Cut. Print. That's A Wrap Everybody!

Some people shine, actually radiate light. I’m not kidding. Yesterday late morning, I arrived at a rather trendy café restaurant in Los Feliz. Los Feliz is a fascinating neighbourhood, it’s where Walt Disney made his first sketches of Mickey, it’s where some of the early film studios were located and it is where some of the older film folks reside today. I didn’t get to see Frank Lloyd Wright’s house, another example of Art Deco splendour… next time? Anyway, I found a table in a shady spot in the café’s courtyard and, as I waited, I people-watched. A younger, trendier crowd, somewhere a recognisably English accent tempered by Americanisms, no doubt someone who has been here a while. I watched as cars arrived to drop off new customers, and ‘wait-people’ (!) darted here and there with plates of choice. E strolled in, clocked me instantly, smiled and waved. Bam! Shiny. A lovelier, more beautiful, graceful and gracious woman you couldn’t imagine. Sadly, she was pushed for time, very apologetic, full of questions, interesting and interested (the ultimate qualities, if you ask me). Quite political, very passionate about women’s history, African American history, the rights movement through the decades, and how intellectualism and art correlate. I explained that the context of what I am writing sets the scene by exploring the push for women’s rights in the USA in the 20^th century, and how the film and TV industry either reflected or ignored it. She smiled her dazzling smile and cursed the fact that she had so little time. She talked about how the show that brought her to the public’s attention across the world had created an impact, an effect, which was, in her view, a phenomenon. I mentioned that in his younger days, Rob had loved that show and although he’d been cool and supportive in all my attempts to ‘reach out’ (that, seriously, is what they say here!) to all sorts of actresses, he had gotten really excited when I mentioned her name to him. She thought this a hoot. She had to go. She took the printed book proposal I had ready and we agreed to find time to Skype in the coming months. When meeting all these women, I have to find a place to put my ‘star-struckness’, as I know these women’s work. With E, I had to work just that little bit harder to maintain composure!

 

Sublime. Ridiculous. My last full day in Tinsel Town swung from one to the other in such an unexpected and extraordinary way. After E, I had a brief wander and found a Ralphs (ah, will I miss Ralphs? No!) so bought my dinner and returned to base, enjoying my last views of the Hollywood sign and the Griffith Park Observatory (next time?). An email arrived – could I see D earlier? Of course! Quick change of clothes – too hot, damp, rumpled shirt – and off I went to Sherman Oaks, stop-starting all the way along the crowded 101. Deposited at a house on a residential estate like any other, evidence of children here and there – bikes on their sides, basketball hoops and such – and marched up to the front door. More children’s paraphernalia visible through the window as I rang the bell. A dog started barking from within, voices calling, a skittering of paws. The door opens and there is D, smiling, ushering me in, shouting to someone (one of her kids) to get the dog, stop it getting in/out, leading me through the house as if she welcomes strangers all the time. Which, it turns out she does! A few weeks previously a German documentary film crew had descended to make a piece about a mega-star, an actor D knows well. I am introduced to one of her sons who, in his early teens, looks like he’d rather be somewhere else, am offered wine (oh please don’t say you don’t drink!) and we retire to a fantastically every day, perfectly normal back garden – ok, there was a pool, but that’s the norm here, small, leaves floating on the surface, the dog (Rottweiler, female, hysterical like only our two can be!) threatening to jump in at any moment! We sit at a shady garden table and D asks whether I mind if she smoke. Cue laughter. So, with wine and fags in hand, we get down to business, no nonsense, no need for preamble. Then her manager arrives (I have been dealing with him for a while), and the conversation continues. Great stuff! Wine flows, cigarettes are lit and extinguished and D takes my questions in all sorts of directions, her manager chipping in here and there. D had explained that she needed to go collect her younger son at a certain time, and that time eventually arrives. I get ready to leave but no! You’re not going are you? No stay, shall we order pizza or pasta? Does that place deliver wine? No way, your money is no good here, put it away!

