Contents

I've been a regular contributor to the feature and Calendar sections of the LA Times since 1999, covering everything from a convention of cloggers to a corporate dustup between Disney and Imax. Features • Time to Take Back the Night -- I was asked by editors at the LA Times for 2,000 words on Halloween and why it matters. My ponderings on why we all celebrate fear in a time of recession, terrorism and mass anxiety got mixed up with a vivid recovered memory of being mugged by a Smurf. October 31, 2002 • Dog Town - First person cover story for Calendar section about the canine-craziness of Los Angeles. May 16, 2002 • East/West Smackdown - Cover story for Calendar section in which I go head-to-head with a die-hard Westsider over the comparative merits of our 'hoods. It gets nasty. Generated a ton of response from readers, many of whom didn't quite get our intended cheekiness. April 18, 2002 • Curses! Lead story in Sunday feature section about the casual, common use of swearing in public. Fuck yeah! November 14, 1999 Entertainment: • The Roman Empire Rises Again -- Interview with director Ridley Scott on the eve of the release of "Gladiator." Friendly and thoughtful, Scott was positive the movie was going to be huge -- I secretly thought the movie was silly and figured it would flop. Goes to show you. • Imax Says No, So Disney Builds its Own Theater -- While reporting a routine preview of Disney's "Fantasia 2000," I stumbled upon a bit of embarrassing news: Disney had been forced to build its own temporary IMAX theater in LA after the local science museum rejected the movie, on the grounds it wasn't "educational." • Taking a Fast-Track Career in Stride -- Profile of martial arts action star Jet Li. What made this more than just an ordinary junket story was the glaring contradiction of a mild-mannered, Chinese-speaking Buddhist publicizing a super-violent American action flick.

Time to Take Back the Night

In a year of tragedy, terrorism and shaky markets, maybe a little Halloween-style escapism is just what we need. It's Halloween and I for one am having no trouble at all finding things to be scared about. Admittedly, I tend to flip out over things like fruit suspended in Jell-O, men with comb-overs or a new Madonna movie. But this year there's plenty of actual scary stuff to satisfy the appetite for fear lurking in even the most well-balanced among us. Not scared yet? You obviously skipped the front section of this newspaper and its accounts of mad bombers, concealed snipers and creative accountants. Compared with the house of horrors in hard news, the cartoon ghouls and fun-house goblins back here in Calendar are so many fluffy puppies. With war looming, terrorists striking and the stock market quaking, a holiday based on fear feels if not frivolous, then at least redundant. You might expect, then, that Halloween would be waning, that sober heads would be prevailing, that we'd be shying away from gruesome masquerades and frivolous spectacles. Quite the opposite. Talk to party organizers, costume makers and those who sell candy, pumpkins and those lawn displays designed to scare the pants off neighborhood children and you find that people are reveling in Halloween with as much enthusiasm and abandon as ever. Halloween spending is expected to hit $6.9 billion this year -- $2 billion of that on candy alone, according to the National Retail Federation. In Southern California, more than 350,000 revelers are expected at the West Hollywood Halloween Carnaval, while turnstiles are spinning at the five local theme parks offering fright fests. Halloween fever is especially acute in Southern California, a region that rarely passes up the chance to show off, dress up and go to extremes. Exhibit A: One Irvine mail-order company is busy marketing such items as an 11-foot-tall, $35,000 ogre that will greet your trick-or-treaters with a terrifying growl and thundering fart. Beyond the obvious question of why anyone would pay the price of a tricked-out Volvo to stink up the front porch, the thing that's puzzling is more basic: Why are so many of us compelled to whoop it up during such uncertain times? The appeal to kids is obvious, one best summarized in a two-word directive: Get candy. But what about the grown-ups? What do we get out of Halloween? For most of us, the appeal is all about escapism. On this one night, all of us can act like kids, act out secret fantasies and shed our everyday selves. This annual license to bend rules of propriety has been the heart of the holiday since North Americans began marking the day 100 or so years ago. And although the holiday has changed dramatically since then -- for one thing, kids today are no longer encouraged to go out and smash windows as they once were -- Halloween still works mainly as a mechanism to release whatever we normally keep pent up. "People want to have