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!

 

 

Sir? Please Stop Reshelving The Books!

Question for the day: is it wise to leave food waste in your kitchen bin for days on end when the temperature in your house is reaching 35 degrees (that’s 95 in old money)? No, didn’t think so. I may have to run out and buy some of that stuff TV cops smear under their noses when attending post-mortems!

 

I fear I may have committed a faux pas during email comm’s with an actress over here. Without going into lengthy explanations, basically my book idea is about older actresses - what are the challenges and frustrations for an actress over 50 who is looking for work in film and television? How much pressure is there to appear as young as possible? What parts are out there, and are they well-written/any good? In the past 30 years, have things improved, stayed the same, or gotten worse? What is the industry’s attitude towards a working actress (i.e. not a ‘star’) once she has turned 50? So, I prepared a set of ‘prompter’ questions as a means of getting an interview subject thinking and a conversation started (it’s what I did for the Marathon book). While it’s essential for me to be at all times respectful and act with integrity, among the wide range of issues I want to explore is attitudes towards cosmetic surgery, whether that means nips and tucks, botox, fillers, eye lifts etc. Yes it’s a tricky subject, but there does seem to be a mix of those that will/did and those that won’t/haven’t. I have been emailing back and forth with a US TV actress for a quite a while, someone that, depending on your age, you might well recognise. It’s clear that she has undergone a number of procedures, and while I of course haven’t bludgeoned her with the question ‘why did you get all that work done?’ I have included the issue in my prompter questions (not specific to her, more general views). Can’t say for certain, but suspect this might be why her agent came back and told she had ‘passed’ on the idea. That said, others are willing to have a conversation – am thrilled to be meeting a rather (for me) iconic actress this afternoon – will be resisting the urge to actually bow and kiss her hand in deference – and have three more meetings set for the remainder of my trip, plus an on-going email conversation with the manager of another, plus a number of Skype sessions planned for October and November.

 

All this and yesterday I spent the afternoon at the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences Library, pouring over a range of extremely useful books. No time to read them in full, I jotted down titles and a few notes. I do enjoy dealing with people who work in specialist libraries. They are, so often, at once both extremely helpful and rather disdainful, as if you are going to run around and knock all the books off the shelves, or get pages grubby, or scribble in the margins. Meticulous security set up – ID required, which they took in return for a temporary membership card, pencils only, one pad in which to write, lap tops but no cases, etc. Something so deliciously peaceful and calm within its environs, oblivious to the hustle-bustle of outside, although a particularly officious young woman reprimanded me for ‘reshelving the books’. I pointed out that I was putting them back exactly where I had found them but NO! Apparently, if you touch a book, you then have to put it on a special desk, so they can monitor what is being looked at. Makes sense, although, as I haughtily, and with maximum posh English accent, said “well, I’ve looked at at least thirty books. Do you need all of them on your special desk?” She retreated. I was eventually driven out as it was so bloody cold! I may yet return and dig a little more, as I’d like to do some scene setting for the book i.e. provide historical context e.g. in terms of roles in film, in the 1940s there was a fashion for strong, professional female characters, but changing social values meant that into the 1950s, these were replaced by ‘dumb blondes’ and sweet, compliant types aspiring towards marriage and motherhood. Also, although I am not writing about ‘stars’ as such, there’s something interesting about the career trajectories of the likes of Bette Davies, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck or Katherine Hepburn as they got older.

 

Hmm… have just checked this place’s listing on AirBnB. No mention that a second room is also let (apparently this appears on a completely separate listing!). The three Slovenians have now departed, but who knows who I’ll be sharing a bathroom with next! Mind you, the Slovenians were charming, three twentysomethings touring the US and trying to fit in as much as possible. They even left me their email addresses and invited me to Slovenia!

 

Oops, have gotten behind on my fat giraffe exercises, so better crack on!

