Game Is Afoot, page 29
A reconstruction of the Holmesian makeup kit(s) and how the great detective used his supplies is now possible. The material, its use(s), and its cost (prices as of 1898, Hageman) are listed.
Probable Contents of Holmes’ Kit
Makeup kit—Storage of materials—$2.50
Assorted grease paints—Basic coloration—$1.35 for nine colors
Blending powders to match grease paints—Setting grease paints and preventing sweat from “running” it—$3.15 for nine boxes
Mascaro (sic)—To color brows, cheeks, hair stuff—35¢
Camel’s hair brush—For applying mascaro—10¢
Eye liner (Blue, carmine)—Lining of eyes, also shadows, scars—60¢ for two sticks
Stomps (several)—Paper pencils for applying eye liner—10¢ each
Clown white—For highlighting shadows, lines—30¢
Cocoa butter or Cold cream—For coating pores prior to putting on makeup, and for removing makeup—30¢ a cake or 60¢ a can
Eyebrow pencils, black and brown—For subtle aging lines—50¢ for two
Hare’s foot—To apply rouge—30¢
Lip rouge—For healthy lip or cheek coloration—35¢ a tube
Powder puff (large)—For applying setting powder—30¢
Burnt cork—For unshaven look, dirty face (laborer)—30¢
Assortment of wigs, beards—Quick changes or heavily disguised roles—Range: wigs, $1.25 to $4.50; beards, $1.25 to $2.50
Crepe hair—Building beards, mustaches, whiskers, false eyebrows, etc.—40¢ a yard
Spirit gum—Adhesion of hair stuff to face—35¢ a bottle
Blue lining sticks (like Crayons d’ltalie?)—Especially recommended for tattoos, as in seafaring disguises—20¢ a stick
Other items were also necessary in each dressing room: towels, tissues or the equivalent, scissors for fashioning false beards, etc., and alcohol for removing spirit gum.
Holmes might also have had a substance for blacking out teeth, but whether it was Cobbler’s Wax or the more expensive Email Noir (a liquid) is anyone’s guess, since both were available.
A more important question is when nose putty first found its way into the Master’s makeup box. It was on the market in 1898, for Hageman sold sticks of it for 35¢, but there is no mention of it in the Samuel French pamphlet, so it evidently made a late debut in the world of drama.
Nose putty would have been indispensable to Holmes in fashioning false noses, cheeks, scars, changing the shape of his ears, and so on. Earlier, such effects were accomplished by the crude method of gumming down some linen or wool to the portion of the face involved, then painting and powdering the wool to match the skin tone. Such a method would have been of small use to Holmes, since it would hardly bear close inspection, and it is interesting to observe that we have record of only one impersonation that probably required nose putty: the venerable Italian priest in The Final Problem whose nose hung down near the chin. This adventure, of course, did not take (place until 1891, which may provide a clue to the introduction of nose putty on the commercial market.19
The rather peculiar materials utilized in. The Dying Detective are not commonplaces of the makeup box, and have been deliberately postponed for dater discussion.
It now remains to analyze the eighteen principal characterizations enumerated in Chapter Two, from the point of view of makeup technique … the first step being elimination of Mr. Harris, the accountant of The Stock-Broker’s Clerk, and the unnamed registration agent of The Crooked Man, neither of which required any special makeup or costuming. Also being eliminated: the phantom Sigerson, an apocryphal guise.
“Every actor,” says Hageman, “who has been in the theatrical profession gradually, and of his own accord, follows a certain routine and uses different expedients to reach a successful result (in building makeup) … the art of making-up is largely one of personal intuition and natural aptitude.” Certainly this must be true of Sherlock Holmes, whose makeup prowess was equal to any veteran character actor. (Of course, it must be remembered that acting technique accounted for much of the effectiveness of his disguises, but this also speaks well for the technical execution—for character actors know that a good makeup helps to put them “in character.”)
