A Brief History of the Mustache in Cinema

Sad to report that our documentary film, A Brief History of the Mustache in Cinema, has been shaved from the development slate of upstart cable network Hair TV.

Collaborator Cary Carpe and I had been tapped to track the mustache through cinema for the new channel (a sort of E! for all things follicular) after producers had seen a trailer for my film Part of Me about the world of body parts models (and the much publicized fact rippling through fashion circles that Carpe wears a fake beard).

After inking the development agreement last month, a one-sheet was hastily cobbled together from Parisian Dadaist Marcel Duchamp’s famed first fit of “anti-art,” a graffitied mustache on a Mona Lisa postcard, christened “L.H.O.O.Q.” which in French is the phonetic equivalent of “she has a hot ass.”

This was to be the central image of our film, not the “hot ass” but recognizing the mustache as a subversive, creative act, and those who adorn their upper lip as social renegades rather than just unshaven. You see, intention is everything on the road to Hollywood.

One-sheet in hand and three-sheets to the wind (after celebrating our windfall) we were off at a good clip. Our initial research yielded a plucky tale of cinema, facial hair and entrepreneurship we instantly slotted as the foundation of our film.

In the late 19th century, two of the strongest mafia gangs in New York were controlled by Joe Masseria and Salvatore Maranzano, who, perhaps fittingly, were also two of the city?s first film producers They were known as the “Mustache Petes.” Moreover they insisted their silent-era flicks prominently feature mustachioed actors. And sometimes actresses.

Unfortunately an uppity peach-fuzz faced production assistant squealed to the Italian-American Anti-Defamation League, a group always at-the-ready to put the finire on any suggestion that those of Italian-descent are involved in organized crime. They interceded with a letter decrying the film’s offensive position on the Mustache Petes and encouraged the perception that Masseria and Maranzano weren’t in fact mobsters, but entrepreneurs in a world that demanded an expansive notion of business acumen.

The letter came in a black envelope and suggested in strong terms that it would not be in the interest of our film, our careers and our loved ones should we proceed. It was signed with a black hand-print. Our Mustache Pete sequence soon found itself on the barbershop floor.

It was no great loss, seeing as mustache consciousness in cinema really came with Charlie Chaplin’s introduction of the Little Tramp character in 1914. The abbreviated push broom Chaplin wore endeared his creation to a legion of fans ? most notably Adolf Hitler. It was, I surmise, on the occasion of their mutual mustache, that Chaplin began percolating his World War II satire, The Great Dictator.

We attempted to interview Chaplin’s offspring but were surprised to find they took offense at our observation that the renowned poly-hyphenate was spurred to create his poignant riff on world politics on account of a shared facial hairstyle rather than heeding the call of humanity or artistic conscience. Of course, we did not contest these factors, but harped on the convenience of having a similar mustache. We were categorically denied permission to use Chaplin’s likeness or even mention of his name in our project.

Crestfallen? Yes. But at least we still had Hitler. To our chagrin, however, footage archives were not interested in us digitally removing Hitler?s mustache for an experimental sequence wherein we attempt to draw an analogy between his mustache and rise to power. The footage people said they needed to preserve the “historic integrity” of their stock. We countered that without removing the mustache how could we know if Hitler could even make history? They said that’s absurd. We said, “is it absurd or is it integrity?” Then for good measure, Carpe accused them of being Nazi sympathizers. A shouting match ensued in which Carpe declared that they were “the Leni Reifenstal of mustaches!” We were removed from the building by a pair of clean shaven security guards whose genes would warm the cocles of Dr. Mengele’s heart.

Among the bounty of trivia yielded from our research was an interesting item on the origination of Groucho Marx’ famous greasepaint mustache.

Apparently, late for a matinee performance of he and his brothers’ live vaudeville act, the young Groucho forsook his usual horsehair and spirit gum appendage for a hastily drawn greasepaint mustache. This addition to his costume would remain if not for the added humor of his obviously faked ‘stache then for its ease of application.

Groucho’s people were far more gracious than the Tramp’s and the Nazis. We did, however, have to sign a dozen releases waiving any claim to the right to “exploit” Groucho’s mustache for financial gain. Emboldened by his coffee, I ventured “For the love of god, man, why?”

A doleful steward of all things Marxian, estate historian Isaac Ambromowitz, quietly uttered “Follow me.”
He led us through the corridor and through a small passage that opened into a warehouse. There, Ambromowitz solemnly reached into a shipping crate and extracted a pair of novelty nose-mustache-eyebrow glasses that resembled the erstwhile comedian.

“They called them Beagle Puss Glasses, but they’re clearly Groucho,” he said, a rueful note catching in his voice. “They made millions and saturated the market before we could get ours out of R&D. Their concept was genius really. An all-in-one solution. While we were still fiddling with grease paint applicators, they had developed a polymer mustache and eyebrows combination that attached directly to the spectacles component. Like all great novelty items it was ruthless and brilliant.”

When word of our endeavor got out in the gift market, we received a solicitation to speak with a publicist for Wooly Willy ? the kids game wherein iron shavings are drawn on the character’s face with a “magic magnetic wand” creating the look of whiskers.

A recent dearth in comic book characters available for film franchises had recently garnered Wooly Willy a franchise movie deal. We agreed to meet at LAX during a the publicist’s layover en route to a comic book convention.

“W2 is like a man of a thousand faces or even more ? got an intern still running the numbers. He’s like a traveling disguise kit. Clean shaven, full beard, unibrow, whatever,? the goateed publicist crowed. “It’s really all about identity, man. Who is Wooly Willy. You know? Hey, who the fuck am I? It’s now and it’s males 14 to 34 and it’s three pix of merchandise!”

My partner suggested we could fulfill the “interactive content” portion of our contract by creating a virtual Wooly Will online where one could paint facial hair on Willy with a mouse. He mentioned this offhand to the publicist who immediately went ashen and explained how their lawyers had just gunned down an adult site for an x-rated Polly Pudendum game. Then he threatened to sue us for even thinking about such a thing.

A Brief History of the Mustache in Cinema was foundering. We had shot a grand total of three minutes of tape consisting largely of Carpe adjusting his faux fashion beard in a mirror, repeatedly intoning “I am complete without you, but I choose to wear you. It?s my choice not yours.”

Finally, we received an email brimming with legalese from our Hair Channel producer:

Dear Sirs ? The Hair Channel? What the fuck, right? Closing shop. Keep the advance. Peace Out. ? Chad.