The Fake Louise Brooks Society: The Charlatan, The Stalker, and the Necrophiliac

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Michael Garcia Mujica

"Currer Bell is neither man nor woman, but an abstract thing, an artist."

• Michael Garcia Mujica, Lead Educator in Arts and Film History.

Echoing the sentiment about Charlotte Brontë's pseudonymous voice, Michael lends his expertise not only as a writer and visual artist but also as a Lead Educator in arts and film history. Based in Coral Gables, Florida, he is the principal of Vintage Brooks, Inc., where he passionately revitalizes the legacy of silent film star Louise Brooks. His acclaimed blog, Naked on My Goat, serves as a living tribute to Brooks's enduring influence in film, her profound writing, and her broad appreciation for the arts.

Just as Brontë made an indelible mark in literature despite the societal constraints of her time, Michael accentuates Brooks's trailblazing spirit within the film industry. In his role, he ensures that Brooks's iconic voice continues to resonate within the cultural lexicon of the 21st century, celebrating the intricate victories of women in the arts, both past and present.

Explore more about the abstract persona of Charlotte Brontë in Michael's piece, "The Abstract Persona: Understanding Charlotte Brontë's Pseudonymous Journey as Currer Bell."

“I am satisfied that if a book is a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are or should be written for both men and women to read, and I am at a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man.”

• Anne Brontë, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

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Latest posts by Michael Garcia Mujica (see all)

• The Will to Dream: David Lynch’s Surreal Legacy and Cinematic Vision - January 16, 2025
• The Fake Louise Brooks Society: The Charlatan, The Stalker, and the Necrophiliac - January 8, 2025
• Ctrl+Alt+LULU: A Tribute to Louise Brooks - November 20, 2024

Louise Brooks, even in death, retains full agency—her legacy is as untouchable as a fictional character in a soap opera, locked in a storyline written by someone who’s not even part of the cast. The Gladysz group’s attempts to hijack her legacy have all the finesse of a toddler trying to conduct an orchestra with a pool noodle. Every time they try, they just highlight their own irrelevance, like a mime trying to sell air. No one’s buying what they’re not even offering, and Louise Brooks was never on the auction block.

Thomas Gladysz, Vincent Lesh, and Scott Howe—three self-proclaimed “gatekeepers” of Louise Brooks, yet as enlightening as a man trying to explain quantum physics using a rubber chicken. They’re not stewards—they’re more like bouncers at a club no one wants to get into, trying to control access to a legacy that’s far too vast for their tiny hands. Let’s get real: their so-called Fake Louise Brooks Society is a sideshow of egos, a tragic farce wrapped in the illusion of reverence. What should be a hallowed ground for true admirers of Brooks has become a circus of delusion, where the real Louise Brooks is reduced to a hollow prop in their laughable little play

But here’s the kicker: Louise Brooks has more agency in her grave than these men could ever hope to muster in their lives. She was never the type to be manipulated or corralled into someone else’s narrative—and even in death, she remains untouchable, her legacy as safe as a locked vault. The very essence of her power—her independence, her defiance, and her unflinching ability to define herself—stands as a living testament that no amount of posthumous fanboying will ever bend her to their whims.

Let’s begin with Thomas Gladysz. If Gladysz were an academic, his tenure would be spent at the University of “How to Confuse People with Complete Nonsense 101.” He rearranges Brooks’ legacy with the finesse of a raccoon trying to organize a dumpster. This guy actually believes that attaching his name to Louise Brooks somehow grants him intellectual credibility. Newsflash, Thomas: the only thing your name does for Brooks is make her look like she got stuck with a second-rate autograph. His so-called “academic contributions” are as reliable as a weather forecast from a Magic 8-Ball. Gladysz is the kind of guy who thinks “research” means writing a Wikipedia entry while chugging espresso. Louise Brooks doesn’t need him to speak for her—she speaks for herself. Her legacy isn’t some moth-eaten sweater to be dressed up in Gladysz’s ill-fitting theories.