Because Holmes must be considered a master of makeup, and said masters are markedly individual in their methods, it is impossible to reconstruct a precise routining of the great detective’s dressing room procedures, but certain steps are so basic it is probable they were always followed:
1. Cleaning of the face, and donning of “work clothes.”
2. An initial coating of cold cream or cocoa butter, immediately removed.
3. If hair stuff was to be part of the makeup, it would be put on next. Strands of hair would be applied in whichever pattern the effect called for; once the spirit gum was dry, the hair would be trimmed with scissors.
4. Basic color would be applied to the face, and blended in, taking great care not to stain it on the beard line, or mustache (if any).
5. If the character was to be young, florid coloration might be added to the cheeks. If older, lines around the eyes and other wrinkle spots would be drawn. Possibly shadowing would be put in the cheek hollows.
6. Highlighting would then be put on, over the dark lines and hollows previously drawn. (The theory is that for every dark spot, where the light does not strike, there must be a prominence which does reflect the light. Thus shadow on the sides of the nose, and highlight—for example, white grease paint—on the bridge, would emphasize the beakiness of the feature. Reversal of the two substances would give a broader, flatter look.)
7. Powder would be brushed on and off to “set” the makeup.
8. Hands and other skin surfaces showing would be coated with the base color.
9. If a wig or bald pate were to be used, it would be added and adjusted, especially at the line of jointure.
10. Finally, the costume would be donned.
Even in these simple steps, the Master might have made some variations. Some character actors prefer building hair pieces after everything else is on, first wiping away the makeup from the needed skin surfaces so the spirit gum will “take”.
An important point to note in the consideration of Holmesian makeup is that Sherlock had the perfect face for character work. The author, as a former makeup teacher and crew manager, knows how frustrating it is to attempt to “age” a round, youthful face. Healthy apple cheeks resist shadow-and-light effects, especially at close quarters. But Sherlock Holmes’ craggy, angular features lend themselves marvelously to the powder-and-paintman’s craft. The hard lines of his jaw and nose are superb for both highlighting and toning down, and the almost emaciated cheeks pictured in some Canonical portraiture lend themselves to aging.
Many of the Holmesian performances, of course, required little in the way of complex preparation. The seaman (Sign of the Four) and Captain Basil—assuming he affected more than the non-disguise of “Black Peter”— probably needed nothing more elaborate than a coating of Hageman’s #7 grease paint (healthy sunburn) and a dusting of a matching powder.
Likewise, the drunken-looking groom (Scandal in Bohemia), the common loafer (Beryl Coronet), the French worker (Lady Frances Carfax), and the workman looking for a job (Mazarin Stone) must have all shared a family resemblance. Probably #7 coloring would also be used (with the possible exception of the out-of-work laborer; he is alternatively described as an “old sporting man” so #11 [ruddy, old] may have been used on him). A dirty, unshaven effect could be gained by a light rubbing of the beard with powdered blue, an older dry makeup material; by rubbing in a light quantity of cigarette ash into the beard (which substance Holmes would have in ample supply), or, if there were time, by simply letting the beard grow—the superior method, of course.
In addition, the groom got side-whiskers pasted on and probably carmine on the ball of the nose, for an inebriated look (possibly also on the cheek hollows to add to the flushed appearance).
The plumber, Escott, in Charles Augustus Milverton, might seem to be a similar case to the above quartet of roles, but it is not. The former impersonations were for short periods of time and were meant to be seen at some distance. Not so with Escott: here Holmes had to play a part at close quarters, in proximity to a villain who would recognize him. It also meant getting on intimate terms with a young lady who would be expected to note any marked variation in facial configuration from day to day.
The author recently had occasion to interview Frank Nallan, the New York Police Department’s fabled “actor cop,” who played many roles in his career and was responsible for hundreds of arrests. Nallan made the same point: any role requiring repeat appearances before the same people must be effected without much, if any, makeup. A false mustache or beard would be distinctly inadvisable, due to the unlikelihood of making an exact match from one day to another … this in a day when these items can be executed with much greater sophistication than was possible in the time of C.A. Milverton.