 

I finally left at about 10.15pm, an elegant sufficiency of California white and pepperoni pizza consumed, marvelling that I had just spent the evening with this woman and her manager, this woman who I have watched in sitcoms and movies, this woman who is really just an ordinary (well nearly ordinary, let’s not forget who she is!), chaotic, slightly stressed single parent, juggling home, kids, ex-husbands and a six year study course. Did we drink too much? Of course! Did I have a good time? Well, what do you think?

 

And so my trip comes to an end. Am almost packed and all that’s left is for me to take A for brunch as a thank you for being such fun to spend time with and for being so generous, and then I shall bid farewell to the house of cats and head for the airport and the almost eleven hour flight home to Rob, them puppies and lovely Minch’.

 

Has it been a successful trip? Absolutely, in so many ways. Do I need more contributors? Undoubtedly. Will I come back to LaLaLand? Yes, do you know, I definitely will. Do I have a book to write? Yes, I think I do.

 

But that, my friends, will be a whole other story! 

 

A Beach Boy In The Parking Lot

If I wanted to live in LA, I think I’d like to live in Beverly Glen. Am sure there are lovelier places, you know, those mythical names likes Malibu or Laurel Canyon, but on my way to a meeting with an actress yesterday morning, the car ascended a long, snaking road, two lane traffic, the ground rising up on either side, houses of different styles and sizes left and right, a mix of sun and shade. Not really like our lovely Stroud valleys at all, yet somehow familiar. The road runs all the way up to Mulholland Drive, and the spectacular views across ‘the valley’ – Sherman Oaks, Panorama City and San Fernando. Wasn’t that long ago that coyotes and deer wandered people’s gardens, and raw, undeveloped spaces were easily accessible to walk (‘hike’, as they say in these ‘ere parts) or have picnics. Such a desirable area, that more houses have been built, and even a chi-chi little ‘mini-mall – the Beverly Glen Centre – but it still seems removed from the relentless sound and motion of the more dense areas of Beverly Hill and Los Angeles (separate cities, in fact). 

The car deposited me at the aforementioned mini-mall. You (well, okay, I) can always judge the clientele of such places by having a glance around the car park – come on, you know what I mean. Look at the cars parked in Cirencester Waitrose and then compare to cars parked at Tesco in Stroud! So this neatly laid out, tastefully designed little L-shaped collection of deli’s (there’s ALWAYS a deli, said A), boutique fashion shops and the obligatory Starbucks obviously serves a more ‘high-end’ customer, what with the gleaming Maseratis, Bentleys, Range Rovers, Jaguars and Mercedes lined up in the intense, noonday sun. As is my habit, I arrived early – I live in perpetual terror of arriving late and then not clocking my interview subject. How awkward would that be? Starbucks was the location of choice, so I waited in line and listened to the conversations going on around. Yup, ENTERTAINMENT! Seemed all these folks, in their ‘casual’ (read ‘expensive’) sweats and leggings and running shoes all work in Hollywood. I swear I recognised one guy from some TV show or another (actually irritated me, as I am pretty good at putting actor names to faces). Oh, and it’s true, the complicated ‘beverage’ orders that these folks were placing was pure theatre. It’s Starbucks, FFS, just order something from the boards above the baristas’ heads! So I took my (rather unimaginative, apparently) flat white outside and sat to watch people. A woman was talking to a man about her daughter who, it seemed, was being dragged to audition after audition – “you know, I have always thought that she is unique, special, talented, but then we show up to a casting and all the kids are the same!” No shit! The man nodded sagely and scribbled another note. 

I watched a sparkly Range Rover pull in and park. No idea why I thought I wouldn’t recognise S as, to me, she is at once familiar and very beautiful. Once again I am introducing myself to a woman I have watched on TV and, once again, I am confronted by a warm, friendly, ‘ordinary’ person, happy to meet me and keen to get down to business. We decided it was a little noisy, so wandered along to a few benches arranged around the tiniest children’s playground you have ever seem (no kids, she said, they’re all at school!), sat down and, recorder app’ set, spent the next 90 minutes discussing the subject at hand. Won’t drone on about the detail but, if it was up to me, I’d cast her in all sorts of things! I know she’s a good actor, and I rather concluded that she is a little hamstrung by her good looks, if that makes sense. Telling me she is very happy to look at follow up questions, as they arise, we said our farewells and off she went. You see, as well as the opportunity to meet and spend time with A, THAT is the reason I am here. She has generously provided a host of useful insight and information.