 

Down To Business

Almost half way through my trip. A trip of two halves, a bit like LA – oh, and did I say? It’s pronounced Los Angel-iss, not Los Angel-eez. A has been gently teasing me about this, and commented that all the BBC journalists constantly get it wrong! Anyway, two halves. Deprivation vs. opulence. Rich vs. poor. Purpose vs. meandering. Sunday was a very special day, all about new friendships, laughter, good food and wine, letting conversations just roll, leaping from one subject to the next and no particular order. I got the opportunity to ride around Beverly Hills, seeing such iconic names and places as Mulholland Drive, Bel-Air, Rodeo Drive, Pacific Palisades…  I got to sit at a street café and talk ‘industry’ with two actors, a married couple and long-standing friends of one of my oldest friends. To me, both familiar faces, at once down-to-earth, irreverent and very, very funny. I got to spend the day with someone I have been a fan of since 1979, and have made a lovely new friend.

 

It’s a curious thing to sit and natter with people you have watched in US movies or TV. I worried a little that I would be intimidated or star-struck but - and am sure there are many actors out there who are dreadful in person – these people are just that… people. Yesterday I met one of the women I have invited to contribute. Now this woman, C, has been working in film and TV since 1989 and I know her especially from ER – she did a whole season, and thus shared many scenes with George Clooney (!). We arranged to meet at a bar restaurant on Sunset Blvd (which, as I may have said, stretches for miles and miles), so I got there early and sat. Always a fear of not recognising someone, and goodness knows, she wouldn’t know me, but we needn’t have worried – the place was deserted! Now, I’ve told folks to come along with a companion, if that makes them feel comfortable (I mean, who the hell am I really? Could be a deranged fan!). C brought her mother! Drinks ordered, and we settled to talk about my project, me giving her a chance to interrogate me and ask as many questions as she wanted. Her view is that every opportunity presented needs to be grabbed. While still looking for acting work, she has diversified into blog-writing (food), fiction writing, producing and directing a short film, producing reality television, organising film festivals and photography. It all joins up, keeps her brain stimulated and also puts her ‘profile’ out there. My book proposal is simply another example. We laughed about the pitfalls and challenges of taking jobs, especially where nudity might be involved (no way, she said, my family will be watching – her mother laughed, apparently a wee bit more ambivalent about it), and the fact that one might be required to sign a contract for a multiple-episode job in a TV show, when only one episode script has been seen – what if they decide my character suddenly needs to have graphic sex scenes a few episodes in?? But she loves the work, the industry, and cannot imagine doing anything else. She is really up for further engagement, so I gave her the book proposal and my set of teaser questions, and we’ve agreed to Skype in the coming months so I can properly interview and record.

 

I mentioned before that I met with the brother of my good friend Bon’ when I arrived. He is an agent at WME, one of the leading talent representative companies. He gave me some advice on remodelling my ‘pitch’ emails to agents and managers so, after a wander down to Ralphs to buy stuff for dinner (Whitney gave me another discount! Gotta love that Whitney), I set to work following up some previous correspondences and also fired off some new enquiries - the challenge is to get past the agent or manager, or have them forward my enquiry to the woman with whom I wish to engage. Well, early in the evening yesterday, I pressed ‘send’ on a email, and within 20 minutes I got a reply from an actors’ manager saying ‘can we talk’, and giving her number. I called, and thus followed a fantastic 40 minute conversation, including her assistant on speaker phone. Once she was reassured I wasn’t a serial killer, she launched into a whole range of issues and observations about the business and how it treats older women. Interestingly, her take is at odds with others’ – she thinks the business is slowly embracing older women, albeit starting with those who are 40-plus. It was the Emmys on Sunday night, and while I didn’t watch, I did read all the coverage the next morning. We talked about the winners and losers, who drew attention on the red carpet and the fact that the focus was not on the twenty-somethings, and so on. We talked about the risks and benefits for a woman over 50 to open up and talk about her experiences for a book. I completely get all that, as something I am mindful of is avoiding the perception of ‘biting the hand that feeds’. Boy, I wished I had a recording device on my iPhone that can begin recording a phone conversation while its happening, but then again, that would get into permissions etc. Needless, a highly illuminative chat, she was impressed with my knowledge (decades of watching too much film and TV!) and we agreed that she would forward my proposal to her client (who had expressed interest and prompted the call). Up to her if she wants to pursue, I hope she does, but not for me to put pressure. Once again, there’s me, nothing to do with the industry, having grown up, fascinating and (without meaning to blow my own trumpet) highly informed conversations with US industry professionals. It’s both real and utterly dream-like!

