FROM AN INKWELL

Southland Times, Issue 20002, 16 October 1926, Page 13 (Supplement)

FROM AN INKWELL

THE LOOS WOMAN

(By

“Brunnhilde.”)

Publicity and precocity seem to be the only essentials to fame nowadays, just as much in the making of a “best seller” as in the making of a motion picture star. That is, of course, according to the Americans, who control fame as if it were merely a simple arithmetical equation. Publicity is quite justifiable in the selling of Paris garters and other merchandise —the poorer the quality of the goods offered, the greater honour to the power of the publicity that finds for them a gullible market. But unfortunately the activities of publicity are not confined to the exploitation of Paris garters and canned foodstuffs, and one is forced to wonder if there are any limits to its dominion. Actually there is very little difference, these days, between a famous pill-maker and a famous motionpicture star, between a famous criminal and a famous author. The methods by which their fame is brought before the public notice are patently the same in each case—a constant repetition of striking headlines set up in Bodoni Bold, and devised by a “live” publicity agent, who usually commands more notions than taste. Once upon a time a work of art had to wait for Mr Quentin Pope's critic to come along and discover it; and the delay of this discovery often forced its author into a life of obscurity. That is equally applicable to the present age, providing, of course, that the author has no money or other influential “backer.” The success of this method is due to the fact that there are so many “best sellers” being discovered for a large and gullible public which consequently becomes lazy, and loses the knack of thinking for itself. Precocity, too, is very much over-rated. In the young it is extremely diverting until the child begins to play with mud. Then it loses all its charm, and the child becomes soiled and dirty, revealing that what was taken for precocity is actually ultrasophistication. There is another thing about these Americans—they are so persistent. For years and years they have been trying to impress on the rest of the world what a magnificent sense of humour they possess, until that large proportion of the reading public which never bothers to think for itself, hears and believes them. A small dose of American wit can be quite diverting; but, it is more circumstantial than subtle, and when it is pul to the infallible test of sustaining its fire, it fails as surely as a leaky balloon. The Americans usually resort to burlesque when they wish to be satirical, the slapstick when they attempt comedy, the yokel-blurb when they essay broad humour. All these extravagances become tedious when they are used without restraint in American farce. Anita Loos, being typically American, has produced “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” It is not difficult to determine what class of people made it a “best seller.” Here is an example of the publicity value of a pretty face, coupled with years of association with the movies. Here is an example of a precocious child dabbling in muck, and betray - ing the amazing similarity between precocity and sophistication. Here is an example of blundering American wit—the wit which does not last, the precocity not equal to the occasion. Little Miss Loos evidently does not realise that only an extraordinarily clever hand can treat suggestive subjects humorously and retain humour, and she is not extraordinarily clever. The smut too often sticks to the humour, and chokes the poor thing. There is nothing valuable to be gleaned from “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” save the extraordinary powers of advertising. Read it from a literary standpoint, and one is met with a monotonous two hundred pages like this— Well, yesterday afternoon I took Piggie shopping on a street called Bond Street. So I took him to a jewelry store because I told him I had to have a picture of him to go in it. Because I told Piggie that when a girl gets to know such a good-looking gentleman as him she really wants to have a picture of him on her dressing table where she can look at it a lot. So Piggie became quite intreeged. So we looked at all the silver picture frames. But then I told him that I really did not think a silver picture frame was good enough for a picture of him because I £prgot that they had gold picture frames until I saw them. So then we started looking at the gold pic - ture frames. So then it came out that his picture was taken in his unaform. So I said he must be so good looking in his unaform that I really did not think even the gold picture frames were good enough but they did not have any platinum picture frames so we had to buy the best one we could. So then I asked him if he could put on his unaform to-morrow’ because I would love to see him in his unaform and we could go to tea at Mrs Weeks. So he really became very pleased because he grinned quite a lot and he said that he would. So then I said that poor little I would really look like nothing at all to be going out with him in his gorgeous unaform. So then we started to look at some bracelets, but a lady friend of his who is quite friendly with his wife, who is in their country house in the country, came in to the store, so Piggie became quite nervous to be caught in a jewelry store where he has not been for years and years, so we had to go out. The writer of the diary does not strike' one as genuine, the first fatal fault, which lets tedium in before many pages are turned. One can be excused from wondering whether her spelling and grammatical mistakes are intentional or not. There is nothing in the book to suggest they are. Read it for diversion and one is bored before the second page is turned. Read it for enlightenment and one is palled at the crude revelations of an avowed demi-monde with an American accent. That such people exist one has never doubted; but that their means of existence are publicly exploited as humour is utterly d'stasteful to any but a salacious appetite. Writing sub-titles for movies has not provided a very safe apprenticeship for novel writing in this case, even if one has been doing so from the tender age of twelve. If Miss Loos must air her loquacity in outbursts of writing, she would be well advised to leave the naughty people to cleverer pens, lest her own pose of the naive ingenue be taken also as a “professional” touch.

“Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” one is told, was written “to while away the dull passages of a four days’ train journey.” What a pity it was not left at that. It had achieved its purpose, and before its completion must have whiled away quite a few hours for the brilliant Miss Loos with the black-ringed eyes. Having done its duty, it might have been expected, quite reasonably, to have nothing more required of it. But evidently an over-fohd husband or the slick publicity agent accompanying the party—these Masters of Movie Fame keep in close touch with their menageries—decided there was “money in it,” and proceeded to “put it over.” The publicity man certainly did “put it over,” and if anyone deserves credit for the sales of “Gentlemen

Prefer Blondes,” he should be the one to get it. But personally I should like to tweak his nose for his part in humbugging me into giving precious hours to the tiresome business of reading if.