Now I could, of course, have taken advantage of being over in that part of town to whizz back down the Glen and do some exploring but, to be honest, the sun is oppressive and I needed to go to Ralphs and sort out dinner (I have worked out that the guest fridge doesn’t actually freeze my salad veggies unless I leave them in there for 24 hours!). I went and got another flat white and sat in the shade, ordering my ride back to base and checking my emails (oh good, more meetings confirmed). A car, a huge, black Mercedes sports car, pulls into view and stops, right before me. I glance at the driver. Brian Wilson. BRIAN WILSON! THE BEACH BOYS!! A couple of hipsters walk past, one saying “Brian Wilson! That’s made my f***ing day.” Well, gast my flabber!

I think I mentioned that I had a wonderful telephone conversation with S’s manager last week. Pretty obvious that she had a thing or two to say about the ‘business’ and about women. Well, I emailed to ask if she might be willing to see me. Yes, she would. Address was provided, and later in the day I found myself dropped off before a stunning house tucked at the end of a curved, leafy lane just where the Hollywood Hills begin to rise up above Hollywood Blvd. I pressed the buzzer, and there she was, immaculate, cool in the 30 degree heat, a woman of indeterminate age, no nonsense and leading me into her home, where she has her office. Once again, a warm, friendly person, generous with her time – I have encouraged those with whom I am meeting or talking to contact my publisher in North Carolina to make sure I’m not a nut, which she did (apparently my publisher loves me, who knew?). We sat and talked, all recorded, which was more like 60 minutes of gossip. The thing I am enjoying is that I can really hold my own, when it comes to shows and films and names, past and present. She got that pretty quickly. It’s also made me realise that these women behind the women, these women who have worked the industry for decades, have a thing or two to say, so I intend to broaden my scope.

I fly home tomorrow. Today I meet with an actress who was part of a huge TV show from Rob’s youth, a show he loved and never missed. Very familiar to me, of course – she is the woman whose show I went to see the other Saturday. Then, early this evening I am to see another actress. Was originally scheduled to see her this afternoon but her manager emailed to change to later today, only am now to meet her at her home. I am both humbled and, frankly, astonished that she is affording me this invitation. Again, a hugely familiar face and someone I think has been terribly underused during her career, perhaps because she has been overshadowed by her hugely successful sibling. Subject to how much time she has to spare, en route back to base I shall drop by those lovely actor friends of friends, J&B, for drinks and, probably, a debrief. B is unfortunately (for me, not her!) working on a show, which means I shan’t get to see her (that’s SHOWBIZ!!), but it will be interesting to get more of J’s take on older actresses and attitudes in Hollywood. 

Also, frankly, he’s a hoot!

 

Moving Pictures

Yesterday I spent the morning and early afternoon writing a first draft of the introduction to my book idea. I think I have a structure, so the introduction is all about context, setting the scene. Moving pictures came into being in the late 1800s (hard to imagine), when a small group of men began experimenting with progressing stills photography towards capturing moving images. Clever men from France, Britain, Germany and the USA. Perhaps we all have a vague idea, a general sense of those early, jerking, flickering images, silent of course – a man boxing with a kangaroo, a woman twirling in a full skirt. These images are somehow familiar; I know I’ve seen them at some point. What I didn’t know was that it was a woman who saw the results of this extraordinary new technology and realised its potential for telling stories – script, characters, story- arc and so on. Alice Guy worked for Leon Gaumont in Paris, and it was she who made the first films (before that, moving image was perceived as being a means of capturing and presenting news stories and images of everyday life).