Hence, the goatee beard described in the text is most suspect, and it is doubtful that Holmes could have grown one in time for the occasion. If he did indeed wear one, it could have only been with painstaking inspection each day to see that it was exactly the same, an almost impossible task for even the finest makeup expert.*
Holmes tacitly acknowledges this point in His Last Bow, in which he remarks that he will be glad to get rid of his Uncle Sam-like goatee after suffering with it for two years. In this “epilogue” of the Master, it is evident that Holmes did not dare use a lick of makeup. Everything had to be genuine, including the beardlet. (Although Steele must have been unsure, since his September 22,1917, cover of Collier’s shows Holmes with hand covering the telltale hairpiece.)
The actual appearance of Escott must remain an unsolved mystery, although the Irregular seems to have four choices: (a) accept the Canon, without question; (b) attribute the error to either Watson or, less likely, Conan Doyle, as an attempt to make the piece even more colorful; (c) assume that Holmes wore some other disguise, or (d) believe that the Master was so spartan that he would leave the same goatee pasted on for days. † To proceed with our analysis, the amiable and simple-minded clergyman in Scandal in Bohemia presents few makeup demands: likely, a coating of #8 grease paint (sallow, young men) and matching powder is all the makeup needed. To this, the clerical dress and clear-glass spectacles are inferable. (The character had a certain peering look, so glasses seem called for, possibly on a string?) If Holmes were very concerned about Irene recognizing him, he might also have touched up his cheeks with some rosy coloring, but the anonymity inherent in any kind of uniform seems to render extra frills unnecessary.
*In 1968, if memory serves.—mk
†Unlikely—it would start to look matted.—MK
Some similarity of technique may have been utilized in the tall, thin old man(Twisted Up) and the strange old bookman (Empty House) Holmes played, because both had to pass more than casual inspection. Extremely careful work with eye shadow, lines about the eye corners and forehead, graying of the hair is imaginable. Much of both performances, of course, depends on acting ability—as is evidenced by Holmes’ lightning-quick change to recognizability in the latter tale—but the makeup had to be carefully executed, nonetheless. In the case of the old man in the opium den, at least, Sherlock had the benefit of dim, flickering lights which would seem to shift about the contours of his face and take advantage of the hollows and prominences, first lighting one area, then outlining another, so that the overall effect (and obfuscation) of the makeup was considerably heightened by the atmospherics.
In the first story of the “Return” series, though, Sherlock had to go abroad in daylight with his makeup, so that the blending of shadows and highlight had to be artistically perfect… a key testimony to Holmes’ surpassing skill. Here, too, he is reported to use hair stuff—white sidewhiskers— over a protracted period of time. But in this case, it is less likely that he would be observed at close quarters day after day by any single personage. Yet, considering Holmes’ healthy respect for Moriarty’s successors, it is probable he showed enough foresight to grow sidewhiskers during his hiatus, after which it would be no great matter to whiten them.
More latitude could be exercised in building sidewhiskers in Sign of the Four, when he is only out for a few hours in the guise of an aged seaman. Here, he must have stripped off the coloration he put on earlier in the day and—considering the decrepitude of his characterization—repainted himself with #10 (sallow, old). The addition of some touches of color on his cheeks and the whiskers practically completes the disguise, although he surely must have grayed his hair as well, and his eyebrows. The text specifies that he affects bushy white brows, but it is not likely that Holmes gave himself false brows; his own were bushy enough (a detail noted in the first chapter of The Valley of Fear.) The genius of this characterization may be noted in the fact that he effectively imitated old age while only thirty-four!20
Probably Sherlock’s most audacious masquerade is as an old woman in Mazarin Stone. . . which indicates that in his later period (Baring-Gould dates this adventure in 1903) Holmes’ makeup kit may also have contained an assortment of exonia paste, a distaff substitute for grease paint, more delicately colored, that came in china jars, 75¢ each. The pigments were limited, and he must have chosen a mixture of pink and brunette, or possibly brunette and white, which he could have blended in his hand or in a saucer. Otherwise, a woman’s gray wig, perhaps spectacles, and dress would complete the disguise—drag being a kind of uniform for the male, with automatic “psychological masking potential”.
