Stephen Lemons

“Diaries are personal things,” explains Gabrial, as if the argument had occurred yesterday. “I was annoyed and disturbed, as was he. It was probably my fault for not keeping them under lock and key, but I hadn’t thought that would be necessary. Fortunately, by about 2 in the morning, we had put it all to rest.”

Nevertheless, the inner demons that seemed to be part of Lowry’s personal cosmology pursued the couple with increasing intensity as they moved from England to France to New York and finally to Cuernavaca, Mexico, where Lowry wrote the first draft of “Under the Volcano,” based in large part on his life with Gabrial.

Drawn from her diaries and letters of that era, Gabrial’s memoir depicts the couple’s love affair in intimate detail and with an engaging literary style that spares neither herself nor Lowry. In “Inside the Volcano,” Lowry is both handsome man of letters and hopeless drunkard. He’s the kind of fellow who could write long, amorous epistles capable of wooing the young Gabrial as well as a congenital barfly with a thirst so prodigious that he would drink almost anything he could get his hands on: after-shave, cleaning products, embalming fluid, you name it.

And he could be a mean drunk. At a New Year’s Eve party in Paris just prior to his marriage to Gabrial, he almost single-handedly wrecked his host’s residence during one of his more outrageous tears, pouring wine over his fiancée and getting into fisticuffs with a fellow he’d wrongly accused of making a pass at her. In private, he could be verbally abusive, with a threat of violence behind his words. Lowry’s second wife, Margerie Lowry, reportedly suffered physical abuse from him, but Gabrial denies that Lowry ever struck her, though she was afraid it might happen.

“Initially, when we were in Europe, he drank so heavily that it frightened me. You have to remember, I was still in my early 20s. And though I had traveled all over, I had never known an alcoholic. We were living in Paris, and I’d go to bed at 10 or whatever. I’d hear the door banging when he came home from his rounds at maybe 1 or 2 o’clock. He would hover over my bed. I remember one time him saying, ‘Dormez. Le diable est mort.’

“I wasn’t asleep, but I kept myself looking asleep because I didn’t know what to expect at that point. It could get a little hairy,” confides Gabrial. “I could have invited blows, of course, but I was very wary. You don’t wave a red flag in front of a bull, you know.”

Gabrial is quick to point out that when Lowry wasn’t drinking, life could be grand. He enjoyed sporadic periods of sobriety, and while living in Cuernavaca, the pair would rise early in the morning, sit down for breakfast and still be talking at noon. A former actress with literary aspirations of her own, Gabrial at some point realized that she had wedded one of the greatest creative talents of her generation — a writer on a par with William Faulkner and James Joyce, and one who could no doubt match each jar for jar.

Similar to other artists, Lowry cultivated his own misery like some poisonous, hothouse flower, its tendrils knotted permanently about his heart. After the manner of his protagonists, he would disappear from family and friends for extended gin- or tequila-drenched explorations through the gutters of New York or Mexico. Darkness beckoned him, and no obstacle was too great to keep him from melding with that darkness, be it delirium tremens, the destruction of his first marriage or the mental ward at Bellevue, where he did a stint while he and Gabrial lived in New York.

Death claimed Lowry in 1957 at the age of 47. After a quarrel with his second wife, he apparently overdosed on a mixture of gin and barbiturates and collapsed on the floor of the cottage in Ripe, England where the two were then living. Authorities labeled his demise “death by misadventure.” Whether it was suicide, accidental death or something more sinister has never been determined with any finality.

“Malcolm’s death, to me, isn’t quite explained,” says Gabrial. “Margerie was in trouble because she was suspected of having a hand in it, but somehow that got hushed up or whatever. I don’t believe Malcolm would commit suicide. He was too much in love with the English language.”

Though Lowry’s death remains somewhat of a mystery, alcohol was most certainly an agent in his passing. I ask Gabrial if she thinks Lowry might have suffered from manic depression and therefore self-medicated with alcohol.

“We know a lot more about that today than we did back then,” she muses. “But this was also tied in with his being a writer. He wasn’t Joe Blow. I think when you’re trying to sum up any artist whose work you admire, you have to realize that your reactions to certain episodes would be very different from what his reactions may have been. He was, in a way, a lost soul.”

Gabrial finally left Lowry in 1937, unable to deal any longer with his drinking. Offered a job as a script assistant by a friend’s agency in Hollywood, she departed Mexico, leaving Lowry to sink into an abyss of drunkenness and squalor.

“The thing with the alcohol was troubling to me,” she says. “If I had stayed with Malcolm, I would’ve become an alcoholic also. He couldn’t take just one drink. And when you’re with someone like that who’s drinking day in and day out, you can’t sit on the sidelines. Either you have your part in it, or you salvage yourself.”

The pair stayed in contact, yet drifted apart. The agency Gabrial was working for floundered, and she went on to work as a personal secretary to stars like Jimmy Stewart and Olivia de Havilland. One day in 1938, Lowry showed up drunk on her porch in Los Angeles, like a lost puppy, and Gabrial helped him get into a sanitarium. He wanted to reconcile with her, but Gabrial asked that he give up alcohol for at least two years as a condition. Lowry refused.

Lowry met his second wife, Margerie, around this time, eventually moving with her to Dollarton, British Columbia, where they seemed to achieve a brief spate of happiness, living in a seaside shack they had fashioned themselves. Gabrial tried to stay in contact with Lowry after their divorce was finalized, but he refused to see her. Gabrial married again, staying with her second husband until his death more than a decade ago.

“Under the Volcano” was at last published in 1947 to tremendous acclaim. The character of Yvonne Firmin (played in Huston’s film by Jacqueline Bisset), the wayward wife of Geoffrey Firmin, former British consul and incurable drunkard (Albert Finney), was based largely on Gabrial, though it was certainly influenced by Margerie’s presence during the constant rewrites of the novel. Gabrial recognizes many of her experiences in the book, yet states cryptically, “I think my own reactions to some things have varied from Yvonne’s.”