This got me thinking – what was the role and standing of women during this period, particularly in the USA? To introduce the views and experiences of older women working in the film and TV industry today, I need to explore the history of women’s ‘rights’ in America, and then examine how the burgeoning film (and later TV) industry as it parallels the drive towards equality. In many ways the progression mirrors that of Britain and Europe, but it’s a fascinating, hitherto (for me) unknown area of history. Key women, as individuals and groups, mobilised and campaigned throughout the 1800s and into the early 20^th century, focusing on suffrage of course, but also pushing for freedoms in education and birth control. Again, as in Europe, the First World War had a huge impact. For the most part, until 1916 and 1917, women did not work unless they were unmarried, and even then the choices were limited to teaching, nursing and providing governess care to children. The War brought a change with the federal government’s realisation that if the male workforce was required to enter the fray, women would need to take up the slack. The US armed forces allowed women to become reservists for the first time, with the rank of Yeoman. At my age, I can happily say that I was a fan of the original Star Trek series, but confess to always being puzzled by the rank of ‘yeoman’ (Yeoman Janice Rand, of the red mini-dress and extraordinary, braided blonde bee-hive ‘do’!). Well, now I know.

The push for women’s equality had a stark ‘stop-start’ trajectory through the first half of the 20^th century, the two World Wars bringing women into the workplace in every walk of life (I read that, in aeroplane manufacture, bosses reported that women’s ability to precision-weld and rivet far out-classed their male counterparts, but get this – it was concluded that this must be because of women’s skills in needlework!), but peace sent them back into the kitchen. The 1950s, particularly in the US, was, in some ways, an incredibly retrograde time for women – motherhood and apple pie! The push for equality gathered momentum in the 1960s and continued through the ensuing decades to today, setbacks aplenty, but also victories – progress.

So, how did the film and TV industry reflect this? Did it at all? Before the advent of the great Hollywood studio system in the early 1920s, the fledgling film industry was filled with women film-makers, many at the helm of their new, independent movie companies. Hard to imagine. Then, even though mega-star Mary Pickford set up United Artists with Charlie Chaplin, D.W. Griffiths and Douglas Fairbanks Snr, for the most part the male-dominated rise of the big-business studios effectively shut down the indie scene, and DIDN’T bring those pioneering women across. The aim, therefore, is to also investigate the role and standing of women in the entertainment industry, both before and behind the camera. Who were they? What were the films that featured women and, especially, what work was out there for a 50-plus year old actress during each decade?

Later in the afternoon, and into the evening, I had a lovely time catching up with my friend G and getting to meet her husband R and their bright-as-can-be eight year old daughter. There’s something about that age, when curiosity and confidence beats shyness – we had a fine old time talking about her enjoyment of ‘doing plays’ at her elementary school! Over wine and BBQ chicken, conversation rolled through the years since last G and I saw each other (2003!) – really makes you stop and think about everything that has happened. When last we met, we were both still living in London. Now, she is here in LA (Santa Monica, filled with straight, palm-fringed roads, lined with smart houses and low-rise apartment buildings – in terms of property prices and population, R likened it St John’s Wood in North London!) and I am in leafy Minch’. R also gave a fascinating insight into how it is to be a Brit’ working in the USA, the extremely complicated, and quite punitive work-visa set up (as the wife of someone who has a particular classification of work-visa here in the US, G is prohibited from undertaking any paid work anywhere in the world! Including Britain!!), the education and healthcare systems and so on. One again, time and distance count for little, and it was so good to spend time with them. In honour of our meeting, I even managed to find a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate to take with!

Have a meeting with another actress today – to me, S is instantly recognizable and, as with all these women, has a face that the camera connects with so easily. Also, her manager has been fantastic, very funny and insightful. Have asked whether she might be free to see me herself today!

Thoughts begin to turn homeward… only two more full days in Tinsel Town, both busy, and then it’s the long flight back to England and Rob. Someone commented that they weren’t sure whether I am will be coming home encouraged or discouraged. Will have a better idea on Wednesday morning, but right now, I think, encouraged by it all. A long way to go, but ground has been covered. Any fantasy I ever had of ever wanting to work in LA, in LaLaLand, in Tinsel Town has, however, been obliterated. No bad thing!

Marble and Copper and Bronze, Oh My!