Next up, we have Vincent Lesh. The only thing “visionary” about Lesh is the vision he has when he looks in the mirror and sees a “director.” His magnum spoof Lost Comet is as real as a unicorn riding a rainbow—and just as grounded in reality. Lesh sees himself as the next great auteur, but in reality, his pretensions carry the gravitas of a soufflé in an earthquake. This isn’t filmmaking—it’s cosplay with a side of delusion. Brooks’ legacy doesn’t need Lesh to recreate it in his awkward little daydreams. She didn’t exist to be a “muse” for people like him—she was a force, and that force could never be channeled by someone who thinks the word “comet” on a screenplay gives it weight.

And Scott Howe? Let’s talk about Howe, the self-proclaimed digital “artist” who thinks slapping bunny ears and devil horns on historical photos is a stroke of genius. Howe’s idea of honoring Louise Brooks is as respectful as a toddler with a crayon and a Michelangelo print. His “digital contributions” are as welcome in the world of Brooks as a jackhammer at a symphony. The sheer gall of Howe to believe that playing fast and loose with Brooks’ image is an homage reveals just how little he grasps about her autonomy. She was never the kind of woman to let anyone play dress-up with her. She was too busy defining herself to be anyone’s puppet, and Howe’s idea of “art” wouldn’t even make it into the outtakes of a bad viral meme.

And here’s the delicious irony: these men think they can control the narrative around Louise Brooks, when it’s her who’s still controlling them from the grave. Their pathetic attempts to claim ownership of her legacy only reveal them for what they are: irrelevant. They’re not preserving her memory—they’re grasping at air, trying to shove her into their own delusional narratives. They can distort images, fabricate histories, and scribble fantasies all they want, but they will never touch the real power of Louise Brooks. Her legacy cannot be co-opted, commodified, or deformed by their feeble hands. She remains vibrant, untouchable, and utterly beyond their reach.

This isn’t about preserving history; it’s about hijacking it. The Fake Louise Brooks Society isn’t a tribute—it’s an abomination. Gladysz, Lesh, and Howe are not curators; they’re opportunists trying to carve out their own little fiefdom from an icon that will never belong to them. But Brooks doesn’t need them, and she certainly doesn’t need their half-baked, self-serving narratives. Her legacy, even in death, stands like a mountain, untouched by their ridiculous delusions.

Louise Brooks carved her own path, shattered conventions with every step, and never once asked for permission. In Pandora’s Box and Diary of a Lost Girl, she didn’t simply perform—she commanded the screen. She didn’t need these self-appointed “fanboys” to rewrite her story. She was too busy owning her sexuality, her art, and her career. These men? They’re too busy playing dress-up to understand what made her truly remarkable.

For those truly interested in preserving the real legacy of Louise Brooks, I recommend seeking out the real Louise Brooks Society. Visit Louise Brooks: Her Legacy in Rochester and the George Eastman Museum, where her legacy is respected, not exploited.

Admiring a legend is one thing. Believing you can “possess” one? That’s another matter entirely.

Let Louise Brooks’ legacy speak for itself—free from digital vandalism, cinematic fantasies, and self-serving agendas.

Ultimately, the truth is a stubborn guest—it shows up uninvited and refuses to leave, no matter how many try to bar the door. George R.R. Martin aptly observes, “When you tear out a man’s tongue, you are not proving him a liar, you’re only telling the world that you fear what he might say.” A sentiment as timeless as it is incisive, and a reminder that silence imposed is just fear, poorly disguised.

As for me, Michael Garcia Mujica, the adage holds firm: you can’t keep a good man down. Like gravity or George Carlin’s knack for cutting through the nonsense, I’ll keep showing up, armed with reason and a touch of irreverence. Against a backdrop of distortion and desperate narrative-bending, the truth isn’t just worth defending—it’s the ultimate punchline.