Gabrial penned a short story based on her experiences with Lowry. Titled “Not With a Bang,” it first appeared in 1946, but she waited until now to publish a memoir of her troubled relationship with her illustrious ex. A number of Lowry partisans have previously suggested that she was cruel and faithless in her marriage, charges that Gabrial vociferously denies. However, even Lowry biographer Douglas Day, who accepts some tales of Gabrial’s alleged adulteries, states sympathetically in “Malcolm Lowry: A Biography” that Lowry “turned out to be more than [Gabrial] could handle — more, indeed, than anyone ought to have to handle.”

Ultimately, Gabrial’s memoir is so true to what’s known of Lowry and their relationship both from biographies and Lowry’s fiction that I see no reason to question the accuracy of her account, based as it is upon her diaries and letters. The slim volume, like a yellowed picture preserved in a locket, presents readers with as familiar a portrait as they’re likely to get of Lowry at this late date. Still, the question arises: Why a memoir now, so many decades after the fact?

“There’s been a lot of misunderstanding,” Gabrial remarks, the afternoon light waning in her modest home situated near the border of Los Angeles and Ventura counties. “With people writing books about Malcolm and I, I just wanted to make sure that among all the other versions that have come out, my version was among them.”

Even if some critics hailed early flicks like “The Last Picture Show” and “Paper Moon,” by the early ’80s most seemed to agree with John Simon’s acerbic assessment that Bogdanovich’s “entire filmmaking prowess is not much more than a mnemonic feat.” Whatever; in person, the 62-year-old is thoroughly charming, and lacks the pretense so often ascribed to him by caricaturists. Can a guy who schleps his own water around with him in a tote bag be all bad?

Moreover, his latest picture, “The Cat’s Meow,” is an elegant, entertaining little film detailing the famously puzzling 1924 cruise aboard William Randolph Hearst’s yacht, the Oneida; just a few days after, one of the passengers died mysteriously. Among those who were onboard: Hearst (Edward Herrmann); his paramour Marion Davies (Kirsten Dunst); her aspiring paramour Charlie Chaplin (Eddie Izzard); and the fly in the ointment, conniving producer Thomas Ince (Cary Elwes). Gossip maven Louella Parsons (Jennifer Tilly) and novelist Elinor Glyn (Joanna Lumley) round out the ship’s manifest. And Bogdanovich plays them all like a sly maestro. “Citizen Kane” it ain’t, but it’s fun to watch. Give the devil his due.

Do you think your old friend Orson Welles would have liked the film?

I hope so. I certainly felt his spirit around when we made it, watching. I don’t know about guiding me, but I think he was on our side. He was the one who told me the story in the first place. He told it to me over 30 years ago as an example of how different Hearst was from Charles Foster Kane. The general misunderstanding about “Citizen Kane” is that it was supposed to be about Hearst, but it wasn’t.

Charles Foster Kane was a composite character based on three or four press lords including a famous one in Chicago named McCormick, who built the Chicago Opera House for his girlfriend, who was a singer. That whole aspect of Kane had nothing to do with Hearst. And Orson didn’t play it like Hearst. Hearst was a kind of pear-shaped fellow who had a high voice and whose hair fell down over his forehead. He looked a lot like Edward Herrmann, but not as handsome.

How did Mr. Welles come to tell you the story?

I was interviewing him for the book we did, “This Is Orson Welles,” but we didn’t use it in the book because at the time, it seemed a bit incendiary. Interestingly enough, he heard the story from a member of Hearst’s inner circle — Marion Davies’ nephew Charles Lederer, the screenwriter. I talked to Charlie Lederer a few years later and he confirmed it. Charlie had known it since he was 12. That’s about how old he was when it happened. He confirmed this as fact, that there was this “accident” during the cruise.

How ironic that after Welles told you that story so long ago, you wound up directing this picture.

Yes, it was ironic. The script arrived on my desk 30 years later and neither the writer nor the producer had any idea that I knew anything about it … I don’t know if I would have read it with as much interest if Orson hadn’t told me. I often don’t read scripts that are sent to me, I have someone read them for me. This one I read on my own. I saw these characters in it and I thought, “My God, it’s that story.” So I owe it to Orson. If it hadn’t been for him, I might not have done it.

Your Hearst seems rather likable in some ways.

Actually, he’s pretty ruthless. But he’s human. It’s the humanity, I think, that makes you understand him. When you understand someone, it’s hard to hate them. If you get to know anybody, I suppose, you discover that people are good and bad and all the shades in between. Nobody’s all one thing.

Do you think people have changed much since that era, or do you think we’re all pretty much still the same?

Human nature stays the same, but maybe certain aspects of it get exacerbated. I think we’re in a more cynical era than ever before, and I think that the audience for movies, for example, has been somewhat debased and brutalized by the enormous amount of violence and slaughter on the screen. You sort of say, “Well, 30 people just got killed, so what’s next?” Having been, I’m afraid, part of a murder, when Dorothy Stratten was murdered, I can tell you that one murder reverberates for the rest of the life of the people who were close to that person. That’s one of the things about this picture, it’s about a murder that changes everything. One murder. Not three, not 10 — one.

So we’ve been “desensitized,” as they say.

Yes, a little. On the other hand, you take any individual out of that audience and have them exposed to the murder of someone they care about, they won’t be desensitized. We’re only desensitized to the spectacle of it.

Did Ms. Stratten’s death change the way you look at violence?

Yes, it did. I never particularly liked violence in movies, but I didn’t have the same reaction to it that I do now. I think it’s all handled by people who don’t know what it’s really like. It’s just people making movies, and saying, “OK, well, this guy gets killed, and then we go over here and this guy gets killed,” and I’m thinking, each death counts.

Is there any solution to that problem, or is it something we just have to accept?

I think it’s everybody’s personal responsibility. Filmmakers have a responsibility to the audience and to the work, and I wish they felt that responsibility more, especially to what’s true in life. The tragic events of September brought knowledge of premeditated murder to an awful lot of people who didn’t know about it.