We have now reached the two makeups that the author regards as the pinnacle of Sherlock Holmes’ technical skill: the venerable Italian priest (Final Problem) and the simulation of a rare disease (The Dying Detective).
The former makeup only had to pass inspection briefly, but the eyes it had to deceive were the keenest in the world of crime. Thus every possible trick of Holmes’ must have been utilized: we have the psychological advantage of the clerical garb again; we have old age shadows and lines, since Watson makes special mention of wrinkles. The nose dangling to the lower lip speaks of the presence of nose putty, which probably had reached the market by ‘91. The protruding lower lip probably was acting rather than makeup (an effect that could be brought off for a short period). This lip detail and the hanging nose also seems to indicate some fullness, bulbosity or obesity to this character—in which case, the highlights would go on the cheeks and fleshy portions of the face to round them out. Indeed, Sherlock may have even built up his cheeks in layers of linen and nose putty to give real texture to his pudginess.
What if nose putty were not on the market by then? Hageman points out that a serviceable substitute could be found in diachylum or diachylon, a material well-known to magicians and also used by apothecaries in making plasters.
Would Holmes have thought of this expedient? Very probably he would, because a good character actor will doubtlessly experiment with materials beyond the usual substances found in a makeup box.
Which brings us to the greatest triumph of makeup application in the Canon, that of the disease in Dying Detective. Here, Sherlock simulates the symptoms of the fatal illness so well that Watson’s medical expertise is deceived and Culverton Smith (who has had firsthand knowledge of the progress of the malady) is totally taken in. And Holmes accomplishes it with the most unorthodox of makeup: vaseline, belladonna, and beeswax—rouge being the only conventional substance (doubtless for a flushed, feverish appearance, since it is applied to Holmes’ cheeks).
The economy of the Master’s methods is astonishing. The vaseline is an admirable choice for giving the forehead a glistening, sweat-soaked look, while nothing more loathsome can be imagined by the author than the beeswax crusts about Holmes’ lips to simulate the semi-mucous excrescences of a long convalescence. While Holmes does not mention it, it is at least possible that some highlighting was also added to the cheekbones and nasal bridge, inasmuch as Mrs. Hudson tells Watson she could see “his bones sticking out of his face.”
The most amazing touch is the belladonna drops Holmes puts in his eyes. Watson says, “His eyes had the brightness of fever”—and little wonder, since the effect of that drug in the eyes is to dilate the pupils!
Chapter Five
His Greatest Impersonation?
That wise old observation about Sherlock Holmes never being quite the same after falling into the Reichenbach cataract has only one thing wrong with it. Lest we forget, he was never in it in the first place.
That Sherlock Holmes himself returned to active practice a few years later has never been doubted by the author, despite ingenious attempts to prove the later Holmes is actually his brother Sherrinford20, his arch-enemy Moriarty21 22, or a figment of Watson’s imagination.23
But, though the author is willing enough to accept the reappearance of Holmes in The Adventure of the Empty House, he is far less able to credit the wild and wooly tale Holmes relates to Watson concerning that period which Edgar W. Smith so aptly named “the Great Hiatus.” Especially suspect is that part of the hiatus apparendy spent in Tibet, including the Sigerson masquerade.
It is the contention of the author that Holmes was actually involved in an entirely different impersonation at the time, one which must rank with his greatest performances.
The objections and fallacies connected with what Holmes tells Watson of his travels post-Reichenbach have been amply treated by several other authors. Especially see Chapter 48 of The Annotated Sherlock Holmes.
Suffice it to say that the author is most strongly persuaded against accepting the Tibetan tale because of (a) the considerations advanced by Edgar W. Smith to the effect that Englishmen would hardly have been welcome in Tibet, Persia and other trouble spots at the time Holmes purportedly visited them, and (b) the fact that when the Master was supposedly in Asia, a letter appeared in the Daily Gazette, obviously of Holmesian authorship. Its text, quoted in The Man With the Watches, was carried in a spring edition, 1892, of that London newspaper.24
