Showing posts with label Louise Brooks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Louise Brooks. Show all posts

Sunday, September 15, 2019

Tosh's Journal: September 15



TOSH’S JOURNAL

September 15

“A great many people have come up to me and asked how I manage to get so much work done and still keep looking so dissipated. “I have always been known to friends and foes to be the go-to-guy with respect to having a martini always near me. In all seriousness, “I know I’m drinking myself to a slow death, but then I’m in no hurry.” I have trouble sleeping at night, so I find having a chilled glass of martini at the bedside helps me sleep better. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I just reached the cooler, and take another sip, and I’m off to dreamland, where I try to imagine my life as a memoir. Which also keeps me up at nights, because I’m so damn busy remembering every little incident that went through my world from age 1 to 20. Youth is significant, but the memory of childhood is much more important. Luckily there have been substantial changes in the world of writing, one that “the biggest obstacle to professional writing is the necessity for changing a typewriter ribbon.” With the miracle machine, the laptop, I don’t have to worry about that. Now I can write till my fingers run off to the side, where the martini glass resides.

My life changed when I found out that I’m a distant relative of Gilles de Rais, perhaps the first serial killer on record. The Frenchman was alleged to killing up to 600 children from 1432 to the spring of 1433. I personally don’t believe the number is that high, more likely 200. Nevertheless, being related to such a brute (although a refined one, according to historians) hasn’t helped me much. The dark cloud that follows me I think came from my distant relative. I try to think and behave like François de La Rochefoucauld, who seemed to be a reasonable gentleman of nobility. I bear that in mind while writing my memoirs and sipping my drink. He wrote that “true love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen.” I had a dream the other night that I was on an island, and I came upon a sophisticated party, full of beautiful women - one of them looked like Louise Brooks. When I approached her, it was like I wasn’t there. She didn’t acknowledge me, and I had the feeling that either I wasn’t there, or she wasn’t there as well. The whole party appeared to be projected from someone’s dreams, but, to me, it wasn’t from my dream.

“There is only one kind of love, but there are a thousand imitations.” So perhaps my dream the other night was my experience of falling in love, but the girl didn’t even exist. Can one love just an idea of being in love? The other part of the dream that I remember quite clearly is when I heard someone from the party saying “Why don’t you get out of that wet coat and into a dry martini?” At that moment, I woke up and reached for my chilled martini.

Friday, November 14, 2014

November 14, 2014



November 14, 2014

Everyday I wake up in the morning to write.  Often I’m in a very sad or angry mood.  Other times, quite cheerful.  Oddly enough, when I start composing my thoughts and thinking what kind of words to put on the empty computer screen or notebook, it is neutral.  I empty out all my fears, desires, being poor, and trying to remember which Brahms’ Symphony I’m crazy for (ah, it’s the 4th).  Nevertheless, I’m swimming in a sea that is endless, and that is why I have restricted myself in working only in the mornings, and must finish the essay by either 11 AM or 1PM (Pacific Standard Time) that day.  As of this being number 318, I haven’t failed yet.  But who knows about tomorrow.   The truth is I made plans to finish this project on December 31, 2014.  I pretty much know that I will wake up each morning, and immediately start thinking about what I’m going to write about.  Obviously by now, there is just one subject.  Me.   But is “me” that interesting?   I can’t tell, because I never felt boredom or even being self-critical.  I literally don’t care what people think of me.  The funny thing is I never think about myself, except in the mornings when I’m writing.  After I finish, and post the piece on Facebook and my blog, I totally forgot what I wrote.



After I finish the work for the day, I often fantasize that I will die.  Death doesn’t bother me, but what bothers me is that I won’t finish this writing project.  If I die this afternoon, the work I have posted will become meaningless.  It will only have meaning if I finish the project on December 31.   So, I do spend time taking care of myself.   I don’t drive, but not only do I not drive, but I also don’t get into cars.  I don’t care who is driving, I just don’t trust fate or that driver will make it to point A to point B.   Buses I don’t have a problem with, because it is rare an accident happens, and even more rare that everyone dies in a bus accident.  So yeah, I have a lot of phobic thoughts, but only when I’m sitting down and composing a narrative, these morbid images in my head disappear and I’m looking into the white light, that is blank as my computer screen.



In the afternoons, I have been working on a memoir about my childhood years.  So far, it’s going OK.  Again, one can go on forever, but I’m restricting myself to a certain period in my life, and I plan not to go beyond that.  As a role model, I’m using Louise Brooks’ “Lulu in Hollywood” and Lord Berner’s “First Childhood.” There is not one wasted word in either of those two memoirs, and I have to keep in mind that the great masses out there really don’t care or are interested in me.  I’m the only one that has an interest in “me.” But only when I’m writing, as I mentioned above, I have no interest in “me” whatsoever.   After spending six hours a day just focusing on myself, I’m usually tired.  Self-reflection is so tiresome. If I didn’t write, I would never bother with it.  I can’t believe that people actually spent time or money on focusing on their identity or not.  If I was going to an analyst, I wouldn’t know what to say.   I guess I would just give him or her this essay, and let them figure it out.  I wouldn’t want to know the results.