I watched those people on TV afterwards, and it broke my heart. I knew where they were coming from. And I knew they were in for a life of it. They talk about closure and getting past it — Christ, it doesn’t ever happen that way. These poor people on television a week later talking about it, thinking that they’re dealing with it. You know, it’s a truism for people who’ve been through this that the fifth year is the worst. It happened to me. For some reason after five years, it’s like it’s just happened again. It’s also something you don’t recover from, you learn to live with. You don’t get past it, you learn to move on with it as part of your life.

You have to think of it in this context; the murder in “The Cat’s Meow” affects everyone there for all their lives. I don’t know that Marion would have stayed with Hearst had it not been for the murder. I think she felt guilty that she was kind of the cause of it.

Then it’s established that Chaplin and Davies actually were fooling around?

Well, nobody was under the bed. But that gossip item that’s referred to in the film linking Chaplin and Davies actually appeared in the Daily News that weekend. I have a copy of it. Chaplin was a notorious philanderer. And Marion evidently had some affairs with other people. We presume it happened.

Of all the characters in the film, who do you identify with?

That’s an interesting question. Really, I can identify with all the men. I’ve been down and out like Ince. I’ve been obsessed with a woman like Hearst. I’ve been lookin’ to get laid like Chaplin. So, I understand where they’re coming from. And I understand, as I said, what a murder does. My sympathy, if you want to ask that, is with Marion, which you can see in the picture to a degree.

It’s her tragedy, I think. It’s a woman’s story — she’s trapped between powerful men. In 1924, women had only been able to vote for the second time. I made a reference to that in the film, because it’s fairly shocking to remember that. It was November of 1924 and the election had just happened. Nineteen-twenty was the first year women were allowed to vote. It’s about a woman who seems to have everything, but doesn’t quite. “I have me,” she says. But she’s not really right.

If you could go back in time, which decade would you want to go back to?

If I had a time machine? I’d pick the ’30s. I’d want to be a filmmaker under contract at Paramount as Lubitsch was head of the studio.

So you might’ve been one of Mr. Welles’ colleagues?

I would’ve met him, yeah. I looked it up one time and I told Orson, “You know the day you started shooting ‘Citizen Kane’ I was 1 year old?” And he said, “Aw, shut up!”

You think about him often, don’t you?

He was a very dear friend for most of our association, and yes, his spirit ranges over everything. He was quite extraordinary.

You speak of Mr. Welles’ spirit. I’m curious, what do you think happens to us after we die?

Kind of a personal question. I don’t think the spirit dies. I think the spirit is imperishable, that it remains, and is around or not, depending on different things. I don’t know about murderers, though. I don’t know where they go. I keep feeling that the murderers who blew up the World Trade Center are doomed to haunt that area for the rest of their lives.

Attendees of this memorial service for Chatouilleu (whose last name reportedly translates as “French tickler”) gained entrance with a donation of five dollars and a gift for the dearly departed. Canned hams, skeleton dolls, bottles of booze and packages of condoms were but some of the presents proffered by clubgoers, most of whom had learned of the event by word-of-mouth. Often the mouth in question belonged to none other than the C.I.A.’s ingenious impresario Carl Crew, a former actor in his late 30s whose credits include the starring role in the low-budget 1993 flick “Jeffrey Dahmer: The Secret Life,” wherein he quite literally makes meatloaf out of sedated victims.

“Yeah, I guess that’s my calling card now,” Crew told me on one of my trips to the C.I.A. “There were other films I was involved in I liked better, but that’s the one people always mention.”

Crew’s been a friend of mine since I began going to the indie rock/performance art venue five years ago, when it was underground and served liquor without a license. The police eventually raided the C.I.A., closing the dimly lit nightspot for a few years. When Crew and co-owner Robert Ferguson reopened it in 2001 — all operations above board — the once-black interior was painted in garish reds and yellows and decorated with a circus sideshow motif. Crew, a freak show fanatic, put his vast collection of sideshow exhibits and paraphernalia on display. Vintage banners advertising Sweet Marie, a 643-pound femme fatale, share space with the severed arm of a French nobleman, a dead fairy, the skull of the world’s smallest Freemason and the hirsute, severed head of Sasquatch.

Most of these are classic sideshow “gaffs,” or fakes, like the two-headed baby nailed above the bar or the “merman” enshrined in glass nearby. But the clown, according to Crew, is quite real.

“This attorney friend of mine called me up one day on a speakerphone with all his lawyer pals around and goes, ‘Carl, how would you like to lease a dead clown?’ I said, ‘Are you kidding? Of course!’ All the other attorneys just roared with laughter. It took like four months to get the paperwork done, but now I have him for six months. I won’t tell you how much it cost me, but it wasn’t cheap,” Crew said.

I was skeptical he would ever get this clown; once he got it, my incredulity was slow to fade. Sure, lying there under glass in red vestments, a Shriner’s cap and long-faded greasepaint, the brownish body did look like a well-preserved cadaver. The fingernails showed sign of decay, and there was bushy, black hair in the nose — details that would be difficult to fabricate, but not impossible. We were in Hollywood, after all.

I could find nothing online about Achile Chatouilleu, so I pushed Crew for some corroboration. It came in dribs and drabs. Nothing incontrovertible, of course, but enough to make me think that Crew had perhaps produced the genuine article. There were photos, said to be of Chatouilleu while he was still alive, and a ragged, blue turn-of-the-century poster for “The Great London Circus” at Madison Square Garden with Chatouilleu’s name on the bill. Finally, Crew came through with the photocopy of a death certificate stating that Achile Chatouilleu, a “retired clown” born Feb. 3, 1866, died of “chronic nephritis” on Jan. 13, 1912.

Crew asked me not to reveal where Chatouilleu died or the names of his parents, listed as immigrants from Scotland on the death certificate. Chatouilleu was not the clown’s birth name, and supposedly his descendants, who live on a ranch near Yosemite, wish to remain anonymous. But the death certificate and the rest of it could be forgeries. I remained unconvinced.

“You still think it’s a hoax?” asked Crew. “What do you want me to do, slice it open like a pumpkin for you?”

