of Characters
Jimmie Rodgers … Himself
Carrie Rodgers … Joan Crawford
The Reporter … Derek McCormack
The Carter Family … Themselves
Coco Chanel … Herself
Renfield … Lon Chaney
The Vogue Vampire … ?
Story by
Derek McCormack
Directed by
Tod Browning
Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers in a Mirror Maze.
Jimmie poses like he’s shooting publicity. Blazer buttoned, blazer unbuttoned—he tries it both ways. Plumps his pocket puff. Picks lint from lapels.
“You’re fine,” he says.
“You look fine,” he says.
“Everything’s going to—” He coughs. “Everything’s going to be—” Coughs up crap. Splat. On spats.
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers in a Mirror Maze.
Carrie Rodgers winds her way through the Maze.
Jimmie’s at a dead end. Doubled up.
“Darling, no.” She sinks down beside him. His sleeve’s sopping. Sputum. It will dry stiff er than starch. “The carnival is killing you,” she says. “You have to leave.” Sputum smells like socks. From her purse she pulls out a bottle.
He sticks the neck up his nose. Chanel N°5.
“Never,” he says.
“Look at yourself,” Carrie says.
“I’m fine.” Jimmie sniff s Chanel N°5. He spits. Sputum. Smells like Saks.
“You’re thin. You’re pale.” So’s she. She’s supposed to be.
Her suit is Chanel. Spring show. “You should go back to the Sanitarium.”
“So they can what—slice me up? Stick me with needles? Shut me in a room to rot?” He pours perfume on his sleeve. “I’m Jimmie Rodgers! The carnival singer! Who would I be if I stopped singing?” He hacks. “Nobody. Nothing.”
“A carnival is not a cure!” she says. “Chanel N°5 is not a cure!”
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers and me in a Mirror Maze.
“Jumping Jehoshophat!” Jimmie jumps.
“Where did you come from?” Carrie says.
“Paris,” I say.
“The mirrors!” Carrie says.
“You’re not there!” Jimmie says.
“I’m a vampire,” I say. “I write for Vampire Vogue, the style bible of the fashionable fiend.”
“There’s Vogue for vampires?” she says.
“We wear clothes,” I say. “We’re not werewolves.”
“Stay away, devil,” Jimmie says, “or I swear I’ll—” Cough.
“I haven’t come to kill you,” I say. “I’ve come to write about you.” In mirrors, I look like nothing. I look like lamé. “A carnival, a singing star, his lady—why would Elsa Schiaparelli summon me to such a place?”
“The Elsa Schiaparelli?” Carrie says.
“The Vogue Vampire,” I say. “The Dracula of Dressmaking.”
“She makes clothes for movie stars!” she says. “She’s famous!”
“Famously fiendish!” I say. “Fashion is her feint. A demon who dresses well-heeled women around the world. She makes them look beautiful. She makes them smell beautiful. Then she eats them.”
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers and Elsa Schiaparelli and me in a Mirror Maze. Elsa Lanchester plays Elsa Schiaparelli. There’s a resemblance.
“Am I late?” Schiaparelli asks.
“Fashionably.” I kiss her hand. “You smell divine.”
“I am divine.” She fans herself. “The latest fragrance from Maison de Schiaparelli. I call it Shocking!—as in freak shows—shocking and amazing!”
Jimmie and Carrie act scared.
“How do I look?” Schiaparelli’s dress is orange, yellow, and pink. Mostly pink. Sleeves sparkle. Sequins are celluloid. “I cut it from sideshow banners. ‘Valentines,’ freaks call them. Isn’t that quaint?
“I learned this from my new assistant—Mr. Renfield. He’s a geek. He beheads rats. He bites them!” Scuttling along the corridor behind her: Lon Chaney. White skin, white eyes. Hair? Detergent would be jealous. Blood crusted on his chin. Rat fur stuck to his teeth. Looks like decay.
“He has a way with accessories.” Schiaparelli points to his suit. It’s white. Was white. Bib of blood. Black flies embellish it. Fruit flies flit. Living lint.
“And it’s not only him. The Fortune Teller’s turban! The Witch Doctor’s skull stick! The Ubangi’s lip plate! The Snake Lady—her anaconda is a boa! The Alligator Man—what a purse he would make!
“Freak fashion. Geek chic. It inspired my new haute couture collection for humans—the Carnival Collection! Soon Schiaparelli clients will dress like the Half-Man, Half-Woman and the Mule-Faced Lady. Ostrich girls in ostrich plumes. Lobster ladies in lobster gowns.
“It’s like I always say: Clothes make the inhuman.”
“Women won’t wear freak clothes,” Carrie says.
“Women wear what I tell them to wear,” Schiaparelli says.
“When all the world’s well-dressed women are dressed and perfumed like freaks,” Schiaparelli says, “I will make them freaks—in a carnival, a vampire carnival—a carnival of fashion and death!” She changes. Fangs flower. Pupils as pink paillettes. “And freaks are only part of the fun!
“Men will be rides.
“Women will be games.
“Children will be snacks.”