Wednesday, November 18, 2009

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 4

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

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We talked for twenty minutes. I didn’t share anything about the nightly visits of the phantom car or the letter. But among other things, I did tell him that if my neighbor, Lorraine, ever asked where we went Sunday night, he was to tell her we had a long and expensive dinner at The Morocco. Once off the phone, I decided on another cup of coffee—and to head back to my office. Hopefully Molly would be there.

Alan wanted the first fifteen chapters polished and sent to his office in New York via email attachment by Monday at nine a.m. EST. I had told him it would be no problem; truth was, I still had some work to do; I had already roughed-out the first thirteen chapters but had no clue where the story was heading. I spent the next three hours revising parts of Chapters Two and Four and rewrote some dialogue in Chapters Seven, Eight, and Twelve before outlining the next couple of chapters.

About five-thirty, I leaned back with a big, hands-over-the-head stretch; I glanced toward the living room—and the coffee table. The morning sun, which pours through the front window, had long since climbed over the house toward Santa Monica and the Pacific. The living room existed in that wistful, quiet, late afternoon dusk. There was a peacefulness—a stillness—where no shadows played and most things had lost their color. Except on the coffee table.

I had nearly forgotten.

From my chair in the dining room, I could see the square, crème-colored envelope lying on the pile of forgettable mail in that warm, faint light. It appeared to glow—just enough to separate it from everything else on the table. I slowly got up, walked to the living room and picked up the envelope. It sustained a flush all its own in the semi-darkness. The name

Eddie Sutherland

written in peacock blue and constructed with great care, stood in almost violent contrast to the pastel crème of the envelope. I wondered what the message inside—for a long-dead Eddie Sutherland—could possibly be. Most likely it was an invitation to some financial meeting with a local broker. Or maybe—and more appropriately—an offer to buy a plot from Hollywood Forever Cemetery? It would also be interesting to know how they got Eddie’s name. Maybe someone had not updated the Beverly Hills list of potential leads for a long, long time. On the other hand, what’s with the fancy car? Why the clandestine time of night? And who’s the pretty girl who delivered the letter?

In my head, a voice cried, “Open the envelope. Open it now. ”

I know what you’re thinking: Open it, dammit! Well, I did. But not before I went to the kitchen, got a Corona, stopped by the dining room to pick up my letter opener—an old Fuller Brush Man giveaway—returned to the couch, put my feet up—and reached around to turn on the floor lamp behind me.

I wedged the plastic point under the fold and gently lifted up along the top. As the paper parted, a sweet lilac smell immediately filled the air around me. Lilac is a smell of the past. It reminded me of childhood bubble baths and small frilly handkerchiefs, grandmothers who once wore white gloves and T.S. Eliot’s “…breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire…”

I peered inside. I could see a folded sheet of matching crème-colored stationery. Carefully, with thumb and forefinger, I slowly pulled the paper out, set the envelope down, took a long pull on the Corona, set that down, wiped my hand on my jeans and opened the note. This is what I found:

October 8th 1927

Eddie—


I will attempt to make this brief. I know that I have not been the “good wife,” but I will not apologize for what I am. I don’t think I ever loved you, Eddie. Oh, we had some good times for sure, but that’s all behind us now. You and Charlie are working night and day on your movie projects, and Paramount, for now, is keeping me busy.

What I’m saying is I want out. I’m sure you have heard about George and me. I can only say that I love him and I want to be with him. Let’s you and I try to forget our mistake and get on with our lives.

One other thing. I want the negatives. It took me a year of court battles to get them, and I don’t want you getting any ideas. You know what I’m talking about, so don’t make this difficult. They’re where we hid them—in an envelope, taped to the bottom of the right-hand drawer of my vanity.

I know you’re home Eddie , so no games. I’ve seen you the past few nights standing at the window. Put the envelope in the mailbox this evening. I will pick it up during the night.

Louise—

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 3

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

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I rolled out of bed, showered, shaved (just my neck—I’ve a closely cropped beard that’s showing way too much gray), dressed, walked to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. I took some vitamins with a large glass of OJ and had a piece of peanut butter toast while the coffee finished brewing. As soon as the coffeemaker made that familiar gurgling sound, I filled my handleless mug, strolled into the dining room, switched on the computer, and continued my walk into the living room to the front window. No, neither she, nor the sedan, was there.

How different things look in the brightness of a Southern California sun. I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that we allow the night—or the dark—to make the ordinary, strange and the strange, stranger. In the late morning of a beautiful day, all things seemed harmless, logical, and in their place. Standing there, I was somewhat embarrassed, certain my nightly sightseer was just some pretty little kook who had bought a Map of the Stars.

What was out my window this morning was my neighbor, Jay Johnson, who was retrieving his mail on schedule—a few minutes after the postman had slipped it in his box. Jay always wore the same flamboyant V-neck argyle sweater (I was hopeful he owned a week’s worth of the same style) and was gregarious almost to a fault. He reminded me a little of Seinfeld’s Kramer. Our mailboxes were side by side out near the street. He looked up, saw me and waved. I waved back, decided I’d check my mail too and, coffee in hand, walked out to greet Jay—and Saturday’s argyle.

“How’s it going Mike? Got that book finished yet? You know, you should turn it into a screenplay. Betcha it’d make a great movie. Can’t stand all this digital and horror shit that’s coming out now.” He let out a short snort that was the prelude to his laugh, laughed and then scratched his chest.