Actually, yes, but since Crew says the body was embalmed in mercury, arsenic or a combination (something mortuaries did long ago, one medical examiner told me), the pumpkin slice would likely prove lethal. I contacted Christine Quigley, author of several tomes on death, including “Modern Mummies: The Preservation of the Human Body in the Twentieth Century” (McFarland & Company). What she had to say might make old Chatouilleu sit up and throw confetti.

“More likely than not it’s a preserved body,” says Quigley. “Because it would be harder to fake something like that than it would be for it to be real. What’s most unlikely are the stories in these kinds of cases. Now, I’ve never heard of this particular mummy, but generally I’ve found that the stories tend to be fabrications because they’re in the carnival circuit. Sometimes carnies bought these mummies from the local funeral home director, who kept them for years hoping the family will claim them. It doesn’t happen anymore, but they used to over-embalm these bodies. That’s why they’ve lasted so long.”

Quigley says that often the bodies became local attractions which people would visit on Halloween, for instance. A carnival operator would come through town, hear of the body and make the funeral director an offer. The corpse then became part of the traveling road show, with an outlandish legend concocted to draw in a paying crowd.

“Sometimes the mortuaries held on to them. There’s one case of a funeral home out in the Midwest which still has the body of this guy George Stein, who died in the ’20s. In fact, they moved recently and took the body with them instead of interring him,” says Quigley.

Indeed, Quigley explains that though the retail sale of corpses no longer occurs legally, there’s nothing necessarily illegal about having one in your possession. Though funeral homes have guidelines to follow, the law regarding what you can and can’t do with human remains can be a gray area, according to the author.

Quigley cited several cases where human remains were used as sideshow attractions. In 1976, during the filming of an episode of “The Six Million Dollar Man” in Long Beach, Calif., the TV crew discovered the mummified body of Old West outlaw Elmer McCurdy in a decrepit fun house where he had been used as part of an attraction. There’s also Marie O’Day, whose body was supposedly preserved naturally in Utah’s Great Salt Lake. A murderess named Hazel Farris is on display in Alabama, and somewhere out there is a corpse with one gold tooth — “Gold Tooth Jimmy.” For Quigley, Crew’s dead clown was one in a long line that includes Mao Tse-tung and Lenin.

But the clincher was my conversation with veteran sideshow operator Jeff Murray, who along with his wife, Sue, has operated sideshows for the past 20 years throughout the United States. His company, Harmur Shows, is based in Ahwahnee, Calif. — also in the Yosemite area, not too far from the circus family that owns Chatouilleu’s body. Murray claims that while on the sideshow circuit he ran across a member of this family who tried to interest him in an odd exhibit.

“They’re basically a gypsy family,” Murray says of the clown’s caretakers. “I don’t even know their last name, but they’ve been around for years. I used to see their son Danny down at Leg Lake when I opened for the spring. His wife was a midcamp, which is the carny term for a palm reader. She always had a booth there. I found out they live not too far from here. He mentioned this stiff they had, but I wasn’t that interested. See, we used to have a show of two-headed babies. Real ones, preserved in formaldehyde. But a lot of showmen started to get busted for transporting them across state lines, so we sold them all to collectors. So when he started talking about this dead body, I had no interest at all because I’d just gotten rid of the ones we had.”

Murray’s never seen the body, but he’d encountered “stiffs” during his travels and had no reason to doubt him. Back in the day, he saw Gold Tooth Jimmy, shrunken heads and pickled babies. He knows the whole history of Marie O’Day and can relate in minute detail other cases of sideshow mummies.

“I thought it was a little strange that they had a dead body, but they said it was a family member, and of course you never know with gypsies. It could be one of those situations where they ended up with this body somehow and made up a story to go along with it,” Murray says.

Taking into account what Murray and Quigley have to say, as well as the condition of the body itself — the way it’s dressed and the documents Crew has for it — I lean toward accepting the artifact as authentic clown carrion, even if part of the clown tale turns out to be myth. Fortunately, Crew says, forensic science may be the final judge. He’s been approached by producers for National Geographic TV’s popular “Mummy Road Show,” who want to X-ray the corpse. Right now it’s up to the family to decide. As for Crew, he’s already on to his next acquisition.

“It’s the body of Alligator Boy, and in mint condition,” he squeals. “Now don’t tell me you want a death certificate for this, too!”

It was at this point that Hitler, falling back on his belief in the occult, called the most renowned clairvoyant in the land to his headquarters at the Hotel Kaiserhof in Berlin for a private session. The man Hitler met with that day is the subject of a recent biography (the first in the English language), “Erik Jan Hanussen: Hitler’s Jewish Clairvoyant,” by Mel Gordon.

Hanussen, 43 at the time of the Hotel Kaiserhof session, was a man whose name was synonymous with psychic phenomena in Central Europe. The Vienna-born con man/celebrity seer was known for predicting the future, casting prescient horoscopes and astounding audiences with his feats of hypnotism and mind reading. In Berlin, Hanussen was a rock star before there were rock stars, with a vast business enterprise trading on the voracious German hunger for all things paranormal.

Hitler became a Hanussenite when in March of 1932 the psychic’s own weekly newspaper, Erik Jan Hanussen’s Berliner Wochenschau, printed the startling prophecy that within one year’s time the future Führer would become Reichschancellor. Most Berliners scoffed. For many, Hitler was a megalomaniacal clown.

But if the average Berliner thought Hanussen’s prognostication absurd, Hitler certainly didn’t. When Hanussen came to him that cold day in January, the Nazi leader was filled with dread anticipation, and kept the meeting secret should the results be negative. Hanussen placed Hitler on a seat in the middle of the room, examined his hands, counted the bumps on his head and sank into a mystical trance. The words he spoke filled the Führer with elation, says Gordon.

“I see victory for you,” Hanussen said. “It cannot be stopped.”

