Monday Glamour Starter --- Louise Brooks


There’s a lot about Louise Brooks to appeal to the college sophomore in all of us. She spoke her mind, never suffered fools, walked out when she got bored, and so forth. Her attitude brought down the curtain and exiled this seeming most self-destructive woman in the whole of American show-business to a menial life unworthy of what many referred to as instinctive acting genius. There’s a mouthful, but how else to sum up the object of such fervid cult enthusiasm? They recognized the Brooks centennial in San Francisco (2006) with crowds hip-deep for any number of commemorative events. Who wouldn't want to Be Louise at times --- those younger imagine they can --- but even Brooks found out that a lifelong contrarian's life can be a lonely one, and I can’t imagine any of her acolytes wanting to end up the way Louise did. One thing’s sure --- she’s the blinding light among silent contemporaries whose images have not weathered the years so well. You wonder what Paramount was thinking in the late twenties. Did they not have eyes to see? There was nobody like Louise. Not even Clara Bow. Maybe it’s only in hindsight that we can appreciate such distinctive talent. There is an abiding dream among fans to somehow go back in time and rescue Louise from the philistines. How could those moguls have overlooked such artistry in their midst --- especially with the looks she had?

It’s as well Louise went over and made her three European films, because without them, there would likely be no Brooks cult. So little is left of her stateside output. One could weep at the list of casualties --- The American Venus, A Social Celebrity, Just Another Blonde, Rolled Stockings. Imagine a DVD box containing all these. Beyond her triumphs for director G.W. Pabst, we must proceed on faith (and they were not regarded so at the time, having few US play dates). Surviving prints of American silents are either in rough condition or protected by copyright. Her initial talkie, also released silent, was The Canary Murder Case, this a Brooks specimen best represented by the stunning posters designed to advertise it. The movie itself ushers her on and off within the first reel, and an odd juxtaposition of mismatched shots to cover patchwork voice dubbing is distracting even when you allow for early sound crudities. This, of course, was the one that got her in Dutch with studio executives and led to cast-off status (she had refused to report back and record dialogue for the talking version). As to Euro ventures, I’d recommend switching off English subtitles next time you watch. Pandora’s Box, Diary Of A Lost Girl, and Prix de Beaute are about one thing, and that doesn’t require explanation beyond the picture on your screen. Every man is obsessed with Brooks, and chances are one of them will get around to killing her before the fade. That’s about all you need to know. Titles are optional. In fact, they are in the way. Who wants to read something at the bottom of a frame otherwise filled with close-ups of Louise? Narrative blanks are easily filled in. It all comes down to a handful of interchangeable lines for whichever discarded lover is addressing her --- You belong to me, My life is in ruin because of you, I’ll kill you before I’ll let another man have you. There are no language barriers between any audience and a presence so bewitching as Brooks. She needed nothing beyond that face she had. It’s as well she never made it in talkies. Dialogue would have been an encumbrance for this actress.

I’d call hers a fragile beauty. It didn’t seem so as long as she maintained the signature jet-black flapper bob. Cutting away bangs was like Samson shorn of his locks, for something of the Brooks magic went with them. A look at thirties’ portraits and final western roles (Empty Saddles and Overland Stage Raiders) reveal a face still striking, but difficult to reconcile with the Brooks we had known. That she would finish up playing support to Buck Jones and The Three Mesquiteers is as much castor oil to her admirers, for a Brooks cultist is seldom partial to "B" westerns. To quote samplings of latter-day Brooks appreciations --- "Nondescript "Z" western, (Overland Stage Raiders), "one of the most static and silly westerns in Hollywood history" (Empty Saddles), and "bottom-of-the-barrel westerns" (both). Had she known how vexing these two would be to her modern-day worshipers, Louise might have enjoyed the experiences  beyond a measly $350 they paid. Part of the reason she ended up in reduced circumstances was her self-destructive streak earlier referred to, and yes, there were those who inflicted worse upon themselves, but few were so willful about it as Brooks. Part of our ongoing romance with Louise lies in the paradox of someone so intelligent and beautiful spending years holed up in a grubby apartment drinking toward oblivion. Rescue via generous offices of the George Eastman House in Rochester, NY seems not to have improved her attitude, but maybe she sensed the need of masochistic fans who got letters returned to sender and doors slammed in their faces. A self-described mean old lady, she worked at being just that. There were articles Brooks wrote about her career and others in biz orbits, all typically unsparing. Most regrettable was memoirs tossed into an incinerator before they could be published. She often went beyond the truth to paint a darker image of herself, claiming drunkenness and insensibility during Eastman House screenings of her films, though curator James Card said that she was totally engaged and responsive during these. There was ongoing correspondence with writers, and some fans, but a slight misstep would find the iron door slammed against further contact.

Perhaps the only thing that matters in the long run is how long they remember you after you’ve gone. By that measure, Louise Brooks is perhaps the greatest of all silent stars. She’s among few to have a coffee table book devoted to her. Ebay and the Internet are a movable feast of Brooks lore and collectibles. Original images go for staggering amounts. Considering her preference for writing in bed and avoiding face time with followers, Louise would seem destined to administer her own website. If tomorrow were alive and fifty instead of gone and over one hundred, she’d be having lively discussion (more likely arguments) with safe-at-a-distance fans. Those who pen-palled with Brooks during the sixties and seventies have since given way to the temptation of prices their replies from her can bring. I came across an album for sale at a collector’s show with dozens of hand-written L.B. missives and fifty or so original stills besides. All this for a then (1985, the year she died) considerable price of three hundred dollars. Imagine the return you’d have on such puny investment in today’s burgeoning Brooks market. I understand a lot of women like Louise. You could say she struck a blow for female independence. Nobody owned her. An image like that never goes out of fashion as long as there are young people seeking the same freedom. Watching The Fountainhead the other day, I was struck by how much Patricia Neal’s character reminded me of the off-screen Louise Brooks. Both seemed to have been bad news for anyone who tried to get too close, resolute distance reason enough for her lasting appeal.