A five-star weekend by Bill Kay

For the second time in three weekends, Lynne and I had a real kulturfest that shows what varied entertainment there is in and around LA, and how similar the audiences are - even though we were probably the only two people who went to all five, yes five, events.
It started last Wednesday, Jan 19, at the Huntington Library with a lecture on the social side of scientific discovery in the eighteenth century - no, it doesn't sound promising, but it was a real gem.
Thursday we were two of only a dozen or so who went to see the 1967 film of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood at the Egyptian.
Friday we had $20 tickets for Minsky's, a new musical at the Ahmanson.
Saturday we went to hear Ian Whitcomb and the Bungalow Boys at the Fret House in Covina, preceded by dinner at One World vegetarian restaurant in West Covina.
Sunday was a trip to the Pasadena Playhouse for Stormy Weather, a bio muscial of the life of Lena Horne - with a quick dinner beforehand at Gale's.
We made our usual visit to Conrads on Monday, so by the Tuesday we were gagging to stay in and watch TV - American Idol was about all we could manage, and a chance to catch up with the by-then highly neglected newspapers.
The Huntington lecture was given by Jan Victor Golinski, despite his name a Brit living in New Hampshire who has specialised in the history of science since he left Cambridge. it was all about how scientists used to meet in London coffee houses in the 18th century and how they thereby restrained (and stimulated) one another - as opposed to Frankenstein, Mary Shelley's creation, who worked on his own in an attic. It was very lively, with lots of questions afterwards - including one by me on whether this social scene crossed over with the stock and insurance markets, which also grew out of coffee houses. Apparently it did.
We always enjoy going to the Egyptian, something warm and comforting about it, and we discovered a new restaurant, Mediterranean Fresh, on the other side of Hollywood Boulevard.
In Cold Blood is a grim tale, grimly told. No overt blood - it is in any case in black and white - but lots of suspense. Lots of smoking too: this was a 1960s film. But no mobile phones. It showed how easily the two murderers could have got away with it, if they had only stayed in Mexico or just laid low. Remote farmhouses will never seem the same again.
Minsky's couldn't have been more different, a standard hoofers show, not an original note in it, but professionally presented and a really light evening out - and we had good seats, at the end of Row E in the stalls.
On Saturday we were among only 26 at the Fret House, which couldn't have made money for someone, either the venue or the band. Ian took the first opportunity to plug his forthcoming book, a collection of Letters from Lotusland, about Rollo being groomed for stardom. I took care of the real Rollo, who was a bit fractious.
Back to more sombre fare on Sunday, with a show that I thought didn't really work. We went with our friend Diana Cole, who had alerted us to the Minsky's tickets. Stormy Weather was too lopsided, because everything happened in the first half, being discovered, going to New York then Hollywood, breaking up her family, facing racial prejudice then the communist witchhunt. It slowed to a crawl after the interval, until we got the 'Stormy Weather' finale with Leslie Uggams in a gold lame evening gown.
it says something for American education and culture that any of the audiences for these five events could have been transposed to any of the others and felt entirely at home. There is an acceptance of entertainment that is completely different from the restlessness you can find in London theatres and cinemas, where everything seems very stratified.
Of course there were differences, because the Huntington lecture was in effect for members although anyone could attend for free. But in front of me at Stormy Weather was an irritating little man in a beard and check shirt who could easily have been at the Fret House or In Cold Blood.