By the end of the month, Hitler had cut a deal with his enemies and become titular head of a coalition government. Hanussen’s vision had given him hope in his hour of uncertainty. One can only wonder the intensity of his rage, if the raving anti-Semite had known at the time that the man he had adopted as his personal soothsayer, the chap nicknamed “the Prophet of the Third Reich,” the decadent mystic who had just run his hands through his Aryan locks, was in fact … a Jew. According to Gordon, a professor of theater arts at the University of California at Berkeley and author of such colorful tomes as “The Grand Guignol: The Theater of Horror and Terror,” and “Voluptuous Panic: the Erotic World of Weimar Berlin,” Hanussen started life as Hermann Steinschneider, with a birth certificate that read “Hebrew male.” An unlikely beginning for one destined to become Hitler’s favorite fortuneteller.

Gordon’s complicated, fascinating tale is one familiar to many Germans, but completely unknown to Americans, save for some devotees of magic who regard Hanussen’s name, acquired while his career was in its infancy, with a reverence second only to that of Harry Houdini’s. Despite the 1988 film “Hanussen” by Hungarian director Istvan Szabo (starring Klaus Maria Brandauer in the strangely Aryanized title role), and a number of articles written in English by German imigris in the 1930s and ’40s, Americans have had almost no exposure to this bizarre tale of a Jew who played the part of psychic advisor to Hitler. No wonder the uninitiated roll their eyes when Gordon starts to talk about it.

“It’s like saying, ‘Hitler’s favorite rabbi,’ people are waiting for the punch line,” confesses Gordon. “But it’s not a joke. Hitler and Hanussen did meet about a dozen times between 1932 and 1933. Of course, if Hitler had known that Hanussen was Jewish, he would have disposed of him as fast as he could have. But it’s not so much later that he was disposed of. After the Reichstag fire, everything changed.”

The burning of the Reichstag on Feb. 27, 1933, for which German communists took the fall, paved the way for the consolidation of power in Hitler’s hands and the suspension of all civil liberties. Eerily, the day before, Hanussen had predicted the event through a medium during the opening soiree of his newly minted pagan temple, the Palace of the Occult, a marble and gold-decked Taj Mahal of the black arts in Berlin decorated with astrological signs and religious statues. There, in the presence of Nazi officials and assorted VIPs, the seer claimed to see a “great house” in flames during a siance in his sanctum sanctorum, the Room of Glass. Hours later, the Reichstag was engulfed in a mysterious conflagration. “The Reichstag fire is such a big story — the first mystery of WWII. It’s still not resolved to this day,” says Gordon, “sort of like a European Kennedy assassination question. Did Goebbels somehow have a communist patsy, Marinus van der Lubbe, ignite the Reichstag? Did the communists do it, or is there some other story? Something that started leaking out from the Nazi side from the very beginning was that Hanussen was responsible for it or had something to do with it.”

Despite his Semitic origins, Hanussen had extremely close ties to the Nazi party, especially since his fateful augury that Hitler would somehow become Reichschancellor. He had lent hundreds of thousands of marks to high-ranking leaders of the Nazis, like Hermann Goering, and held IOUs from them. He had befriended Count Wolf Heinrich von Helldorf, the sadistic, depraved commander of Berlin’s SA, and referred to Hitler as “my pal Adolf.” Certainly, Hanussen could have had inside information of a Reichstag plot. Or perhaps he was even more directly involved.

Gordon relates that some conspiracy theorists believe Hanussen may have hypnotized the fall guy van der Lubbe to do his bidding, either with or without the help of Nazi conspirators. As far-fetched as the possibility sounds, one suddenly sees how the presence of Hanussen in this story becomes an uncomfortable dilemma for historians. To dwell too much on Hanussen’s involvement smacks of indirectly tainting the primary victims of the Holocaust with assisting in Hitler’s takeover of Germany and, subsequently, their own destruction.

Perhaps this was the reason Istvan Szabo’s cinematic treatment of the Hanussen tale conveniently omits Hanussen’s Jewishness. And it could account for the dearth of information on Hanussen in English-language texts. However, Gordon, who is himself Jewish, asserts his belief that Hanussen somehow participated in a plot to set fire to the Reichstag.

“My personal feeling is that all the evidence points to the fact that at the very least Hanussen was involved or he couldn’t have known about it. Unless you believe in clairvoyance, which I don’t. The other story is why he was killed. That is, he had to be eliminated because he knew too much,” says Gordon.

There were other reasons why the Nazis wanted Hanussen dead. Goebbels and Goering both saw him as an interloper and a potential rival for the Führer’s attentions, and there was the little matter of all those IOUs Hanussen had collected. Hanussen also, supposedly, had film footage of SA members involved in homosexual orgies. But perhaps more than anything, it was his Jewishness that made him a liability. The communist press had long published reports that Hanussen was Jewish, but it wasn’t until the Reichstag fire bequeathed totalitarian powers to the Nazis and allowed them to eliminate the communists as a threat that they had the time to focus on Hanussen’s bloodline.

Hanussen’s time was up, and he knew it. In a missive written in invisible ink, he informed a colleague, “I always thought that business about the Jews was just an election trick of theirs. It wasn’t.” On the morning of March 25, 1933, Hanussen was arrested by the SA and summarily executed. His lifeless body was left in a field on the outskirts of Berlin.

So ended Europe’s greatest oracle since Nostradamus. But questions endure. For instance, why would any Jew, even an assimilated Jew, collaborate with a pack of power-mad racists filled with hatred for his people? Moreover, is there some possibility that Hanussen possessed a sixth sense that allowed him to correctly predict Hitler’s rise and the Reichstag blaze while blinding him to the inevitable consequences of his own dalliance with the fascists?

“One fellow Jewish clairvoyant Fred Marion asked Hanussen if he was afraid that if the Nazis came to power they would kill him if they found out he was a Jew,” says Gordon. “Hanussen told him it was a problem, but that he wanted to convince Hitler that there are good Jews like us who aren’t communists or capitalists. A vain thought, but he believed Hitler just needed his friendship to learn that there were good people everywhere.”