 

Back to the mundane – laundry this morning. In hot weather I am happiest padding around in bare feet, but am growing tired of having to pick bits of dry cat food and/or cat litter off the soles of my feet (don’t ask). We all have standards in our homes, and goodness knows Rob and I are not the tidiest of folks, but am now resisting the urge to offer to vacuum and scrub the kitchen! After all, I am PAYING to stay here. On Sunday I unexpectedly found myself sharing a bathroom with three (admittedly lovely) Slovenians! Ah well. This afternoon I plan to head to The Margaret Herrick Library, part of the American Academy of Motion Pictures and Sciences (OSCARS!). Apparently a treasure trove of research materials.

 

I need more coffee…

Hooray for Hackney... er... Hollywood!

A glorious day of consolidation yesterday, working through my To Do list, reading and note-taking – a mix of my spectacularly blistered foot, plus, well, not being a tourist, gave me every reason to stay put and try and bring a few things together. So many little threads and snippets of information and ideas e.g. did you know that after Dorothy Arzner stopped directing in 1942, there wasn’t another woman taking on that role until Ida Lupino in 1949. Her last feature was in 1953, and although she carried on directing TV shows, we had to wait until 1971 when Elaine May directed A New Leaf. And don’t get me started on the eradication of women directors when the independent films companies were swallowed up by the fast-emerging studio system in 1924. My tiny little room is awash with notes and newspaper clippings.

On Friday, I spoke with the manager of a women I want to interview, and she alerted me to said actress’s one woman show at a theatre about 20 minutes drive from my base here in what I think is called either Mid-Wilshire or Dockweiler. I went online a purchased a ticket – well, what better way to begin a conversation with a familiar-faced actress than to talk about her recent live performance? So yesterday evening, I checked on the map to see if there were any restaurants in close proximity to the theatre, ordered an Uber, and sped off north east. As with London, around this area, it seems that you move from low-rent to well-heeled, just by turning a corner, and so a left turn onto Plymouth Blvd had me driving past very chi-chi houses, some with outrageous Tudor-like edifices or crenulated turrets! Then, a left turn, and we were passing through Koreatown, many of the billboards and signs in Korean. I was dropped at my final destination at around 6.15, plenty of time to find somewhere to eat. Car departed, and I looked around. Ah… while not exactly South Central, it did appear that I had been deposited somewhere that resembled the less salubrious parts of Tottenham or Hackney, and while there’s nothing wrong with that in itself, bear in mind that I am completely oblivious to the local geography, and anyway, it was pretty clear that I wasn’t going to be able to find somewhere to have a lovely salad and glass of sauvignon blanc! Way too early for the theatre to be open, so I put on my best ‘urban scowl’ (a wee bit rusty after nine years in lovely Minch’, I admit, but over 20 years of living in Poplar, Bethnal Green and Hackney never completely  leaves you!) and set off down the road. The constant between the opulence of Plymouth and the deprivation of this part of Beverly Blvd was extreme, with countless tents and makeshift shelters everywhere. An interesting 20 minutes was spent, me weighing up my in-built prejudices against the simple fact that I was a stranger in a strange land, until I returned to the theatre and checked the door. Open, to reveal one of those rough-and-ready theatre spaces that I love, reminding me of my brief time as an actor. The box office wasn’t open, the bar was, so a beaker of white was retrieved, and I sat and had a good ol’ look around.