An Inspector Calls by Bill Kay

"Good morning, I'm from the Internal Revenue Service. My I speak with you for a moment?"
I had answered the late-morning door bell thinking it was the usual peddler of a road to heaven, either religious or pharmaceutical. Instead I was confronted by a little bald man in a striped formal shirt, no tie, holding over his head a garish red-and-white golf umbrella. That was the easiest bit to understand: it was raining, after all.
After those opening words he showed his badge, which I didn't ask to inspect but looked genuine, so I invited him in and sat him on the sofa. I sat opposite and prepared to savour one of the more bizarre encounters I have experienced since moving to the US nearly two and a half years ago.
He began by handing me a piece of paper setting out my rights as a taxpayer. I didn't read it there, because I had decided I was going to let this meeting proceed as painlessly as possible. The paper says nothing about surprise visits, but it does say I can have someone accompany me at an interview, at which I can make a sound recording provided I give the IRS 10 days' notice - maybe so they can dust down their tape recorder too. If I believe I have not been treated in a professional, fair and courteous manner, the paper advises me to tell the employee's supervisor - not exactly designed to get the most easy-going deal.
But the fellow was polite enough and, after these preliminaries, he told me he was calling about Pasadena Media, the little business my partner Lynne and I have set up to give us access to a group health insurance scheme. I thought it best not to pass on that detail.
No, the problem was that we had not been making quarterly payroll returns. I explained that Lynne and I were the firm's only employees as well as its only shareholders, and our accountant had advised us not to bother filing returns because we pay our tax at the year-end instead. The inspector seemed content with this explanation but said he would like to talk to our accountant, which may or may not be significant.
He said: "I usually deal with people who owe $500,000 or $1 million, but this is a very simple case." And off he went, taking his umbrella with him.
It seems a very odd way of chasing what appears to be little more than a minor discrepancy in the paperwork. We hadn't ignored any letters or phone calls, even though he left a letter saying "you should already be aware of this from our previous contacts with you."
My suspicion that, as we are relatively new taxpayers, and our company as a taxpaying entity is even newer, the IRS just wanted an excuse to eyeball us and make sure we weren't employing a factory full of illegal immigrants and failing to declare tax on their income. Instead, they found a decent-sized but decidedly non-industrial cottage containing two rather bemused Legal Permanent Residents.


* For anyone who didn't spot it, my heading is the title of an excellent mystery play by the British author, J.B. Priestley.