For decades, downtown Los Angeles was a ‘no go’ area for many, especially for those who lived elsewhere in this sprawling city. Even now, there are still those who live in the west who wouldn’t dream of making the short journey, unless it was for an event at the Walt Disney Concert Hall, or Contemporary Art Museum or Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Notwithstanding Downtown’s very own Skid Row, the neighbourhood descended into disrepair, a centre for huge numbers of homeless people, people with drug and alcohol dependencies, squatters and such. After its golden heyday in the 1930s, large swathes of property were demolished to make way for high-rise institutions of commerce and finance, a place of work for people who drove in, ascended the glass and steel towers, went about their duties and then drove away again, their feet barely touching the streets all around.

 

In recent years, however, the area has begun to change, with trendy folks taking converted ‘loft’ apartments, artists and musicians establishing residence and scene, and ‘happening’ new cafes and restaurants aplenty. Amidst all this revival, the Los Angeles Conservancy has stepped up and in, dedicated to the preservation of the city’s architectural legacy, introducing locals and visitors alike to the delights of Art Deco and Beaux-Arts edifices dotted around the neighbourhood while also working to advocate and negotiate with property owners and developers to ensure that older buildings are not sacrificed to state-of-the-art construction. Interestingly, the nearby LA river, part of which is concretised, so often seen in films as diverse as Earthquake, Grease and (big favourite), Them!, has been given over to internationally renowned architect Frank Gehry for further regeneration.

 

Yesterday morning I took an LA Conservancy walking tour of some of Downtown’s Art Deco architecture – two and half hours of dodging in and out the shade, and in and out of stunning lobbies, decorated with intricately patterned marble, brass, copper, monel and, in the one case, lalique glass. The exteriors were equally jaw-dropping, the lines designed to draw the eye upwards, the fascinating use of dyes and pigments to create different colours of terra cotta, the abundance of hallmark ‘zig-zag’ and sunburst patterns, the fascinating way that architects of the time circumnavigated 1920s construction ordinances relating to maximum heights by adding follies, purely decorative, flying buttressed towers, to roofs, sometimes housing clocks or the huge lettering of whichever company had commissioned the building. As you can tell, I could go on and on, but one spot, the James Oviatt Building, it’s worth singling out. Its exterior is not as notable as its interiors, for this was THE men’s clothing emporium for Hollywood’s 1930s elite and boy could you see how and why. Gable, Tracy and Powell came here, passing the many glass display cases and entering the chic interior, all wood counters, neat rows of drawers and upper floor balcony. In its day there was even an outside area for a starry leading man to check how his potential new suit looked in the LA sunshine! If ever you visit LA, look up the Conservancy and take one of the tours - fantastic.

 

A fraught Uber-ride to West Hollywood brought me to the shop-and-cinema complex at 8000 W Sunset Blvd, to meet A and see the new film Stonewall, a depiction of the 1969 riots on New York’s Christopher Street, when the area’s gay community fought back against police bullying and corruption and the punitive legal constraints of the day. I had high hopes for the film, but it was a big let-down - too theatrical and stagey, too long, like musical theatre without the music and some horribly clunking dialogue. Better to see a 1995 film of the same name, lower budget, authentic locations, NO CGI (seriously!). A quick coffee and post-mortem with A (she agreed entirely), and then back to base and a rather excellent chat (recorded!) with a female friend of one of mein hosts, recorded because she had spent two decades working in TV and film production her in LA. Some fascinating insights and observations from a woman who graduated film school in LA in 1980, full of vocation and enthusiasm, and finally quit 20-plus years later having had enough of the grind, the farcical bastardisation of idea to development to script to pitch to rewrite and round and around. Best anecdote? Two writers and a production executive pitched a scrip proposal to a studio bigwig, based on an Oscar Wilde story. Studio bigwig loved it, really loved it, but needed to know whether this Wilde would be able to work on the script. I kid you not!

 

Right, the not-so-fat giraffe needs to shut the blinds and do his exercises before a bit more laundry and a lot more reading and writing. Seeing my friend G this afternoon for a walk on the (Santa Monica) beach before returning to their place for a BBQ. Don’t think I’ve seen G since 2003, so much catching up will be had by all!

