In the vast machinery of early Hollywood, where fame was fleeting and anonymity was the rule rather than the exception, Louis “Dad” Troester occupied a quiet but beloved corner of the film colony. Born August 7, 1856, in Bohemia, Troester came to motion pictures late in life, carrying with him the physical poetry of age—long white hair, a flowing beard, and the gentle authority of a man who looked as though he had lived many winters. It was an appearance that endeared him to audiences and children alike, and one that would ultimately define both his livelihood and his fate.
By Allan R. Ellenberger
The above image is a screen grab taken from The Pilgrim. No other likenesses exist.
Troester worked as a film extra during the silent era, appearing in numerous uncredited roles that required presence rather than prominence. Among them was a small but notable appearance as a church member in Charlie Chaplin’s The Pilgrim in 1923. He also found work in regional theater, where he was remembered as dependable, kind, and well-liked by fellow performers. Yet it was off the soundstage that Troester became most recognizable. For years, he portrayed Santa Claus in Los Angeles department stores, bringing joy to thousands of children who knew him simply as “Santa” or, more affectionately, “Dad.”
Hollywood is not, however, so kind to aging visages when they have outlived their narrow usefulness. Troester's was too unusual to be anything but Santa Claus and typecasting always kept him from the variety of work he needed to fill his schedule when the industry changed, and opportunities became few and far between. He faded away quietly, into penury. In his last years, he lived alone in a room at 1403 North Ivar Avenue (since demolished), just a few blocks away from the studios he had once served, but no longer.
On January 29, 1935, Louis “Dad” Troester died there of heart trouble at the age of seventy-eight. He had no close relatives in Los Angeles, no savings, and no arrangements for burial. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have been consigned to a county pauper’s grave—another anonymous casualty of Hollywood’s relentless forward motion.
But this time, Hollywood paused.
When news of Troester’s death reached the acting community, Frederic Hueston—himself an extra player and old trouper—stepped forward. Hueston claimed Troester’s body from the morgue, determined that the man known to generations of children as Santa Claus would not be buried without dignity. He offered a portion of his own plot at Hollywood Cemetery and began organizing a funeral with the help of undertaker LeRoy Bagley, who agreed to provide the casket and chapel at minimal cost.
Money was still needed for flowers and expenses, so Hueston did what extras had always done—he passed the hat. Contributions poured in from actors, troupers, and studio workers, most of them modest sums of fifty cents or a dollar, given not for publicity but out of affection. As one newspaper noted, the gifts came “mostly among the army of extra men and women” who had known Troester and remembered his kindness.
The service was held at 2: 30 p.m. in the LeRoy Bagley Chapel on Hollywood Boulevard. There were no blood relatives, but the room was jammed with men and women who had worked beside him. The Screen Actors Guild sent a representative to deliver the funeral address. There was music as well. There were tears. Extras, trouper and character actors in attendance to pay their respects to a fellow traveler.
Yet another kindness. The wife of a leading screen player, privately offered to buy a metal marker for Troester’s grave and to pay for any additional costs. She asked to remain anonymous. After cremation, Troester’s ashes were placed in a stone urn, and interred on Hueston’s lot, beside Hueston’s six-year-old daughter Roberta, who had died in 1920. The combination had a kind of symbolic sweetness.
The bronze plaque on the lot, situated in the Garden of Memory (Sect. 6, Lot 507, Grave 1), says it like it is: “‘Santa Claus’ Louis ‘Dad’ Troester, 1856 (Ashes) 1935.” No studio credit. No awards. Just a name by which he was known.
In life, Louis Troester brought comfort, familiarity, and quiet joy. In death, Hollywood—often accused of forgetting its own—remembered him. Not with grand speeches or marble monuments, but with spare change, shared effort, and the insistence that even the humblest figure deserved dignity. In that brief moment, the town revealed a gentler side, honoring a man who never became a star but was, in his own way, unforgettable.
We invite readers to share their thoughts, memories, and reflections on Louis “Dad” Troester and Hollywood’s often-forgotten working actors in the comments below.
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