The shape of LA by bill kay

Life, and writing about it, look totally different if you can give them a shape - as I am sure fellow hacks will agree. And, with a little shaping, this has been an extraordinary weekend for me, which I hinted at in a status update.
It's been the sheer cultural variety, which I know can be experienced in any decent-sized city these days but which seemed peculiarly LA mainly because of the attitude that other people demonstrated towards each event.
It began on Friday night with a trip to the Egyptian Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard for a rare 70mm showing of Magnificent Seven in a new print. These days the Egyptian, once a mainstream cinema, is run by American Cinematheque, a non-profit dedicated to giving rarely seen movies a fresh airing (can't wait for the annual film noir season in the spring). It has been wonderfully restored, sight lines perfect and we sat in the balcony which is at just the right height for a big film like this. All for $7 (member) or $10 (non-members) a ticket.
I hadn't seen Mag7 since I was a kid, so had totally forgotten what it was about beyond the fact that it involved 7 cowboys getting together to do something noble, and it was based on the Japanese film Seven Samurai.
As it was made in 1960 it seems naive by today's standards. Mexican village gets terrorised by bandits, villagers go into nearest town for protection, find Chris (Yul Brynner) who recruits another 5 gunslingers. A kid (Horst Buchholz) tags along to make 7. After winning and losing battles against the bandits, the 7 stage a final assault in which 5 of them are killed. Brynner and Steve McQueen sail off into the sunset, job well done.
Very enjoyable. But, bearing in mind that this was essentially a club viewing even though the public were admitted, you get a lot of cine-nerds at the Egyptian, a mood enhanced by a preview from Glenn Lovell to push his new biog of the director, John Sturges. Among the distinctive habits of Hollywood cinemagoers, especially at the Egyptian, is applauding the first appearance of the stars or their names, as if we were at live theatre. A guy in front of me went into raptures about the first appearance of James Coburn about 20 minutes into the film, but I suppose it makes for a more emotionally charged occasion.
Saturday was a complete change of gear. I suddenly noticed that LA Opera was performing Magic Flute at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in downtown. The tickets were ever so slightly dearer than at the Egyptian, but it was worth it for the experience.
The audience was much more restrained, not quite like Covent Garden, many dressed more casually, but just as appreciative. A custom at LA Opera is to hold a lecture or Q&A before the performance to give backgroun and insights into the work - on this occasion given by the conductor, James Conlon, in full white tie and tails just before he descended to the orchestra pit. He was in great humour, telling plenty of anecdotes from the 350 Flutes he has been involved in right from his early days as the back of an animal!
The production was Peter Hall's, using very arty sets designed by Gerald Scarfe which added to the sense of fun, fantasy and general unreality. We had an idiot two rows in front of us who was tall to start with and insisted on moving forward and upward at the slightest excuse, even though we all had perfectly good uninterrupted views. If I'd been right behind him I'd have been furious. As it was, there was a strange sense of changing cultures as we raced for our car in the underground car park and within minutes of the final curtain (we didn't wait for encores) we were negotiating the Pasadena Freeway.
There were actors and audience of a totally different stripe on Sunday morning for Pasadena's Doo Dah Parade, the yearly mocking of the official Tournament of Roses Parade on new year's day. So touchy is Pasadena high society about the formal parade, that this rebel version offends some of them - hard to believe, as it's pretty tame, poking fun, sticking bums out blowing a general raspberries at a level barely above a British university rag week. Just shows, California is neither as laidback nor as egalitarian as it thinks it is.
The parade itself, the third we have seen, was easily the limpest. Hard to tell whether it was the recession was cutting budgets, or because the imminent coronation of Obama had killed off several anti-Bush floats from previous years, but after a while it seemed to fizzle out. But there was plenty of anarchy and rock n roll, with bizarre costumes which I will post on the status page, to make a pleasant couple of hours in the sun watching the world (or at least a mildly eccentric part of it) go prancing by.
By last night we were sufficiently sated to stay in and watch a DVD of Gran Torino, the Clint Eastwood hit that could easily be renamed the Magnificent One. Same plot - bunch of thugs disrupt a neighbourhood, the Eastwood character seems them off in a startling way. He turns from grump to saint and nearly everyone lives happily after. Not a bad film, but not worth a fraction of the praise that has been lavished on it. Lesson: keep the plot simple and you can rehash it endlessly.
And tonight, I'm not there yet, but it will almost certainly be a very stimlating evening of chat, conversation, banter and hyperbole at Conrad's diner. With the Inauguration to come tomorrow, it will add up to five days of tremendously varied and quintissentially American cultural experience.
And what shape was it? I'm thinking tetrahedron with knobs on.