As for Hanussen’s purported extrasensory perception, Gordon ascribes Hanussen’s psychic home runs to an amazing perspicacity on the part of “the Prophet of the Third Reich,” which evidently failed him when it came to foreseeing his own demise. For Gordon, Hanussen also represents the mania for the occult that swept Germany at this time, as well as the dilemma of assimilated Jews when faced with the virulent anti-Semitism of Nazism.

“It’s such a bizarre story that people wonder why they haven’t heard of it before. They think it’s either a Hitler diaries forgery or some great exaggeration of some tiny little thing of no consequence,” says Gordon. “That’s why I include so many pictures and inserts from Hanussen publications in the book. In Germany certainly, it’s not a lost story, there’s all kinds of stuff all the time on it. But in America, the typical person who watches the History Channel is unaware of it. That’s why I wrote the book.”

The Bambi is not the only repository of such neo-noir visual poetics. Nearby, there’s the Brookside, Motel One, the Homestead and others. It’s a realm of half-full ashtrays, shot glasses brimming with bourbon and dames in horn-rims and bullet bras.

This sexually charged alternate universe is the purview of Ohio photographer Chas Ray Krider, who refers to his adult fantasyland simply as “motel fetish.” For the past five years, he’s explored this lamplit twilight zone in spreads for erotic magazines like Taboo, Libido and Leg World as well as for book compilations such as “Love, Lust, Desire,” “Femmes” and “The Mammoth Book of Illustrated Erotica.”

Krider’s creations, which he also produces for the amusement of himself and his collectors, sweat lounge-era exotica from every pore, transforming the otherwise mundane atmospherics of dusty motor inns into scenes echoing the work of Edward Hopper or Alfred Hitchcock. Imbued with warm, rich reds, greens and yellows and accented with décor from a bygone era, Krider’s vignettes reflect an imagination molded by a town such as Columbus — a town that, similar to other parts of Middle America, retains an odd “Peyton Place” feel to it.

Like Krider’s enticing, blank-faced models, these Columbus motel rooms seem trapped in amber and only lightly touched, if at all, by more recent conveniences and fashions.

“I’m drawing on my precognizant view of life — that kind of ’60s square life,” explains Krider, who declines to give his age. “In high school, I worked in a record store, and I was interested in the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. But we sold tons of this easy-listening stuff. It was crap, I thought. I’d hear it all day long. I’d be so bored, I’d be flipping through the album bins, looking at these easy-listening album covers that have the most fantastic photographs on them. Very sexy, very seductive imagery. Today I find all of that precognizant input much more interesting and worth exploring. So when I go to a motel, I have in my mind a place where you could have a sexual encounter that’s neither pornographic nor that Sports Illustrated swimsuit mentality that we have today.”

Though Krider finds most of his motel room settings in Columbus, where the near-retro interior comes complete with the low daily rate, he does occasionally have to create or tweak the atmosphere to get the look he requires. If there’s a model in another city he wants, or if he’s doing commissioned work in Los Angeles, he travels knowing that the ingredients for his particular aesthetic recipe will be readily available.

“One day in L.A., we scouted 30 motel locations, and they all sucked. So I picked one, and I went to the thrift stores and bought some cheap carpet and some bad furniture and built a set. I can put in the kind of color, ambiance and the right forms I need. On location, it’s hard to find motels that haven’t been redecorated in the ’80s when you end up with something like a Southwestern, mauve theme,” he says.

Krider says he’s not trying to re-create any particular period, but rather a timeless quality based on memories of his youth. Sometimes he’ll even throw in an anachronism like a CD walkman to disrupt the idea that he’s manufacturing a sort of diorama of Kennedy-era leisure culture. His models often mirror this odd mixture of decades, sometimes wearing a girdle or see-through panties that Krider has salvaged from vintage clothes outlets, and matching them with their own shoes from the present and perhaps a recent bra from Victoria’s Secret.

The result is a time-warp that, in light of the ongoing interest in retro-lounge culture by young adults, creates certain visual conundrums. Take one photo of a woman’s legs and hips: She wears white undies, a black pump on one foot and the other bare save for beige nylons. Her velvet-gloved arm rests provocatively on her groin, and two cocktails sit on the floor before her. The image could double as cover art for novels by Raymond Chandler and Haruki Murakami.

Another of a woman standing next to a dated table lamp set on the floor, her hands tied by what looks like a black electrical cord might be a still from “Blue Velvet,” or an interpretation of some classic Irving Klaw bondage pic.

“Most of the things in my motels are really ’70s and early ’80s furniture and props,” Krider says. “But my whole sense of color really throws it back. People will always say it’s the 1950s. That’s maybe because it has what I call the warmth of the past. Also, my use of light and shadow is very film noir.”

Krider’s work contradicts the concept that everything interesting and original comes out of New York or L.A. Though Krider has 20 years of experience with fine art photography, much of it invested with the phycho-sexual tension of his “Motel Fetish” compositions, he is largely self-taught, having graduated from Ohio State with no specific major. He’s lived most of his life in Columbus, leaving only for a bit of hitchhiking after college.

And with the exception of some models like the inimitable Dita von Tease, who lives elsewhere and has her own following, most of Krider’s ladies are homegrown nonprofessionals with far from perfect bodies (as judged by Hollywood standards). These women, attractive yet somewhat ordinary, lend Krider’s compositions authenticity, and help sustain that suspension of disbelief provoked by the narrative aspect of the photos.

“I became an artist because I was interested in art as a vehicle through time and space,” he says. “Everyone’s actions should take them to a state of higher consciousness. The motel work for me is a kind of tantric yoga exercise. I’m taking these low sexual energies, and slowly, methodically moving them up to a higher plane. Basically, I’m building a still life, and the model is one part of that. Eventually she gets to her lowest emotional level, her true self. They just sink into this nothingness they’re in.”

What becomes frozen in time is “that moment when you have the anticipation you’re going to have this sexual fling,” says Krider. There’s also the potential for violence, perhaps even what the Germans call lustmord, or lust murder. And if Krider occasionally shows us what might be the pause after the storm, it might also be the stillness following homicide, with the killer outside the frame.

