The Makeup of a Monster

PRE-FACE/PRIMER

At the beginning of the 1931 Universal Studios film Frankenstein: The Man Who Made a Monster, Edward Van Sloan, famous for his roles in Dracula, Frankenstein, and The Mummy, sweeps the stage curtain aside.

“How do you do?” he says politely, but there’s an imp-like smile on his face. He’s been sent to caution viewers; Carl Laemmle, the producer of Frankenstein, felt the need to prepare the audience. Similarly, I also feel “a word of friendly warning” is warranted before we begin. What follows is not merely a tale of monsters and princesses. Stripping away ideals of beauty tampers with the forces of human nature, creating a savage defensiveness in some, a lonely vulnerability in others.

This essay jolted into being after the many-layered conversations I had with my mother and two sisters concerning our cultural obsession with beauty. I think it will thrill you. It may shock you. It might even enrage you, particularly if you are a woman who only wears makeup “for myself” or “because it makes me feel good.” So if you do not care to subject your nerves to such a strain, now is your chance to. … Well, like Edward Van Sloan says—we’ve warned you.

OPENING ACT

Boris Karloff—born William H. Pratt—sits in a makeup chair in 1931, months before the release of Frankenstein. Many hours of his life have been spent in this chair. Standing over Karloff is Jack Pierce, the old-school, “out-of-the-kit” makeup artist for Universal Studios. Pierce—circular glasses on his nose, a focused frown on his face—places a coat of spirit gum on Karloff’s already heavy brow, the same jutting brow that caused director James Whale to invite Karloff to audition for the role of Frankenstein’s monster, an invitation that both flattered and insulted Karloff.

“Spirit gum,” my sister Marie tells me over Skype, “is kind of like rubber cement. It’s an adhesive made out of tree sap, which gets tacky and stringy, like cheese on a pizza.” My sister is a special effects artist in California; I’ve seen the pictures of zombies she’s created. Some of her victims’ faces look like pepperoni pizza with the pepperoni torn out. The effect terrifies me—as does makeup in general, which I have foresworn for years. This is monstrously ironic since it’s partially because of me that Marie, my other sister, Katie, and my mother are all professional makeup artists.

After Pierce applies the spirit gum, he sticks cotton in it to build up Karloff’s already high forehead. The two materials are then sealed in place with a coating of collodion, a strong-smelling liquid plastic that binds the two materials together and dries into a skin-like layer. The stench of the collodion makes Karloff’s eyes smart and head spin. Marie says collodion smells just like nail polish, and she is more accurate than she knows—collodion is found in many types of nail polish.

“I try not to breathe it in,” she adds. “It’s great for manipulating shapes and textures, but the kind of rigid collodion I use reeks to high heaven. I feel sorry for the actors when I have to put rigid collodion on their lips.” She’s careful to add that she spends 99 percent of her time making sure the actors are protected, usually by sacrificing her own comfort, and she uses rigid collodion very rarely.

Collodion is also highly flammable. Knowing this as I stay up late to watch again, I can’t help but think that some of the fear on Karloff’s face as torches are thrust at him might be genuine. I am, in fact,