Cats. CATS! Profound apologies to those who love their kitties, but I just don’t get it (although I do make exception for Maud, my cat from the late 80s/early 90s, but, well, she refused to accept that she was, in fact, a cat!). My base is cat-central, SO I was in my element when a rather beautiful little dog wandered over to me and demanded attention. This led to the theatre’s scenic and lighting designer to come over, and we started chatting. The woman behind the bar joined in, and were quickly discussing how theatre in LA basically serves to showcase, is devoured by Hollywood, which in turn offer nothing in reciprocation. Once again I was reminded how much I love the fringe theatre scene, the passion, dedication and determination. Finally, audience members began to arrive, so I picked up my ticket, and took my seat in the theatre space. Large, stage area, really not many seats, that intimate setting which brings audience and player into very close proximity. The play, Sister, is a one-women piece which brings together the different faces of a woman who is a struggling actor by day, and a prostitute by night, bringing in other characters, male and female. Fascinating style of writing, rhythmic and poetic, and the actress (who I am seeing a week on Tuesday) was, I confess, superb. A dancer as well as an actor, she was captivating, very physical and able to shift between characters seamlessly. It was gritty stuff, but as soon as she appeared on stage and delivered her opening lines, all eyes were fixed and what followed was a brutal and mesmerizing 85 minutes, during which the audience around me hardly budged. Reading that back, it sounds like a review, but, well, that’s what I thought. On reflection, it also ties right into what I am working on – female actors at the top of their game but, at 50-plus, become under-used, their talents wasted or overlooked. As A said in a radio interview from 1985, ‘At 50, I can be hired to look decorative, but not to kiss the leading man anymore’. I think the jet-lag is beginning to fade – slept ‘til 7.00am this morning!
 

 

 
   

Nobody Walks In LA...

Being here in Los Angeles, a city which I have never visited, reminds me so much of the times I spent in Sydney, Melbourne and Perth while researching the London Sydney Marathon book. I am so very aware that I am not here as a tourist, and although I will try to visit various landmark sites (Sunset Strip, Hollywood, Melrose Avenue, the Griffith Observatory, the Getty etc.), my mind is so full of scraps of information and ideas about this book, it’s hard to think about anything else. That said, yesterday I did decide to go and see the Petersen Automotive Museum (cars – right up my street). Throwing caution to the wind, rather than book an Uber cab, I worked out the route by foot, a 45 minute walk, so set off into the bright blue day and headed northwest, past neat and tidy stucco houses, enjoying the displays of deep pink, red and orange bourgainvillea, bird of paradise (a personal favourite) and every now and then walking through the heavy scent of mangos from windfall fruits. The walk took me past more car body repair shops, dodgy looking bars and fast food ‘joints’ than you can shake a stick at, before emerging onto Wilshire, opposite the LA Contemporary Art Museum. A brief walk west, and imagine my disappointment to discover that the Petersen is closed for renovations until December! Look it up online, it’s a real marmite design – I think it looks fantastic. So, what to do? To go to an art museum, I think you have to really want to, and I was in two minds, so instead I decided to just wander along Wilshire and, well, look. Cut a long story short, Wilshire is very dull, lined with pharmacies, banks, and assorted construction sites. One sad site was Johnie’s Coffee Shop, a wonderful example of late-1950s futuristic or ‘populuxe’ architecture that embraced motels, petrol stations and airport buildings, all boomerang roofs and bright colours. Johnie’s closed 15 years ago, and although it was made an historic landmark in 2013, it looked sad and derelict, a victim of progress I suppose.

 

At 52 years old, I like to think I have learnt a few lessons, so as I walked I made sure I was well-sun-screened, and I did remember to bring a hat, but… curiosity took me all the way to Santa Monica Blvd, where I stopped for coffee (Jim M, I almost gave my name as Wilberforce to the Starbucks’ barista!) and then retraced my route. The lesson of the day was when walking for over ten miles, always wear appropriate foot wear! Seriously, as I made the final approaches back to my base, I felt like an absolute wreck, with obvious blisters and neck and shoulders aching from carrying my natty blue canvas satchel. Strangely, I never once passed a grocery shop or newsagent. I suppose everyone gets their LA Times delivered, but really, this being the US, I at least expected one of those coin-operated newspaper stands.