 

 

"That's The Life Of a Rodeo Cowboy, Breaking Bronc's Or Gettin' Broke"

So many stark contrasts between Britain and the US, the list is endless. So many contrasts between contemporary politics, the law, medicine and healthcare, education, even language (words and expressions we take for granted require explanation here and vice versa (had to explain ‘blagging’ and ‘cupboard love’ the other day.). Other words and phrases make sense, but are unique to North America e.g. ‘half-bath’, which is basically a loo and a sink! It’s too easy to assume that because we essentially speak the same language, we are pretty much the same. Even if you ignore accents (of which there are so many, of course), there are rhythms and tones unique in everyday sentences.  

Then, of course, there is the history. The other day I was describing where I grew up and mentioned that the local church dated back to the early 600s. This to someone who lives in a US state, which up until 1848 was part of Mexico and, before that, the Spanish Empire! However, yesterday was, in part, spent reflecting on the slow, steady movement of settlers westwards, pushing the ‘frontier’ as they went. We’ve all seen those romantic, clean and tidy films and TV shows, usually black and white, depicting a cosy, skewed view of the wagon trains, the horses and riders, the cowboys and bonneted women. Yesterday, I kept coming back to the two same themes, one being hardship. Across the North American continent came those at the vanguard, followed by legions of settlers, sheer effort and tenacity, unimaginable conditions, and that neither begins to scratch the surface, nor touches on the impact of indigenous populations. The other theme? Horses.

Again a contrast. The relationship between human and horse in Britain has, of course, been there forever. From the times when the horse was a hard-working partner for people who travelled, worked the land, worked the towns and cities, our relationship with the horse has been ever-present. Where I live is ‘horse country’, riders an ever present feature of the roads and lanes and common land – among the cattle grazing on the common, a small, merry band of horses (plus that lovely donkey) amble around, always together in some shady spot, or nibbling the grass by the roadside. Livery is an industry, stables aplenty offering lessons and lodgings for ponies and sleek thoroughbreds alike. Difficult to separate from ‘class’ or social status, I suppose. Then there’s the vast community of equestrian sports, whether it be racing, eventing or that particularly status-soaked sport, polo. Again and again, it comes back to the relationship between horse and rider. As my friend said yesterday, in the end, everything is dressage, that subtle, delicate process of using small physical actions to communicate with the steed. Then there’s the addition of vehicle – carriages, carts, drays and so on. When I think of carriage-racing (driving, to be accurate), I think of Prince Philip, but I also know it’s a tough, break-neck activity, whether harnessed to one, two or four racing animals. Which brings me to the contrast - yesterday, by way of the screen, I was introduced to the sport of chuck-wagon racing, and the communities that are devoted to this spectacular, terrifying, fiercely competitive occupation. It so clearly, so obviously has its roots in North America’s historic relationship with the horse, and where the stereotypical images of equestrian pastimes and communities in Britain include black riding hats, jodhpurs, waxed or tweed riding jackets and mirror-smooth, shining black leather boots (of course, also part of similar US equestrian communities), the exception, the knock-out punch of difference is, well, the cowboy. Jeans, cowboy hats, ‘plaid’ shirts, machismo… Yesterday I sat and watched how huge communities take up their different roles in purchasing thoroughbreds, nurturing and training them, building relationships with these fast, wilful animals. Three or four months each year, entire families go out on the road and the circuit, all hands ‘on deck’ to ensure that horse and rider is ready to roll into the ring and suddenly commence the complex, almost choreographed, team sport that is chuck-wagon racing. Comprising a light-weight ‘wagon’ hooked up to four horses, driver and two (used to be four) outriders, they must complete a figure of eight almost ‘in situ’ and then hurtle out around the track, outrider teams in hot pursuit. To win, the wagon driver must cross the line first with each outrider no more than 150 feet behind - more than that and the team incurs a penalty. The speed is breath-taking, the race full of risk, the skill, the horsemanship quite extraordinary. Each event comprises nine consecutive races and requires an army of helpers – the thoroughbreds are ‘sassy’, as one woman pointed out, and a rider must be at one with horse just to ride them a few feet. Generation upon generation carry on this tradition, this way of life. Toddlers are up in the saddle by rite of passage. Children aspire to joining the teams. Men and women work from early morning to late night. I knew nothing about this vocation before yesterday, but can say I was fascinated and quite moved by what I saw.