The only thing that is important to me is that I finish these series of daily narrations.   I guess I would hope that they will be a book of some sort.  But being practical, it is unlikely a publisher would want to publish all 365 pieces.    I for one wouldn’t read it!   Would you?  Of course not!   So, it is weird that I spend at the very least, six hours a day working on this project.  By the end of the year that will make it 2,190 hours.  So many hours working on just one large body of work.  I don’t socialize that much, because after working, I have very little to say to people.  I tend to like to play music on my turntable.  I’m a fan of Wendy Carlos’ “A Clockwork Orange” soundtrack.   I’m not that crazy when she is doing Bach or some other classical material - I much prefer her own compositions.  I have played this album for friends who come by the house, but then they want to discuss it.  That I found draining.  I like the act of writing and listening to music, but seriously, I don’t think I can discuss it afterwards.  I think what I like about composing words and listening to music is that it’s a verb.  I’m doing something.  Afterwards it becomes a ‘thing, ’ and I just don’t care at that point.  

So, in a nutshell, I like to think of this writing project as an act, or a performance.  What happens afterwards is not all that interesting to me.  Eventually I’ll perish, and turn to dust.  The work I do may live on, but then it just may end up on the third floor of The Los Angeles Downtown Library, and only made available as reference material, meaning one can’t check the book out and take it home with them.   When you see things in that objective light, it is not worth the bother to work for 2,190 hours, that will just eventually end up in a dusty vault. On the other hand, I very much enjoy myself and the act of “doing” is the pleasure itself.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

My Favorite Film Books from 2000 (Contentville) by Tosh Berman


     


French New Wave, by Jean Douchet

When I die, I want to be buried with Jean Douchet's French New Wave. The fact that yours truly will one day be in a coffin means that I need a good (long) book to read and to look at -- and this is the book. It is a treat for both the eyes, with ravishing film stills and layout of text, and for the intellect, with penetrating thoughts on the importance of the French 'New Wave' in cinema history. This seductively well-illustrated book takes one back to when films were fresh and exciting. All the major heroes are here: Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut, and others. Included are the original reviews by the Cahiers du Cinéma group, plus the original film bills from the ever influential Cinémathéque Française: First they were critics, the first to look at the importance of cinema and the first to
value the films for their directors instead of their stars, studios, or box-office stature. Later, they made films -- cheap, inventive, and still fresh and beautiful as the first sunlight.



City of Nets, by Otto Friedrich

In the years between 1939 to 1949, Los Angeles was the cultural capital of the world, in part due to men like Hitler, who were discouraging certain types of artists from working in their version of a new Germany. So Hollywood became host to cultural German legends like Bertolt Brecht, Igor Stravinsky, Thomas and Heinrich Mann, Alfred Doblin, Arnold Schoenberg, Ernst Lubitsch, Fritz Lang, and Peter Lorre, among others. On the American side, we had Nathanael West, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and others writing for the film factory. And for the conservative-minded studio heads, the one thing almost as bad as the Nazis were the Hollywood workers' unions. No problem though, when one had the HUAC to label the working stiffs as communists. In addition, there's Charlie Chaplin getting kicked out of the United States for political and sexual reasons, and Errol Flynn's infamous two-way mirrors in the walls and ceilings of his love pad. The result is a book that exposes Hollywood as a cultural landscape with a rather devilish personality.






Kenneth Anger's Hollywood Babylon, by Kenneth Anger

It's not the stories themselves, but how Kenneth Anger tells the stories. On the surface this book is a diatribe against the Hollywood system, but underneath it is a love letter to the city and its famous citizens. One can
spend a lifetime proving or disproving the gossip, but what's the point?  Anger (also a brilliant filmmaker) has written a beautiful book about Hollywood's real greatness: the sleaze, drugs, death, and sexual excess.
What's distinctive about Hollywood is the image, and Anger focuses fully on it. All the great gossip is here: Fatty Arbuckle's rape trial, Chaplin's affairs with (much) younger girls, Erich Von Strohiem's on-the-set staged
orgies, and so forth. In addition to the stories, Anger uses great photographs of the stars at their low points. This book exposes the soul of Hollywood in poetic terms



The Parade's Gone By, by Kevin Brownlow

The best history of the American silent-movie era. British film historian Brownlow interviewed not only the stars of these films, but their technicians, stuntmen, cameramen, and others who made silent films an art form when the cinema medium was still young. Brownlow spoke to many screen legends while they were still kicking, so one is able to hear the voices of Buster Keaton, Howard Hawks, Mary Pickford, Gloria Swanson, and King Vidor.
He was also wise in his choice to let many of the participants speak for themselves about their early cinematic experiences. An essential book for silent-film lovers, as well as those who are interested in the culture of
cinema production in the early twentieth century.