 

Now, we all have our heroes, or favourites – sports people, singers and musicians, writers and actors. Over the years, some fade from our minds or get replaced by new ones, but for reasons I still can’t quite explain, I have remained an admirer of A since before I went to college. Never a ‘star’ but always a presence on US television in the 1960s and 1970s, she shared screen time with an extraordinary range of ‘names’, from Marlon Brando and Trevor Howard to Robin Williams and Jamie Lee Curtis. Well, incredibly graciously, last evening A drove from her home near the Beverly Hills all the way to where I’m staying, to pick me up so we could go to eat before watching the two Dorothy Arzner movies. Try to imagine not only actually having the opportunity to meet one of your personal heroes, but also in the setting of jumping into their car and zooming off across town, taking in The Avenue of The Stars! Confess I was actually a little tongue-tied (what, me?), but this lovely, funny woman was a delight to meet, and as we careened across Los Angeles and into Beverly Hills, A pointing out various examples of LA’s apparent appetite to tear down and rebuild (not to her liking), our conversation rolled across so many subjects, very much along the lines of ‘oh, and another thing…’ She brought assorted inrteresting press clippings and notes, plus copies of that day’s/week’s LA Times, New York Times and Hollywood Reporter for me, and as we parked in the underground car park of the Hammer Museum, we were giggling at her untidy parking – I told her that, where I live, we call that ‘Cotswold parking’! We sat and had dinner at the museum restaurant, discussion weaving here and there, and then took our seats for the films, laughing at what were the MOST uncomfortable cinema seats I have ever found. The films were great – Lucille Ball was extraordinarily good in Dance, Girl, Dance – and what particularly interested me was that, while both films (1940 and 1937 respectively) were typical of the period, there was something different about their construction. Couldn’t put my finger on it, by obviously they were both directed by Ms Arzner, the only woman to do this during the Hollywood studio system era. I mean, we all know the Joan Crawford stories, but in The Bride Wore Red, somehow Arzner got Crawford to offer something quite different, a revelation for me. Gone 11.00pm by the time the lights came up, but A insisted on running me back, and we parted with a plan for me to visit her home on Sunday, this time me insisting that I Uber, rather than allowing her to come and pick me up again.  

Extraordinary how these things have come about since my first tentative ideas back in January and February. Extraordinary to sit nattering with A over dinner. My current idea for writing, the reason why I am here, the fact that I am meeting a few other familiar-faced actresses in the coming weeks, has stemmed from corresponding with her these past months and her informal guidance and observations. She is quite sanguine about her life as an actress, and almost as much time has passed since she retired as she spent working. She’s tremendously supportive of what I am doing, and for that I am extremely grateful. 

So, Saturday stretches out before me, and I have a very long ‘to do’ list. Hopefully I shall also be catching up with my friend G, who I have known for almost 20 years since we met at a community theatre group in Hackney. Where the **** does the time go? This evening am off to a one-woman show by an actress I shall be meeting later during my trip – throughout the gestation and development of this whole idea, Rob has, of course, been hugely supportive and interested in each step, but when I told him that I will be meeting the aforementioned actress, he was ecstatic. As I said, we all have our personal heroes and favourites, and this woman was one of his!

 

 

"Capped Teeth and Caesar Salad, Good Old Beverly Hills..."

Uber. I’ve heard of it, of course, the taxi service that has cab companies around the world up in arms. Never used it though, as I suspect its coverage of lovely Minchinhampton is a wee bit minimal. More a city thing, I suppose, so on recommendation I downloaded the app, set up an account, and put in a request for a ride up to Wilshire Boulevard yesterday morning. Had only just pressed confirm when the GPS map indicated that the car and driver were outside! I clicked on car pool, so we sped off and collected another passenger, nattering about the tension between Uber and LA cab companies. I was duly dropped at my destination, and the whole thing cost me about £5! If it’s that easy, I may not rent a car at all, especially as the parking restrictions in these ‘ere parts are many and complicated – you can only park in the direction of travel, and on Wednesday and Thursday mornings, you can’t park at all on the warren on residential streets to allow for cleaning. Hmm, a note to our ‘good friends’ (!) on Minch’ Parish Council perhaps? Protect Our Space (from the accumulation of grot on the roads!!). 

