Once upon a time (when I was oh so much younger) I cracked wise to my pop – something about Hollywood being a cesspool, or something equally unpleasant and I’ll give you his unvarnished response.
“Jesus Christ! Everybody thinks people in Hollywood are godless, bottom-feeding philistines who wouldn’t know quality if it kicked them in the ass. Movie making is the single greatest culture of creativity the world has ever known. And! No doubt! The biggest f—ing employer of artists, ever!”
My uncle, who is retired (and very, very aged), used to travel the world. He was a Hollywood Production Designer…
The last movie he worked on was shot in the newly opened ex-United-Soviet-Socialist-Republic. My! What stories, so Wild West. Drugged and rolled on a train for his wallet, witness to mobster location managers copulating on the hoods of Chaikas and Bentleys, produce laid out in exclusive (invitation only) markets like crown jewels…
And then, there was my favorite: lodged in a hotel in glorious St. Petersburg (a.k.a. Leningrad) he always peeked into the bar before proceeding into the restaurant. No, my dears, not to spot fellow crew members and friends; but to make sure there was a full contingent of prostitutes seated. Canaries in a coal mine, so to speak. For, when they were absent the restaurant was known to be strafed by machine gun fire, and nobody wants to die head first in a middling plate of “Continental” fare. Nobody.
And, I have a startling admission (and, please do go all Freudian on me) a father and an uncle figure heavily in my novel, juggled and fictionalized, of course, but there you have it.
Cheers, dears! Vickie