“Mammas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys” (PATSY AND ED BRUCE)

Ghosts – Human and Architectural

I have known my friend B for 32 years, and her husband M for 26 at least (yes M? Tampa??). In the intervening years, we have seen each other grow older and, hopefully, wiser. Despite time and distance, we have always been able to take up where we left off, for me a true and precious friendship that has endured years and different continents (am lucky to also count two other US friends, T&M, in exact same circumstances). Babies have materialised (stork?) and grown to sweet children and then beautiful, intelligent teenagers and, all the while, when we get together, the laughter has never stopped. Thus it was a bit of an honour to learn that oldest child suggested I meet him for lunch while I was in LA (he is a student here). Thus, in a rather garlic-y smelling Uber car, I journeyed over to downtown LA, which, from what I can make out, began as the heart of this incredibly sprawling city (or rather set of cities). Here is where some of the last vestiges of old LA can be found, the glorious early 20^th century US architecture, the fledgling ‘skyscrapers’ and gorgeous movie theatres of the 1920s. While LA’s City Hall and Public Library continue vital and busy, the sad remnants of what were edifices of the golden age of cinema litter either side of Broadway. The Roxie, the Cameo, the Arcade, ghosts of their former, sparkling selves, frozen between the glamorous, frenetic activity of the past and complete demolition.  

In some ways, downtown LA is like a strange, futuristic movie set, where well-heeled business folks jostle with legions of homeless people. It’s at once both alarming and bewildering. Maybe I’ve been out of the city for too long, but each new shabby, grubby, cart-dragging, slightly crazed soul I encountered made me feel useless. Paris is the only comparison I can think of. The reasons and circumstances that have led these separated human beings to their current lives are, am sure, many and varied and, of course, some are frightening in their mental ill-health, but it’s as if they have become invisible, so many ghosts shambling along, unseen by those who stroll or rush hither and yon, each with a story to tell, if only someone had the guts to stop and listen. Yes, I know, wistful and romantic nonsense, and I for one would certainly shy away from the very idea, but how can THIS many people disappear in plain sight? 

So, after lunch, I found myself strolling the streets with C, an intelligent young man some thirty years my junior, and it struck me that I stand halfway between him and my lovely newfound friend A, thirty years my senior. In the end, doesn’t it really all mean nothing? C cleverly steered us towards the Walt Disney Concert Hall, before we bade each other farewell until the next time I/Rob and I return, and I climbed the concrete slopes to what is a beautiful construction of Frank Gehry-designed, stainless steel curves and angles and ships’ bow-like trailing edges, offering fantastic viewing platforms overlooking LA City Hall. After a while I wandered back in the general direction I had come, and fell upon a beautiful set of steps overlooking the LA Public Library, more juxtaposition of old and new. Finally, an Uber car home, piloted by a lovely young woman who grew up in, and eventually shunned, South Central LA, and a quick detour to Ralphs (no Whitney, no discount!) before I returned to base. 

Tomorrow, A will collect me and we shall drive over to Griffith Park for a wander (we joked about hiring dogs for the day – if only!). Only a few days left of my LA odyssey, and most will be busy in one way or another – Saturday is mine for the taking, but Sunday, Monday and Tuesday offer a mix of catching up with an old friend, more meetings/interviews with actresses and another chance to meet new friends. Fingers crossed I will get to see A again on Wednesday morning before commencing the long journey home.  

“The untold want by life and land ne’er granted. Now, voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find”. Walt Whitman, it seems, knew a thing or two! 

Mr Cruise, Do You Need A Nap?