So, the purpose of my excursion to Beverly Hills (seriously, BEVERLY HILLS) was to meet with my good friend Bonnie’s brother. Said brother (Rob) is a big-wig at the William Morris agency, one of the leading talent representatives in Hollywood. Yikes! How to dress for Hollywood? Sat in reception looking out at the view, and there was the Hollywood sign in the distance. You’ll be please to know that I resisted the urge to ‘ooo and ah’, and anyway, I was suffering from the effects of caffeine and jet lag. Seriously, I was convinced Bon’s brother might wonder if I was a nervous junkie, I was twitching so much. I was collected by Rob’s assistant, a rather perfect-looking young man with the whitest, neatest teeth I have ever seen, and swept into the hubbub of the WME offices. I spent the whole walk talking to his teeth! Now I haven’t seen Rob for 25 years, but you know that thing where time and distance means nothing? Lovely guy (well he is Bon’s brother!), and genuinely interested in what I am up to. Full of ideas and suggestions and happy to help me approach the various women with whom I want to talk, and how to write a 'pitch'!  

Feeling energised, I went for a wander, marvelling at the fabulously expensive ‘high-end’ cars clogging the side streets, and stopped for something to eat at a pavement café, where I sat beneath a tree and had to cover my lunch with a napkin as assorted leaves and seed pods were falling into my salad, all the while hoping it wasn’t like a sycamore or something equally toxic! 

The area where I am staying is a stark contrast to the glitz of that end of Wilshire, and as I walked down to a local supermarket, it sort of reminded of bits of Hackney, if Hackney was made up of small, 1920s single storey houses and lined with those ridiculously tall palms you see on film and TV. A wee bit rundown, but up-and-coming at the same time. A wander around Ralphs reminded me that it’s difficult to buy things in small sizes in US supermarkets – seriously, you’d need a very roomy hatchback to transport THAT size of milk carton home! Lovely check out woman Whitney gave me discounts on everything, even though I had no discount card, and I wandered back, exhausted and sweating under the blazing sun. 

But the best thing? After many months of a hugely enjoyable email conversation with A, the actress who rather got all this started, I spoke with her on the phone last evening. It was a lovely continuation of our electronic chatting, and we were instantly laughing about various things. For me an instantly recognisable voice, a mix of British and American - it’s astonishing and thrilling to think I have been a fan of hers since 1979 or 1980! This evening we will meet up for an early dinner and then go see a couple of old movies as part of a Dorothy Arzner retrospective (look her up!). A has even insisted she come and pick me up, which is very generous.

Plan to explore the local area a bit today, and see if I can find a park in which to run – the physio says I can do 20 minute runs, but no more. If nothing else, I shall return from Tinsel Town a slightly trimmer giraffe than I departed!

Jet-Laggery; Fag-Staggery

 

Flying long haul is the strangest thing. Asides from the basic fact that human beings are just not designed to sit for eleven hours, with the only the odd wander up and down an aisle to ensure a modicum of physical activity, time sort of both stretches and contracts, and although, after the first 90 minutes, I usually feel like chewing my own arm off from boredom, the flight from London to Los Angeles also seemed to pass in a trice. For those who recall my last blog/s, you may remember how I much I hated Boeing 777 aircraft, AND how much I hated Air New Zealand (fish stew as a dinner choice?!). Well, sadly, cost reduction meant that yesterday I once again found myself on an Air New Zealand 777. For anyone who hasn’t seen their latest safety video, look it up on You Tube. IMO, it really does make you want to punch the nearest flight attendant! The good thing was that I was able to sleep for some of the journey, courtesy of Sominex. This over-the-counter medication is only available in the US (British Sominex is a different drug), so two of them and a few glasses of sauvignon blanc, and BAM! No doubt I was snoring and dribbling excessively, but surely preferable to the two yowling babies behind and to the right? A couple of hours before we landed (scheduled 19:35 local time), we were served afternoon tea - with scones!

  

The ever present drive towards adopting new technologies meant a ‘new’ immigration process for visa-waiver passengers – self-service machines, which seemed designed to test the wits of battle-weary travellers, but I managed to get US Customs and Immigration to accept me, and eventually emerged into the warmth and tumult of LAX street level. Went and found a cab, and we were off into the LA night. Hilariously, the Italian (I think) cab driver sympathised with my long journey and insisted I smoke! In the cab!! In Los Angeles!!! Serious nicotine rush as we chatted about soccer (not kidding). By the way, if you ever fly into LA, be aware that taxis are very expensive. My trip was 15-20 minutes and cost about £45, but what they hey. 