Krider is paused before a storm of sorts, having recently signed an agreement with Taschen for a motel fetish book due in October of this year. Though he dreams of having a film based on his art and directed by, of course, David Lynch, Krider probably won’t leave Columbus anytime soon. He seems a very precise individual, one who wants to be in total control of his environment and destiny. Columbus is the perfect setting for that.

“I’m living this strange motel-gothic existence,” he says. “You couldn’t do this thing in L.A. without getting into the industry and being part of the business. Here, it’s a completely fabricated kind of existence, because life here is that uninteresting. So you’ve got to go down deep inside to make a more rich environment.”

In one particularly sinister, oft-used head shot, a defiant Brady looks like he could give suspected terrorist mastermind Mohammad Atta lessons in ghoulishness. On February 29, 2000, the Sun took up the whole front page with this picture and the bold legend “Brady: Let Me Leave This Cesspit in a Coffin.” The story told of the murderer’s campaign to starve himself at Ashworth Mental Hospital, near Liverpool, where he’s a permanent resident. So far British justice has been unwilling to intervene, and his keepers have been force-feeding him.

The most chilling photo is from 1987. In it an older Brady, in sunglasses and surrounded by policemen, returns to the Saddleworth Moor, near Manchester, to help find the grave of his very first victim, the lovely, 16-year-old Pauline Reade, whom Brady had consigned to the earth some 20 years before. When they uncovered the corpse, it was apparent that her throat had been cut and that she had been sexually assaulted. To this day, the body of one other victim, 12-year-old Keith Bennett, has never been located on the moors where Brady says he buried him.

Given the recurring simulacra of horror, it’s understandable that all hell broke loose in Albion once American publisher Adam Parfrey of Feral House revealed that he would be releasing a manuscript the child killer had produced under the tutelage of acclaimed crime and occult writer Colin Wilson. Titled “The Gates of Janus: Serial Killing and Its Analysis,” the book is a mixture of sociology, psychology and philosophy wherein Brady theorizes that serial murderers rise above the “bovine conformism” of the human herd. He then goes on to dissect the work of his peers: Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy and Peter Sutcliffe (aka the “Yorkshire Ripper”), among others.

Here in the States, where few but the most ardent crime buffs know about the homicides Brady and his paramour Myra Hindley perpetrated in the early ’60s, the book has been selling online since September. The book’s journey to the shores of Brady’s homeland has been far more tortuous. Ashworth Mental Hospital initially objected on the grounds that their privacy rules had been violated, but they eventually relented. Relatives of the victims called the book obscene on principle, and pundits raised Cain because Parfrey paid a $5000 advance.

“Ian Brady doesn’t see a cent,” asserted the L.A.-based Parfrey when asked about the deal. “The proceeds go to Benedict Birnberg, Brady’s solicitor, who has reconfirmed to me that the money goes to Ian’s 90-year-old mother. [Brady] has no way to spend the money; no commissary accounts, nothing. After all, he is trying to kill himself.”

A British court cleared the way for the book to be released in Britain, where it became available in stores on Dec. 4, but that only provided more fodder for Fleet Street’s insatiable minions. British journalists leap at any opportunity to write more about their caged pet demon, now 64 and decrepit. In the ’60s, when both Brady and accomplice Hindley escaped the hangman’s noose by a few months because of the abolition of the death penalty in Britain, reporters clamored for blood. More recently, when Brady’s appeal for the right to stop eating failed, one cheeky tabloid started a “Post a Pie to Brady” effort to “keep the evil bastard alive.” Even the far more sophisticated Guardian ran a commentary by columnist Hugo Young on March 2, 2000, in which the author demanded that both Brady and Hindley rot in their cells.

“The Moors Murderers have no parallel in the culture, no equal in the almanac of foul, remembered crimes,” wrote Young. “A vast publication industry has been built on their continued existence unhanged, after butchery which 10 years earlier would have sent them to the gallows.”

This national obsession strikes me as a sort of fetish, like the mania for Nazism that an endless march of films, books and documentaries will never slake. But why Brady and not some other notorious psychopath? Certainly there have been more successful killers in Britain and in the States, murderers far more monstrous in their modus operandi. For example, Charles Manson, though iconic, doesn’t get nearly the amount of spilled ink in America that Brady gets in England.

Part of this intense hatred has to do with the nature of the crime itself and the climate in which it took place. The early ’60s was a more innocent time, in some ways, or at least better about keeping its hypocrisies hidden. Both Brady and Hindley were young and good looking, and on the surface they seemed like any other working-class couple of the era. With Brady, then 27, dressed in collar and jacket, and Hindley, then 23, in her bleached-blond bouffant and go-go attire, the two of them together could have been up to nothing more fiendish than a hot time at the local disco.

They met while working for a small chemical corporation near Manchester. Brady was a stock clerk with a criminal past, having done some time for petty thievery. He planned to execute future criminal enterprises, and maintained connections to Britain’s underworld. More significantly, Brady was an intellectual with unusual predilections. Hitler, Dostoevski and De Sade were a few of his favorite authors; “Crime and Punishment” and “The Possessed” were his favorite books. Already he had declared himself an enemy of society, and he was but one step away from the Dostoevskian hypothesis that if God is dead, all things are permitted.

Myra Hindley, however, was nothing close to an intellectual. By all accounts, she was a completely average young Catholic girl with an affection for animals and children, perhaps a bit more naive and easily led than most. Not long after she went to work at the same firm as Brady, she fell in love with him. He spurned her for some time before coming around, but once he did, Hindley became slavishly devoted. Brady introduced her to S/M and amateur pornography, and filled her credulous noggin with his peculiar blend of moral relativism and the Marquis de Sade. She became his willing apprentice, his faithful servant. When his talk of criminal enterprises turned to talk of murder for pleasure, she procured his young victims for him, offering them rides or otherwise luring them in for the kill.