LA’s pecking order, by Bill Kay

The Los Angeles working world is quite unlike anything else.
I’m not talking about jobs in fast-food restaurants, dry cleaners or on the threadbare public transportation system. Employers in those areas simply treat job applicants like trash - so, not surprisingly, they often behave like trash.
My experience, naturally enough, is in the media business and I have quite a few friends with much broader experience than I have.
This is no mere chattering-class clique, as it is in London, say, or Manchester. The film industry employs an estimated 10,000 in LA and you can add varying amounts for journalism, book publishing, the blogosphere and entertainment.
No wonder hopefuls pour off the trains, planes and buses, as hopeful as they ever were in the 1920s, 1950s or the 1990s. Most of them end up waiting table or working in shops – elbowing many of the less photogenic but probably more skilled sales assistants – and a high proportion buy the return ticket to Nowheresville, Noplace County, somewhere in the midwest.
The LA version of Craigslist makes a handy living out of this rose-tinted optimism. I got fed up churning through job after writing job, gig after writing gig, offering no pay but ‘a byline for your resumé’ or ‘exciting start-up, share in our success once the money starts to flow’.
Business plans and even PhD theses are regular topics, often accompanied by the giveaway ‘at least two years’ experience required’. That means that if you have more than ten years under your belt, don’t bother: they can’t afford you.
Hollywood looms over this whole scene. The big studios are cutting back now, postponing some pre-Christmas releases until next year, laying off scene-shifters and researchers, but they are still the big players, the ones most people want to get into bed with one way or another.
To cut their overheads they often prefer to rent studio time to independent producers, who therefore take the risk. They of course brag that they have ‘a deal’ with Paramount or Warner, when all they mean is that they have an option on some space.
Options are the currency of LA. Everyone from studios to property developers buys or sells options, most of which lapse. Meanwhile, though, they are pregnant with hope value.
No one is more hopeful than those actors who take part in the cattle market known as the audition. These usually take place in draughty old rooms miles from the bright lights. Candidates sit for hours on backless wooden benches, like some immigrant resettlement centre, awaiting their turn. A generous employer will provide drinking water to stave off the heat – it’s cheaper than air conditioning.
An hour’s journey each way, with a three-hour wait, can earn ten minutes in front of the cameras and/or microphone and an assurance from the director that ‘You were great!’
So many people turn up on the offchance of stardom that a central agency now logs everyone and gives them a barcode, like a box of cookies in Safeway.
Happily, I’ve so far resisted the temptation to pitch for an audition – I know my limitations – and, as in Britain, most journalistic jobs come via word of mouth and personal recommendation. Maybe that’s why my gigs have been few and far between, and they have certainly dried up since the credit crunch started biting.
But every Monday night I go to a diner in Pasadena where a bunch of us meet to chew the fat. I’m the only journalist; the others are writers, singers, voice artistes (including one talented chap who did the voice of Tigger for 17 years, nice work if you can get it), singers and radio show hosts.
Only three of us, though, have a regular income – me, a singer-cum-entertainer-cum-actor-cum writer, and a rehabilitation nurse at the local big hospital. Others have the odd scrap of royalties but most are living on their savings from previous careers.
What links us all, though, is that none of us is idle. For there is a definite pecking order in LA.
What you must never do, or admit to, is nothing. You must always have a ‘project’. LA being what it is, this means doing something for no pay, just for the chance to write, talk, act or sing. That gives you a show-reel, DVD, CD, even a book, to hand round in the hope that it will be picked up by someone with money and clout. It happens more often than you might think.
I’m working on a novel. It will probably never see the light of day, but the rejection letters are yet to come. This is the writing stage, when the flame of hope burns brightly. You can keep that going through several novels before you give up, so I’m told.
Then there are those with a contract. They are earning, however modestly. Money is changing hands and being banked, which merits anything from respect to jealousy. It means your work has a value and could lead to something even more valuable, You are on the upward path, which might take you who knows where,
Above them are the successes, which can vary from people you have never heard of but are constantly employed and are driven home each evening to a discreet spread behind a set of gates in Beverly Hills.
At the top are the few stars earning megabucks, anything up to $50 million a picture, with homes in several US states and foreign countries. Like that chap in his sixties with the dyed hair and toned-down Liverpool accent, who turns up from time to time at Mijares, one of our local Mexican restaurants. Says his name is Paul McCartney. Never done an audition, though, or so I hear.