fun and be silly," says Michael Kearns, an actor, activist and coordinator of the Carnaval costume party, which has grown from a mostly gay event to become the center ring of the Los Angeles area's Halloween circus. The impulse to primp, party and parade may even be heightened by the sort of free-floating anxiety brought on by reports of terrorism, recession and random violence. Last year, seven weeks after the World Trade Center attacks, an estimated 50,000 more people showed up for the annual street festival than had attended the year before. This year, in the aftermath of a series of attacks on gay men that has left West Hollywood stunned, an even bigger crowd is expected. "Tragedy and terrorism are nothing new to the gay community," Kearns says. "And we've learned the value of responding in force with frivolity and silliness. It's how we survive." Elsewhere, of course, the holiday is less about platform shoes and feather boas than flesh-eating zombies and knife-wielding maniacs. For most, Halloween is an opportunity to scream our heads off at the Multiplex, freak show or haunted house. That's a whole lot of hollering, representing a reservoir of fear born out of something far deeper than the brief shock of being startled by so many simulated homicides. The real source of those screams is the everyday fear we all experience being alive in a world of death, disease, public speaking and dentistry. We're all afraid, year round and deep down. The question is, what do we do with that fear? Do we bury it in our guts and let it harden into bitterness, spite or an intense desire to throttle that idiot swerving in traffic while chatting on his cell phone? As we drift off to sleep, do we curl up in a fetal position and quietly blubber it away? Given the alternatives, maybe it's not such a bad thing that so many of us dress up our fear in crazy costumes, splatter it with stage blood and turn it into a moneymaking spectacle. You might even call that patriotic. That was definitely a take-home message from Halloween 2001. With the shock of the World Trade Center attack still fresh, Halloween revelry was a lot less gory but no less enthusiastic. In Greenwich Village, a few blocks from the still-smoldering ruins of ground zero, the annual street fair was recast as a celebration of "Phoenix Rising From the Ashes." All across the country, after fears of anthrax-laced lollipops and shopping mall bombings led some to suggest a suspension of trick-or-treating, Halloween's defenders came out in full force. Kids shelved their Spider-Man masks in favor of firefighter helmets, sales of Uncle Sam and Lady Liberty outfits boomed, and calls to repeal Halloween were considered tantamount to admitting defeat to the terrorists. "They can mess up the Postal Service," the governor of Maine declared, "but they'd better stay away from trick-or-treating." "People repossessed Halloween as an American institution," says historian Nick Rogers, whose book "Halloween: From Pagan Ritual to Party Night" was published this month by Oxford University Press. "Of course, Halloween has never been endorsed that way -- it's not an official government holiday. But the response last year shows how much it does mean. It's the one night a year when people can flout political correctness and let off steam." Although some revelers held back last year, it feels absolutely right to go all out now, says Andrew Cosby, creator of UPN's "Haunted" and a self-proclaimed "total Halloween geek." In years past, Cosby has dressed as a robot made of scraps from Home Depot, a mutant plant that oozed glow-in-the-dark fluid and a Ghostbuster armed with a fully functional proton pack. (I have no idea what that is, but Cosby sounded so excited describing it, it must do something really cool.) He took a post-9/11 breather last year, but this week he's the host of a costume party to premiere his latest creation: an exact replica of a bionic Bigfoot costume that first appeared in 1976 on ABC's superhero series "The Six Million Dollar Man." He's even created an accessory only a mechanical Sasquatch could love: a Styrofoam boulder. "I go way overboard," he says. "I love having a costume that makes people say, 'Oh my God, how much time did you spend on that?' " Cosby's handcrafted creations are positively subtle compared with a new breed of contraptions that make your precious little jack-o'-lantern look plain pathetic. Irvine mail-order company Smarthome, which normally sells gadgets like light dimmers and surveillance cameras, this year is rushing to fill orders from a new catalog of "Extreme Halloween" items, according to the company's marketing vice president, Matt Dean. Among the products are a Car Thru Wall prop that simulates "a deadly accident" (cost: $4,999) and a life-size Attack Alligator that lunges and snaps at unsuspecting trick-or-treaters (cost: $13,999.99). Although