Together Brady and Hindley used the young boys and girls they abducted for sexual gratification, on occasion forcing them to pose for pornographic shots before raping and killing them. They buried the bodies on the moors, and sometimes even enjoyed picnics and tea parties on the graves. The snapshots they took of themselves in these gay vignettes later led investigators to the graves of 10-year-old Leslie Ann Downey and 12-year-old John Kilbride.

What gave the pair away was their attempt to recruit Hindley’s brother-in-law David Smith. Smith walked in on Brady as he was finishing off 17-year-old Edward Evans with an ax in the council house Brady and Hindley shared with her grandmother. But instead of joining their homicidal cabal, Smith went to the cops, and that was the end of the duo’s bloodstained adventures. On May 6, 1966, they both received life in prison for their crimes.

For many years, Hindley insisted that Brady alone killed their victims and that she was an unwilling accomplice. She later changed her tune and expressed sorrow for her deeds, all in the hopes of winning parole. But whenever the parole idea has been floated in the press, it’s immediately been shot down. Brady for his part has demonstrated very little remorse and a longing to die unless his situation in the mental hospital improves. At one time hospital administrators allowed him access to a word processor and let him transcribe books into Braille for the blind, but no longer.

In his introduction to the book, Colin Wilson quotes from one of Brady’s letter to him, part of an ongoing, 10-year correspondence between the two:

My life is over, so I can afford honesty of expression those with a future cannot. If I had my time over again, I’d get a government job and live off the state … a pillar of society. As it is, I’m eager to die. I chose the wrong path and am finished.

Brady comes off as far more bellicose in “The Gates of Janus.” Janus is the two-faced Roman god of doorways and beginnings, the entity from which January derives its name. The choice of this title implies several layers of meaning: Brady looking backward at his own actions; Brady as a duplicitous man with two sides to his personality; and so on. Janus’ temple in the Roman Forum was a double-gated structure with high symbolic value to the Roman state. When the gates of Janus were closed, the Roman Empire was at peace. When they were open, it indicated that Rome was at war. In Brady’s book, at least, those metaphorical gates are open, and it is with civilization that he does battle. Hence Brady’s quote from Shakespeare’s “King Richard III” at the beginning of the first chapter: “Let us to it pell-mell; if not to Heaven, then hand in hand to Hell.”

Like a modern-day incarnation of Milton’s Satan, Brady delivers a discourse that is twisted, self-serving and strangely persuasive. Quoting liberally from the likes of Dylan Thomas, Byron, Nietzsche, Sun Tzu and Buddha, Brady mocks what he regards as the rank mendacity of the status quo. Society’s laws and morality derive from the ruling classes and their need to maintain their collective position at the pinnacle of the food chain, according to Brady. In his eyes, these assorted generals, politicians, lawyers and so on are just as rapacious and cruel as any serial killer. He asks:

How many centuries would you suppose it would take for freelance “criminals” and “madmen” to equal the numerical carnage the “law-abiding” and “sane” can achieve in such a comparatively short span of time? One should cultivate discrimination in accepting or respecting one’s moral “superiors.” So often they certainly are not.

Brady may be technically correct here, but with a few more Osama bin Ladens in the world, freelance psychopaths might one day even the score. This skewering of modern mores takes up the first half of the book, with the second half given over to a far more intriguing section wherein Brady examines the crimes of his fellow serial killers. Like a literary critic analyzing his favorite novels, Brady takes on the mantle of a murderous eminence grise — a professorial Hannibal Lecter holding forth on the practitioners of his métier.

Speaking of Richard Ramirez, known as the “Night Stalker,” Brady in fact compares serial killers to writers, as they both pursue “the quest for immortality” with serial killers using “a knife rather than a pen, skin rather than paper.” He further states that “anything less a medium than human material” is no substitute for the “actual experience of writing on living and breathing pages.” Considering Ramirez’s delight in raping and humiliating his victims before consigning them to oblivion, this commentary is especially chilling.

Brady is quite clear that he regards a certain class of serial killers to be superior beings, gods by their own choice. For him, John Wayne Gacy was “the perfect psychopath.” And Ted Bundy takes on the mantle of some bloody demiurge:

Life was too short to be restricted and deformed by the selfish designs of the already privileged. [Bundy] would thoroughly enjoy giving them a lesson in idiosyncratic “justice,” and lead them on a dance worthy of Zarathustra, “lover of leaps and tangents,” monster of divine laughter! A Dionysiac demon was rising from the abyss of his subconscious, eager to take flight, sink talons and teeth into living flesh, savor the blood, rip out the soul.

Brady wanted his book to be published under the pseudonym “Francois Villon,” the renowned 15th century criminal/poet of France, but his publisher persuaded him to use his own name. Brady barely touches on his own crimes, and Feral House’s Parfrey says Brady’s solicitor has an autobiography under lock and key. One wonders if Brady is toying with us from his living grave at Ashworth, trying to whet the public’s appetite for his life story, to be published on his death.

Certainly, Brady commands an audience. Something about the mournful poetry of the moors and the folie à deux between Brady and Hindley has snared the imaginations of many in Britain and out. Manchester-bred rock star Morrissey wrote a controversial Smiths song, “Suffer the Little Children,” wherein Brady’s victims call out from the grave, “Oh, find me … find me, nothing more/We are on a sullen misty moor.”

American novelist Peter Sotos makes incessant references to the case in his work, and on the cover of his book “Tick,” there’s a picture of Pat Hodges, a little girl Brady and Hindley enlisted to read newspaper accounts of the children they had “disappeared” into a tape recorder. Painter Marcus Harvey incurred the wrath of visitors to the much-maligned 1997 “Sensation” show in London with a portrait of Hindley that viewers pelted with eggs.

Brady’s writings, as macabre and vengeful as they are, cannot be easily dismissed, even for those who find them repulsive and repugnant. They offer a unique moral lesson, a glimpse into the abyss of a damned soul as well as an illustration of the reductio ad absurdum of the moral relativism Brady espouses. In the end, that moral relativism is the slipperiest of ethical slopes, leading those who embrace it without hesitation to the sort of self-made hell in which Brady evidently now dwells.