An evening with Ernie by Bill Kay

Scene: the community hall attached to South Pasadena Public Library. A long, high ceilinged room, windows high up on the left as you look at the stage, capacity around 200.
Doors open 6.30 for 7pm start. At 6.25 there is a polite, quiet line stretching from the door down the steps and out into the path through the greenery, maybe 30 people waiting. Our friend Jim Dawson is sitting in one of two curving stone seats either side of the entrance, so we take the opportunity to join him and probably jump the line a little. Edgar Bullington joins us, standing and chatting.
Dead on 6.30 the doors open and we file in firmly but in an orderly manner. We grab half a row of seats and another couple for Bobb Lynes and Barbara Watkins.
At 6.48 a side door opens - and there is the star, Ernest Borgnine himself, with that trademark wide gap-toothed grin, wearing a powder blue safari shirt. He milks the applause, which lasts about half a minute, then walks to the stage. He clearly intends to get started, but an official whispers in his ear that there is music first.
'Do you want to hear some jazz?' he yells. The audience, realising the situation, agrees.
So Borgnine's real appearance is delayed by 20 minutes or so while a young girl sings a few jazz classics such as All of Me, to a piano accompaniment. She sings well, but is too young to be credibly singing songs designed for someone with more life under their belt.
We are next given some clips of Borgnine hits, including Marty, which won four Oscars - Best Film, Director, Screenplay and Actor.
Finally Borgnine reappears, as cheerful as before, but flanked by fussing aides and a so-called moderator who is to handle the Q&A. An English-accented video company executive who ploughs through the career credits of Borgnine and his inquisitor. Happily, the star brushes aside all this nonsense and does his own thing, brilliantly and with real rapport with the audience. He is a natural star - as he should be, after more than 50 years on camera.
Recounting his Oscar win, he couldn't remember who gave it to him - 'that actress who became a princess'. 'Grace Kelly,' fans prompted. 'That's right,' he said, 'look - I'm 91, what do you want?!'
He didn't get on well with the director Richard Brooks, who dismissed Borgnine as 'one of those Goddam thinking actors' when he suggested how to play a scene. Next day Brooks began: 'OK Mr Borgnine, what do you have in mind for this scene?'
He beat Frank Sinatra to the Oscar, as well as James Dean, but he and Sinatra became friends and he recalled how the legendary singer paid for the actor Lee J Cobb to be taken to Sinatra's house in Palm Springs. 'Why did you do this?' asked Cobb. 'Because I like the way you work,' Sinatra replied.
The Poseidon Adventure, one of the biggest films of all time, nearly didn't get made because of a newly-promoted Paramount executive who tried to block it and was later sacked.
Borgnine has just finished shooting Another Harvest Moon in Harrisburg, PA - he said 'It's the state capital, you don't need to go there!'
On 3D: 'You just sit around longer for all the set ups and that's good, because you get paid for the extra time.'
Yes, it's true he used to get on a horse in westerns by climbing a set of steps - 'Bring on the horse, bring on the stairs!' adding that John Wayne used to do the same.
On the second day he was filming Marty, on location in the Bronx, someone asked him 'Are you the guy who killed Sinatra?' After many explanations that it was just only a film, Borgnine (real name Borgnino) was in danger of getting seriously beaten up, so in desperation he said 'I'm Italian!' and was swamped with pizza and salami, etc. But the original thug muttered 'I still think we ought to beat the he'll out of him....'
He is a great fan of Abraham Lincoln, and told us how he picked up a painting of Lincoln for ten dollars off a street market. The next day the stallholder tried to buy it back 'for a museum', he said.
Borgnine shrewdly held on to it, and was subsequently told it could be worth as much as $5 million. He has a room in his house devoted to Lincoln, whom he regards as a great source of 'calmness'. It is a rare solemn moment in an evening that was full of fun.
And no one asked him about his latest appearance on youtube.