 

My base for the next few weeks is in mid-town, just below LA High School (look it up). Was given a perfunctory welcome and quick tour of the guest-accessible facilities by G (doing his masters in IT, he explained) and was left to sort out my life. Had a brief wobble when I discovered that I hadn’t set up a security PIN to access voicemail while here (now sorted), and once again realised that there are ‘dog people’ (me) and ‘cat people’ (mein hosts).  Two feline beasties eyed me with disdain, and of course tried to get into my room. Denied! I had to get up for a pee in the night, and in the gloom managed to kick one that was lying across a door way (not intentional, honest!). The place is a wee bit tatty, but it’ll do.

  

Wide awake at 3.00am. Eventually dozed off, and have now just had coffee (complicated pod-type machine) an am about to do the ridiculous set of exercises the physio has given me. These can only done in strictest privacy, otherwise am sure a crowd will gather to point and stare as this British pot-bellied man attempts to impersonate a fat giraffe (Rob suggested fat flamingo, but that’s going a wee bit too far, don’t you think?).

  

The day beckons. What’ll happen is anyone’s guess!

Bobbie Goes To Hollywood

Yup, am on the trail of another book idea. Apparently, the 1968 London Sydney Marathon book is on target for publication in November, which seems a long time since I sent off the final manuscript last December.  Now, that book took four years in the making, so it wasn’t long after it went winging of to the publisher that I went into a bit of a decline. It was finished, nothing more to do. A big ol’ empty space opened up, and I got a wee bit down. Eventually, sitting in a pub on Minchinhampton Common at the beginning of this year, Rob and good friend Dave came up with the obvious idea – why not write another book? Long story short, here I sit in Heathrow Terminal Two waiting for my flight to be called. I’m off to Los Angeles to meet with potential contributors for my second book idea. That fat giraffe, it seems, is going to Hollywood!

 

People are funny – Heathrow Terminal Two has charging stations, where you can plug in your laptop or phone. Eventually found one with a free socket, but sitting right next to it is a flight attendant. Is she using the socket? No! Are there other seats? Yes, it’s deserted. Did she offer to move? No. So I have had to trail my cable around her back. Rob says I should complain, but I can’t quite make out the airline!. Actually, I’m struggling to find my solo travel legs, and it feels slightly unreal to think that I’m about to get on an eleven hour flight, let alone that, tomorrow (or rather later today) I will be getting a cab to mid-town LA, where, courtesy of AirBnB, I shall be staying. Mein hosts L and G have cats, so have stocked up with antihistamine. They advertise a home with vintage décor, and she runs a vintage clothing boutique on Melrose Avenue. Vintage Americana. Absolutely no clue what that might mean!

 

Wait, you might say, what is the book about? Well, I originally had an idea to write about an American actress who more worked for more than three decades in US film and television, but never as an above-the-title name. It got me thinking, what must it have been be like to work constantly in front of the camera, appearing in many classic US tv shows from the sixties and seventies (Star Trek, Mission:Impossible, The Fugitive, Kojak, Columbo, The Invaders and so on) as a ‘guest star’? Through the cunning ingenuity of my good friend Bonnie, I got a note to said actress while she was appearing at a sci-fi fan convention (the note came with flowers, which I cannot take credit for – like I said, cunning ingenuity!). Didn’t really expect a response, but three week later, there was a letter waiting for me, and thus began a correspondence which has led to us becoming great ‘email friends. Suffice to say, she thought the idea of me writing about her was ridiculous, but over the past months she has rather acted as an informal and impromptu guide or mentor. We’ve rolled various ideas around and as a result, I have decided to explore and research the experiences of, and attitudes towards women working in the US entertainment industry once they reach 50, both today and 30 years ago. Am still astonished to say that, by employing the same tenacity I did with the first book, in the coming weeks I am actually meeting with a number of women, many of whom are familiar names and faces. Have no idea how this will evolve, but again, have decided to talk to these potential contributors in the same way I did the Marathoniers around the world.

 

Watch this space!

 

PS I really don’t have my travel legs on – I got a coffee and left all my travel documents and passport behind. Robert, GET A GRIP!