Almost threw caution (and a couple of hundred quid) to the wind yesterday when I went online to look at alternative AirBnB accommodations for the remainder of my trip, but then the idea of packing and sorting, booking an Uber with enough room to take my suitcase (huge, long story, don’t ask), transferring to new place, unpacking etc., left me feeling exhausted in this heat and all. Thus, have decided to smile politely and put up with my current base. Needless to say, if you don’t like having people in your home, DON’T SET UP TO DO AirBnB! Most peculiar, to say the least. Yes I could leave a scathing review, but these days, unless it’s for big hotels, I either leave a good review or no review – silence can speak volumes.

 

Perhaps no surprise to hear that the loveliest time here in LA is between 6.30am and 7.30am, as the sun lifts itself into the sky, and everything is covered with dew. The nights are warm and, even with the ceiling fan (I love ceiling fans!) spinning like helicopter blades, it can be oppressive. Then, just for a while, between 4.00am and 6.30am, the temperature drops and it becomes deliciously cool. During the day it’s not dropped below 28 degrees (85F) outside, and has been 30-plus most of the time. Provided I am suitably protected (short hair and fair skin means I can get sun-burnt scalp in seconds flat!), I can wander around outside all day in the heat, although am reliably informed that this is pleasantly cool for LA. You will probably be aware of the long drought that California is enduring. The day before I arrived, it rained for three or four hours. There were over 600 road traffic accidents as a result!

 

Spent yesterday morning sitting outside with my laptop and notebooks, frantically typing up assorted scribbled notes and scraps of information. Ideas are forming in my fevered brain, something about looking at each 20^th century decade of film and (then) television to examine the depiction of women and how it was influenced by changing social attitudes and values in the US. There really is a fascinating evolution, with an extraordinary back-wards step as the 1940s turned into the 1950s. Also, by looking at the films and TV shows of each decade, I can look at what roles were being played by women over 50, the fledgling idea being to weave interview subjects’ comments and observations into the narrative. My head buzzing, I then Ubered (how long before that becomes common parlance?) over to Ventura Blvd, the journey including a cross section with Hollywood Blvd, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre just over to my left, the pavements heaving with tourists. My rule of thumb is always to arrive early at whatever location I am meeting an interview subject, so to avoid running in and peering around. Sitting in The Marmalade Café (not nearly as nice as it sounded!), which was deserted, I had a moment to reflect on the woman I was meeting. British, but long time US resident, member of an acting dynasty, she has run the gamut from child, to ingénue, to leading lady, to supporting actress to character actress (her phrase). Yup, I was extremely nervous, but she greeted me warmly and we retired to a more private part of the restaurant (yes, it was deserted, but as I sat and waited, two guys came in and insisted on sitting at a table right next to me). Now my approach when meeting these women is to offer them the opportunity to size me up, interrogate me and then decide if I am legit’ and they are interested in contributing. This delightful woman was having none of it – “but you’re supposed to be interrogating me!” – so we launched straight into discussion, me scrambling to set my recorder going. She was great. Again, given her background and history, a charming, funny woman who has no affectations and was quite philosophical about her career. She only had an hour, which was challenging as the more we talked, the more questions I had, but as she departed, she encouraged me to follow up by email as and if I have more questions. Couldn’t ask for more!

 

I worked out that there was a multi-screen cinema up the road from the café, so I strolled up there, deciding to go see whatever was about to start. Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation! Bought a ticket and just time for a glass of wine before taking my seat (there were only four other people in the cinema!). Two hours of fantastic, action-packed, entertaining nonsense, although I do think Mr Cruise is starting to look a bit ‘tired’ and, given that Simon Pegg is seven years younger than me, frankly he looks seven years older - haggard and ill. All very silly but lots of fun. Tom Hollander (Rev) was a hoot as ‘the British Prime Minister’.

 

Am sure most of you know that, when using Uber, you can choose ‘car pool’ or solo passenger. Using car pool can cut costs but may lead to a longer journey, if the driver has someone else to pick up. Well, it’s about 30 minutes from where I was back to base, but we were soon off to collect someone else, which seemed to have us zooming towards Santa Monica, then in the direction of San Diego, hopping back and forth across the five motorway lanes. The other passenger cancelled in the end, so finally we headed off ‘home’.

 

Oh good grief, there’s no loo paper!