LA theatres: Hollywood v Downtown by Bill Kay

It's a punishing schedule, but someone's got to do it: on Friday I went to the Kodak Theater, home of the Oscars, to see British comedian Eddie Izzard, and last night I was at the Million Dollar Theater in Downtown for tenor Michael Kleitman's Tribute to Pavarotti. Two very different experiences, and not just in what was happening on stage.
The Kodak, is next to Grauman's Chinese Theater and is set into the Hollywood and Highland shopping centre, one of LA's biggest tourist traps. It takes the modern approach of fleecing the punters for all it can get, so best to eat and drink beforehand. The full house was a mixture of Angelenos, tourists and Brits who live in the area. Izzard made few concessions to American ignorance, but most of his more obscure jokes were enthusiastically received. Mind you, he was wise enough to lay into Bush, which got some easy applause, and came out surprisingly strongly for Obama - but again, he had got his audience right and they loved it.
The Million Dollar, which was built for that price in 1918 by Sid Grauman before he moved westwards and built the Egyptian and Chinese on Hollywood Boulevard, is an old-fashioned theatre which the LA mayor, Antonio Villaraigosa, hopes will lead a revival of Broadway - something which I don't think will happen without driving out his fellow Latino shopkeepers. Meanwhile, though, this theatre is not yet into full ripoff mode: the front stalls tickets cost about the same as for the balcony in the Kodak - around $55 - and the charmingly unadorned snacks counter was selling bottled of Pepsi for a not too bad $4. Oddest of all was a sweet stall in the men's loo, presumably a Latino custom as they run the theatre: bar of chocolate with your loo paper, sir? It was more surreal than anything Izzard could invent.
Russian-born Kleitman has been touring with his Pavarotti show for some time, so it was surprising how badly presented it was. To save on an orchestra, he relied on recorded music which was sometimes as crackly as an old phonograph. And Pavarotti he is not: his voice is much thinner and has less range. The contrast was starkest in his attempt at Nessan Dorma. Kleitman fell way short of Pavarotti and indeed is much more in the style of Jose Carreras.
But the audience lapped it up. They were, as you would expect, much older than Izzard's, few tourists, plenty of Russian supporters. I don't think they filled the theatre, judging by the 30% off promotion they were running last week (to my annoyance, as I got only 10% off about a month ago).
Thankfully we were spared any standing ovations until the very end. Instead, from half-way through the first half, there was a regular flow of middle-aged ladies waddling to the front of the stage with bouquets which Kleitman seemed genuinely surprised and embarrassed to receive.
I'd have loved to see what Izzard would have made of the Million Dollar.

It's a gas gas gas says Bill Kay

One of the features of Southern California that I find most appealing is its child-like ability to go into obsession mode at the drop of a hat - or anything else that happens to be in their hand at the time. Currently it’s gas - petrol to Brits.

I know, it’s still half the price it is in Britain, but we have had a severe shock over here. When I landed just under two years ago, a US gallon (the British Imperial gallon is 20% bigger) cost $2.50 or less. It was recently as high as $4.40, although it has declined a little with the oil price.

So it’s the speed of the jump that has sent Americans into overdrive, so to speak. The price has been creeping up in the past decade, but not at a pace that most Angelenos noticed. You filled a tank for may $50, grabbed the receipt so you could claim it against tax (many more can here than in UK) and hit the freeway without a care in the world.

Now, though, you’d think we were in the middle of a world war with rationing just around the corner. TV news runs stories about a gas scam that you would think a 10-year-old would see through. Crooks steal credit cards then stand around filling stations offering petrol half-price, taking cash using the stolen card to pay for the fuel! I suppose people reckon they will be miles away before the villains are arrested, but they have clearly forgotten about CCTV and the fact that their number plate identifies them as accessories to a pretty obvious crime.

Back on the legit side of the fence, it is amusing to see Americans adopting British ways of coping with high fuel costs. People are walking their dogs instead of driving them to the nearest park. Others boast of going in for “Euro-style shopping”, which means they buy a carryable bag of groceries on their way home every couple of days instead of driving 30 miles to Costco and filling the Hummer with bulk quantities of pap. Farmers markets are booming, as are neighbourhood restaurants.

The LA Times today leads its Business section with first-person reports by two of its staffers who have moved into flats downtown, within walking distance of the office. Amazingly, they are saving money! They are losing weight! They are talking to neighbours!

My hunch is that it won’t last. Like the stories in London about middle-class people shopping at Primark, the novelty will wear off. Downtown LA is like a graveyard at night and at weekends - full of spooky people. I bet those flat-dwellers will be bumming invitations off their pals in the valleys for BBQs and pool parties. The lure of the SUV will be simply too strong.