it's tempting to sneer at anyone who would buy an Attack Alligator, few of us could resist stopping by the homes of those who do. I'd steer clear of the simulated car crash, however, a little too much reality, thanks very much. So are, for that matter, most of the menacing or violent costumes and props that pop up at this time of year. At Hollywood Toys & Costumes, the first thing you see when you enter is a floor-to-ceiling tunnel lined with rubber masks molded into every imaginable mutation, mutilation and injury. Security guard Jimmy Donner says kids often erupt in crying fits when they spot the display of scars, scowls and warts. But then a funny thing happens. "Those same kids go running around looking for the most gruesome costume they can find," he says. That same jittery air is a thick fog over Knott's Scary Farm, where visitors pay $42 each to witness a bloody parade of impalements, decapitations and even a close-up disembowelment. This ranks on my personal list of Things I'd Like to Do somewhere between a trip to the DMV and an appointment with the proctologist, but I'm apparently part of a freakish minority. Attendance tops 25,000 on the nights before Halloween, and park officials claim that 4.6 million people have submitted themselves since the event began 30 years ago. The patriotic observance of 2001 was only the latest shift in a holiday that has been in flux since the turn of the century, when North Americans first imported the Irish and Scottish celebration of All Hallows Eve (which itself was a hodgepodge of ancient pagan customs and Christian observances of All Souls' Day). At first, Rogers says, Halloween was mainly an opportunity for boys to engage in what was widely viewed as healthy mischief; it was common, Rogers says, for boys to celebrate by derailing streetcars, opening up fire hydrants and tipping over outhouses. The practice of trick-or-treating took off in the 1940s essentially as a way to mollify the marauders with candy, he says. There's a debate about who created it, Rogers says, but it was part of a larger effort to tone down the raucousness -- the U.S. Senate even considered changing the name of the holiday to Youth Honor Day and having adolescents pledge to behave themselves. The name change died, but the effort worked, recasting a night of pranks and destruction into an occasion when normal rules of order are reversed, with children making demands and adults acting like children. And while crowds thinned during 1970s tampering scares (amplified by urban myths of razor blades in apples and angel dust in candy bars), trick-or-treating remains the centerpiece of the holiday. Ask anyone about Halloween and most often you'll hear a story about some childhood adventure -- sometimes scary, sometimes humiliating, always memorable. For me, the mere mention of Halloween instantly evokes a memory of being shoved to the sidewalk and having my bag snatched by a kid in a full Smurf costume. (But that was the fiercest, most muscular Smurf you ever saw.) My wife has the scariest Halloween memory of all: Her mother dressed her in billowy pants, a gold vest and handfuls of gaudy jewelry, then sent her off to a Beverly Hills costume parade with instructions to tell everyone she was a Bulgarian. She still carries the scars. For an adult, it's hard to appreciate the childhood thrill and shock of Halloween. A reminder of this primal appeal came five years ago when we took some out-of-town friends to a haunted house held by a group of local art pranksters called the Cacophony Society. Our friends were visiting from their home near Sonoma, where they share an idyllic country life collecting vintage wine and growing organic vegetables. Stepping inside, I thought we had just made a horrible mistake. There was a fellow in a blood-drenched butcher's smock who laughed hysterically while taking swipes at a side of meat with a chainsaw. On the walls were pages torn from fat-fetish porn magazines. Exiting the room involved negotiating our way through a curtain of beef tongues. It got weirder from there. By the time it was over, we'd been flashed by a busty woman in a Mother Teresa costume, been offered pieces of Spam sushi and witnessed a guy in surgical blues use a vacuum cleaner to remove the guts from a man on a gurney. Back on the sidewalk outside, my friend the earth mother looked up from a pattern of blood splattered on her blouse and smiled brightly. "That sure was more interesting than the Getty Center," she said. I can't explain why all of us weren't more horrified, but I think it had to do with the fact that, in the end, no matter what's going on in the world, we're all just a little stranger, less tasteful and just plain badder on Halloween. So I say bring it on, all of it, from ax-wielding zombies to Attack Alligators. That Smurf who stole my candy, though -- that was just wrong.

