one hand, steering wheel in the other, it was time to head back for another evening with Molly - ­the only woman in my life ­- or so I thought.

Without fanfare or many breaks, Molly and I worked from about six-thirty to well-past two thirty Friday morning. When my eyes began to glaze over and my fingers remained hovered above the keyboard, I realized Molly had slipped away. I pulled myself up, stretched, found the fridge, grabbed a cold Corona and wandered out to the living room and over to the front window again. It was another damp night in ‘The Hills.’

I yawned, checked my watch - ­it was almost three a.m.­ - took a long and satisfying drink of my beer and decided to head for bed, when the oddest thing happened. Through the gray drizzle came the same black car that had driven by the night before! And again it slowed as it passed my house. I still couldn’t make out what kind of car it was­ - one of those big sedans with suicide doors, running boards and headlights attached to the front fenders. It might have been an old Cadillac­ - or maybe a Packard? I’m much better with cars from the forties and fifties. Suffice it to say, it was big, dark and ominous. It continued down N. Bedford Drive, the small, bright red taillights slowly fading into the dampness of the night.

Was all this strange? Yes. Was I going to lose any sleep about some weirdo cruisin’ Beverly Hills at three in the morning? No. Remember, this is the land of eccentrics and oddballs. So if someone wanted to cruise Beverly Hills in search of the stars’ homes in an old vintage sedan in the middle of the night, fine. Just don’t ring my doorbell in search of Julia Roberts or George Clooney.

I strolled back to my computer to see if Molly had returned. A bright yellow Post-It was stuck to the monitor with the message:

Off to the Viper Room in search of Johnny Depp!­ XOXO, Molly

I switched off the computer and, Corona in hand, headed for bed.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Dear Stinkpot: Letters from Louise Brooks

Happy Birthday Louise Brooks. Our favorite silent film star was born on this day in 1906 in Cherryvale, Kansas.

To mark the occasion, I posted an article on examiner.com about the just published book,  Dear Stinkpot: Letters from Louise Brooks (BearManor). I read and loved this new book - and I think any fan of the actress will love it too. I recommend it.

Not only was Dear Stinkpot an entertaining read, it was also interesting. I felt a learned new things about the actress I hadn't known before. Like the radio shows she did in the early 1960's !

Dear Stinkpot, by Jan Wahl, is available on-line and at better book stores. Check it out. You won't be disappointed.


Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Louise Brooks: Show Girl in Hollywood

On eBay, there is a 1929 issue of Liberty magazine for sale which contains an excerpt of Show Girl in Hollywood, the J.P. McEvoy novel featuring Dixie Dugan - a show girl character inspired by Louise Brooks. It's pretty obvious from the page scanned below that J.H. Striebel also based his illustrations of the Dixie Dugan character on Louise Brooks.



The novel, originally published in serial form in Liberty and then in book form by Simon & Schuster, has long been out of print.I have long hoped someone would republish it with the original Striebel illustrations. I would think that with all the current interest in Louise Brooks, a reprint would be a good seller. (I know a lot of Louise Brooks fans that would buy a copy.)

Sunday, November 8, 2009

A atriz Louise Brooks era do balacobaco

A long Brazilian article (in Portuguese) about Louise Brooks was posted on the Parana-online website and can be found at www.parana-online.com.br/editoria/almanaque/news/408274/?noticia=LOUISE+BROOKS+ERA+DO+BALACOBACO

The Google translation function rendered it into English. and the article seems like a summation of Brooks' life and career. Check it out.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Henri Langlois gravesite

Yesterday, I received a fascinating email about the gravesite of Henri Langlois, the famous French film archivist and co-founder of the Cinémathèque Française.As most any fan of Louise Brooks knows, Langlois was an admirer of the actress. He uttered the now famous declaration, "There is no Garbo, there is no Dietrich, there is only Louise Brooks."



Brooks' fan Steve Robinson emailed me a couple of images he took in the cemetery in Montparnasse where Langlois is buried. He wanted me to share them with everyone. The first image is of the gravesite, and the second is of a collage on the gravestone which includes an image of Louise Brooks from Pandora's Box. Thank you Steve.



Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Rosetta Stone: Celebrate Paramount Week advertisement

Below, I've posted a large scan of a "Celebrate Paramount Week" advertisement which I recently came across in a San Francisco newspaper. It dates from 1926. This ad is not unique to San Francisco. In the past, I've dug up these kind of advertisements in other newspapers located across California and the United States.

A close reading of the advertisement reveals that the Louise Brooks - W.C. Fields film, It's the Old Army Game, play at two theatres in San Francisco on September 4th and 5th. As I am currently engaged in a project documenting the exhibition of Brooks' films in the City by the Bay, that's useful information. (The New Mission Theatre and the New Fillmore Theatre were sister theatres which almost always shared programming.)

However, what makes this large advertisement especially revealing is the extensive listing of San Francisco, Bay Area, and Northern California theatres. All of the venues listed here - including the various "irregular exhibition spaces" like hospitals, retirement homes and army base theatres - participated in Paramount Week. And by inference, these were theatres where Brooks' other Paramount features might have been shown. That's also useful information.

This advertisement - and the names and locales of the theatres contained within it - acts as a kind of Rosetta Stone in helping to document the exhibition of Brooks' films. It also reveals which theatres were allied with Paramount (this being the days of block booking) - and in some instances, the very existence of a theatre.

I was especially pleased to spot a listing for the Empress Theatre, located at 28th and Church street in San Francisco. That venue, which was torn down a few weeks ago, is located just a couple of block from where I live in San Francisco. I had written about its demise for my regular column on examiner.com.



If you live in Northern California, you will likely enjoy scouring this advertisement for a theatre near you. Because of its fine print, I have posted a rather large scan. Double-clicking on the image will reveal its full size. Isn't it impressive how many movie theatres there were back in the 1920's? They seemed to located just about everywhere!
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