I liked Jay. Folks could do a lot worse than having a neighbor like him. Jay owned four car lots: two in Hollywood, one in Inglewood, and one in downtown L.A., all known as JJ’s Cars for the Stars!  All offered high-end cars like Jaguar, Ferrari and Mercedes—all were very successful. He and his wife, Lorraine, had been good friends since Jeanne and I first moved in here. And they had been a great comfort for me when I thought the world had ended when I lost Jeanne.

Now they were keen on the idea that I should start dating again and—as a bonus—Lorraine, who was originally from New Orleans, had this cousin Connie from Texas who was a real knockout…and available. Right. I had no trouble imagining why this “real knockout” would still be around. As Jay explained it, Connie was a schoolteacher at some school near Houston—taught a foreign language or something. Said  she was in town indefinitely on a sabbatical, taking or teaching—he wasn’t sure—some classes at USC during the fall semester. Jay said Connie had lost her husband about five years ago in a fire—he had been a fireman. Jay said she took it pretty hard and had gone to the Middle East to teach for a few years, but he was unsure (again) of where and told me to ask Lorraine for the details.  Anyway, I had no interest in pursuing a lonely, four-eyed, academic with a twang like Lorraine’s. I had told Jay many times: one, that I had no desire to be related to him—and two, that I was way too busy for seeing anyone right now. Jay hadn’t mentioned Connie for a few days, and for that I was thankful. Still, the moment Lorraine saw me, I knew she would start right in. Guaranteed.

“Well, I’m writing into the night, Jay. The pages are stacking up. Never considered a screenplay. We’ll see. By the way, you weren’t up late the past few nights—like around three?”

“Hell, Lorraine and I are lucky to make it to nine. Why? You see somebody creepin’ around?”

“No. Well, yes, I have. The past three nights, a big black car—something out of the late twenties maybe—has cruised by here. Slow like. Saw it stop in front of my house early this morning. About three. I think its occupants were looking for someone.”

“Missed that one. You know, that’s the charm of living in these museum pieces.  There are ghosts still hiding in the walls and in the attics—and apparently in the streets now.” Jay snorted again and laughed; he was organizing his mail when Lorraine appeared on their front porch.

Buxom and blonde, she was candy to the eyes. But she was also relentless. She yelled out, “Hiyah, Mike. How you?”

I waved and limited my eye contact. She had a Southern accent born in Louisiana and urbanized in Texas. “Connie’s comin’ over ta’morrah night. Y’all want to join us for dinnah?”

Without a pause I said, “I am meeting with my agent tomorrow night, Lorraine. Maybe next time?” I lied. My agent was in New York for the weekend.  Jay looked up from his mail, smiled and winked and headed back toward Lorraine.

“If your phantom car comes by before nine tonight, let me know. Seeya around.” Jay hesitated, turned and said, “And if you change your mind about tomorrow…” Before he got any further, I gave him my best Clint Eastwood Make my day stare. He resumed his trek back to the house, snorted and laughed.

I opened my old mailbox and reached in, already knowing that most of the contents would be junk mail, mainly those ubiquitous catalogs selling trash such as T-shirts emblazoned with Real Men Use Duct Tape and Old Guys Rule, two story doghouses, exploding golf balls, and cookie jars with images of Lucy and Betty Boop. Whatever other mail was left would be bills. I pulled out the stack while looking down the street—where the phantom car disappeared earlier this morning, taking with it that timeless, remarkable face.

As I sauntered back toward the house, juggling the coffee, I flipped through the mail, one item at a time, leaning each rejected piece against my chest. “Junk, junk, bill, junk, junk, bill…” I chimed.  It almost sounded like “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells” for God’s sake! Then I stopped. I looked down at the last item that lay in my hand: a crème-colored envelope, almost square. The paper was rich and thick—reminiscent of a wedding invitation. There was no address, no stamp, no return address. But clearly written, almost certainly with a fountain pen and looking like calligraphy, was the name:

Eddie Sutherland 

I sat on the couch in the living room clutching the envelope—my coffee and the rest of the mail safely on the coffee table. I stared at the name on the front. I had to grin. Come on. Who’s playing games here? With no stamp on the envelope somebody actually had to have put the letter in my mailbox. I turned the envelope over. It was sealed tightly. At the very tip of the flap—in the same style as the lettering on the front—were the initials

LB

LB? Who was LB? I didn’t know anyone with the initials LB. All this smelled of a joke. A letter addressed to Eddie Sutherland! He hadn’t lived in this house for over seventy years! And what was I supposed to do with it? I couldn’t return it. It obviously wasn’t delivered by the post office. I felt the envelope and there was definitely a note inside. I held it up toward the front window, allowing the sunlight to strike the back of it. Nothing to see. The paper was too thick. Then, as I aimlessly looked out that front window…it hit me! The car, then the letter. Of course! This letter must be from my mystery maiden. I mean, the car probably was the same vintage as this old house—the same period when ol’ Eddie lived here. Was she trying to tell me this morning about the letter? Jesus! This is beginning to look like material for a goddamn Twilight Zone! Or another L.A. scam of some kind.

Suddenly, the phone rang. I tossed the envelope on the table with the rest of the mail and walked over to the dining room, picked up the receiver and quipped, “This someone with good news or money?”—a line from a favorite movie. On the other end was my agent, Alan Hooper, wondering if—and when—I were ever going to grow up.

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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