City of Dogs

Having Their Day How is it that Los Angeles has become such a good place to be a dog of leisure? May 16, 2002 For a long time I believed that there was something basically freakish about dog people. My personal list of People to Avoid included those who mispronounce the word " nuclear," fans of Celine Dion and anyone who thought I'd be the slightest bit interested hearing about his prize terrier's macrobiotic diet. The first two stand, but let's just say I'd probably trade recipes with the third guy. I was forced to rethink my prejudice three years ago, when I found myself suddenly obsessed with the training, grooming, socialization and all-around well-being of a somewhat spastic floppy-eared puppy named Rufus. Rufus arrived in my life shortly after my wife and I began to talk about having kids. "Get a dog first," a friend advised. "Make sure you don't kill it." A week later my wife brought home a stray pup of mysterious breed (shepherd? malamute? coyote?) with an ear infection and a mangy coat teeming with fleas. After cleaning her up and doing a quick check of her nether region, we settled on the name Rufus. (Only later, long after the name was established, did we discover we'd confused its female bits for male ones.) Rufus quickly introduced us to such riveting subjects as crate training, carsickness and coprophagia (don't ask). But the most surprising discovery was that something strange and quite sudden happened to the entire city when we weren't paying attention: Los Angeles had turned into a dog town. Everywhere you go, dogs and people are doing things that a few years ago would have seemed bizarre and sometimes downright rude. Dogs are scrounging for scraps at outdoor cafes, trotting happily into doggie day spas and massage parlors, snoozing underfoot at dog-friendly offices and romping ecstatically at one of the several new leashless dog parks. Some are even curling up at patio bars: "A gin and tonic for me and a bowl of water for the blond at the end of the bar." If many of us grew up regarding dogs as furry pieces of property, we're now treating them like temperamental toddlers. As companions, play pals and fetishistic status symbols, dogs occupy a bigger role in our lives than ever before. My own story started innocently enough, with daily trips to the dog park and the purchase of chew toys, doggie vitamins and "human-grade" dog food. Next thing I knew I was spending half the day chasing a blur of slobbering fur around the house while wearing a fanny pack stuffed with beef liver and memorizing entire passages from a puppy training manual written by a religious order called the Monks of New Skete. At night, while Rufus rested her head between her paws on her plush sheepskin bed, I would pore over her photo album, marveling at her development from mangy wild animal to coddled family member. I was especially fond of a photo of a freshly groomed and grinning Rufus wearing a T-shirt printed with the motto "Bone to be Wild." I am not proud. I realized I'd crossed over into a strange new world the weekend my wife and I checked Rufus into a "canine country club" in Sun Valley called Paradise Ranch. Complete with four-post beds, playgrounds and a wading pool, it turned out to be a notch or two nicer than the B&B where we were headed. It might have seemed like a faddish novelty at the time, but Paradise Ranch was just the logical extension of a trend well underway. The city's first doggie day care, a deluxe West L.A. kennel-cum-spa where dogs enjoy pampering and playtime while their owners toil at the office, opened in 1996. Today there are doggie day cares all over L.A., each with a cutesier name than the last--the Loved Dog, the Grateful Dog, Camp Happy Dog, Chow Bella, Hollywood Hounds, Chateau Marmutt and Bow Wow Bungalow. Meanwhile, we've seen the arrival of dog boutiques and dog bakeries, dog masseuses and dog acupuncturists, dog portrait artists and dog perfumes. At Neiman Marcus, salespeople look the other way as poodle-clutching grandmas pass women being tugged by loping Great Danes. The family of Beverly Hills dad Ozzy Osbourne, a guy so unconcerned with animal welfare he famously bit off the heads of a dove and a bat, recently employed a dog therapist to help soothe the family litter. There's even a political crusade, with dog owners banding together to fight for canine civil liberties. "It's a revolution," says Daryl Barnett, president of Freeplay, a Venice-based group that is seeking to establish L.A.'s first off-leash dog beach. "It's like civil rights or women getting the right to vote." Though the city is still beset by an epidemic of stray dogs and a shocking frequency of euthanasia (40,660 dogs will be put down this year, according to the L.A. Department of Animal Regulation), dogs in the upper ranks of the socioeconomic food chain are basking in newfound luxury. We Angelenos like to think of ourselves as trendsetters, but it looks as if we're behind the pack here. A doggie day care called Yuppie Puppy was catering to guilt-ridden New Yorkers nine years before L.A. got its such facility. And those in the dog business point to several cities as possessing better dog amenities (Portland, Ore., is famously dog-friendly, as are Alexandria, Va; Key West, Fla.; and Aspen, Colo.). And although there are more dogs in California than in any other state (6.8 million, according to the American Veterinary Medical Assn.), the concentration of dogs is actually quite low in Los Angeles (19% of L.A. homes include dogs, according to the Humane America Animal Foundation, compared to the national average of 39%). We may be a small party, but no one is whooping it up more. Portland may have its perks, but it sure doesn't have anything like Fifi & Romeo, the Beverly