Eros in Hell, by Jack Hunter

What's cinema without sleaze? The history of film always had an element of sordidness, and the B-movie studios in Japan have produced their own bizarre quantity of off-the-wall cinema. Jack Hunter's Eros in Hell goes into the
murky world of mondo Japanese films and their filmmakers. Here we have interviews with filmmakers like Koji Wakamatsu (Go, Go, Second Time Virgin) and Takao Nakano (described here as the Ed Wood of Japan). There is also Seijun Suzuki (the Sam Fuller of Japan), Hisayasu Sato (mixture of porno and avant-garde leanings), and the legendary Nagisa Oshima (Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence). Not only is this book jam-packed with information and fantastic still photos, but it also gives a general overview on what is and was happening in Japanese cinema besides the Kurosawa-Ozu filmmakers. An essential book on underground Japanese cinema and its culture.



Godard on Godard: Critical Writings, by Jean-Luc Godard

Godard has always been a god to me. His films are frequently cited in essays about the nature and culture of the cinema. Godard began his career by writing about film for the French magazine Cahiers du Cinéma, and his style
of writing is very much fan-like in its exuberance, especially with respect to his appreciation of films that were not getting proper critical attention, such as the works of Nicholas Ray, Frank Tashlin, and Fritz Lang.  It is somewhat like the writings of a punk-rock fan who wrote about his heroes and then decided to form his own accomplished band; Godard's writings led to his own classic films. So this book is not only an essential look at a filmmaker, but also at a man who loves films with all his heart.



Film Encyclopedia, by Ephraim Katz

I have a testing method for encyclopedias. What I do is look up something totally cryptic, and if it's listed in the book, that's the one to get! Infilm encyclopedias, I always look up Lois Weber, an early female director
who started making films in 1912. Ephraim Katz's Film Encyclopedia not only has a nice mention of Weber but also Alice Guy-Blaché (another early filmmaker), my second obscure choice. Everyone is in this book, from Sacha Guitry (look him up if you don't know who he is) to Zsa Zsa Gabor to totally obscure actress Anne Jackson, who made three or four films, but is married to Eli Wallach. Who is she? Is this information important? Yes it is, because if you read this book from beginning to end you'll be the master of movie knowledge. Which could mean that you become the biggest bore on the block, or one who really appreciates a complete knowledge of world cinema.  



Hitchcock by Truffaut, by Alfred Hitchcock and François Truffaut

The ultimate book on one filmmaker by another famous filmmaker. Okay, there aren't that many books by directors talking about their peers, although Paul Schrader's Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer comes to mind.  That is a rare and great example, but the Hitchcock book has to be the best example of a great filmmaker talking about his trade, the art of making movies. Truffaut goes one-on-one to nail all the important questions aboutHitchcock's work. In other words, its like sitting at a bar between two film giants in conversation. Truffaut reviews every detail obsessively, and Hitchcock, with great humor, discusses his entire career. This book is for both the fans and aspiring filmmakers seeking inspiration -- this book doesn't let anyone down.



LuLu in Hollywood, by Louise Brooks


The late Louise Brooks was a stunning beauty who along with Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo was one of the great seducers on the silver screen. Not only did she invent the helmet bob haircut of the twenties, but she was also one of the best understated film essayists in cinema. Brooks refused to be compromised by the Hollywood system.  She was eventually blacklisted and condemned to live her life in obscurity. From the shadows came Lulu in Hollywood, a book that touches on old Hollywood, Brooks's experiences working with German great Georg Wilhelm Pabst (Pandora's Box), and unusually positive insights into stars such as W.C. Fields and Humphrey Bogart. Her chapter on Marion Davies (an underrated comedy actress and mistress to William Randolph Hearst) is touching and gives Davies credit as a human being as well as an artist. Brooks is an icon that didn't disappoint. It's not a film library if it doesn't include Lulu in Hollywood.




Nightmare of Ecstasy: The Life and Art of Edward D. Wood Jr., by Rudolph Grey



This oral history on the "Titan of Bad", Ed Wood, wonderfully captures the underbelly of Hollywood. It's all in here -- the dreams, the sweat, weird characters (shades of Nathanael West), the early porno industry, and cross-dressing galore. Ed Wood was a filmmaker, scriptwriter, pornographer, drunk, novelist (Death of a Transvestite is a must-read), and, according to this book, a decent guy. What is heartbreaking about his life is his ongoing struggle to make something against all odds, with a lack of money and, according to some, a lack of talent. But that doesn't matter in Hollywood.  Nightmare of Ecstasy is essential for anyone who has an interest in making a film or wants to create anything important in their life.

Tosh Berman, 2000 for Contentville