Boulevard boutique that sells beaded cashmere sweaters for dogs (cost: $225) in a store surrounded by Pucci mannequins, tasseled draperies and pink-striped walls. Dogs wander around like the savviest of shoppers, some hopping in and out of sleek vinyl "doggie bags" or curiously nuzzling a display of wool dog sweaters. Co-owner Penelope Francis says she began creating swank dog fashions three years ago, when she went searching for something to keep her pet Chihuahua, Peanut, warm. "I kept saying to myself, 'I wouldn't wear that,'" she says. "Why would I put that on my dog?" That's it in a nutshell--for many of us, dogs have become natural extensions of ourselves. Paul Owens, who runs a Burbank training school called Raise With Praise and is one of a few self-proclaimed "dog whisperers," says Angelenos are "awakening to a new consciousness about dogs." So, the thinking goes, if I wrap myself in embroidered cashmere, enjoy a weekly massage or make it a point to avoid partially hydrogenated oils, why shouldn't my dog? Setting aside for a moment the question of whether this is flaky anthropomorphism or an evolved expression of kindness--I know what side Peanut would be on--I wonder, simply, why? Certainly there's a long Hollywood tradition of treating pets like royalty. Everyone from Audrey Hepburn to Halle Berry has traipsed around town cradling well-coifed toy breeds with tummies quivering beneath snug sweater vests. But when did so many of the rest of us start acting like pampered starlets? What happened in a few short years to suddenly elevate the status of an entire species? The shift has been fueled by three of the most powerful forces in Los Angeles: love, vanity and envy. First of all, for very practical reasons, we Angelenos are uniquely positioned to love our dogs like no one else. In a city filled with actors and writers, independent contractors, privileged layabouts, struggling freelancers and others working sporadic or stay-at-home jobs, our attention is naturally drawn to others with flexible schedules. A trip up to the off-leash park at Runyon Canyon in Hollywood on a weekday afternoon reveals dozens of these full-time love affairs in full bloom. At an hour of the day when less fortunate dogs are snoozing in their backyards, the mountain park swarms with dogs of all sizes and descriptions: dogs in jaunty kerchiefs and dogs in yelping packs. Trailing behind, their human companions whistle and shout words of praise or correction, as impassioned as parents at a soccer match. Part of the reason we Angelenos have become so infatuated with dogs is that they're just so darned sincere. In social circles often held together by loose or superficial bonds, dogs offer uncomplicated, unconditional relationships. In short, doggies don't air-kiss. That's certainly helps explain typical L.A. love affairs like the one between Claude Dauman, who owns the Internet swimwear company www.bestswimwear.com and a half-Pekingese, half-poodle named Mallie Munchkin. Working at home, Dauman devotes much of his time and attention to Mallie. He feeds her a strict diet of cartilage-enriched kibble and cooked chicken chunks, hosts a fan Web page devoted to his "life partner" (www.malliemunchkin .com) and eases her trip to their bed with a custom staircase complete with carpeted steps. "She's the alpha in this family," he says. "I don't want to sound like a psychopath, but sometimes I get the feeling she thinks of me as her extremely large offspring." And as his Web site makes abundantly clear, Dauman isn't shy about letting the world share his love. That's also one of the other particular attractions of dog ownership in a city that places such a high premium on good looks and sociability. Even when you're feeling dumpy, antisocial or downright surly, a happy dog can't help but be charming. I'm sure the owners of the supermodel Weimaraners and spunky springer spaniels I see parading around the dog park feel genuine affection for their animals, but don't you sometimes suspect that the real appeal for the owners is all the attention they attract? You could say this is superficial or sad, but I'm not so sure. We Angelenos too often stay stuck in the same small orbit; if our dogs allow us to explore new parts of the city or attract the attention of people we wouldn't ordinarily encounter, I say hooray. "Everywhere I go with my dog, people immediately let down their guard and come rushing up to me," says Los Feliz photographerLara Jo Regan. "It doesn't matter if it's in an Armenian neighborhood or Beverly Hills, people just come out of their shells." It helps to know that Regan has perhaps the cutest dog on the face of the planet: Mr. Winkle, a Pomeranian mix with a permanently lolling pink tongue. In a modern twist to the old Hollywood fairy tale, Regan plucked Mr. Winkle off a roadside in Bakersfield and made him a star, attracting a cult following on a Web site (www.mrwinkle .com) and parlaying his fame into the sale of calendars and T-shirts and a book deal with Random House. Regan says she's often approached by people in L.A.'s suddenly booming dog business, offering free designer get-ups, day spa passes and therapy sessions. To Regan, such services reflect "enlightened new thinking" about dogs. "I think it's reasonable and not at all kooky," she says. "People are becoming aware that animals are sentient beings with real souls. It's horribly egocentric to think we're the only ones who enjoy ourselves or get depressed or have special health needs." Clearly, though, not everyone investing in the extra TLC is so enlightened. Dogs may be sentient beings, but they're also status symbols that simultaneously set their owners apart from some and signal allegiance to others. The Hydrant Cafe in Venice is a perfect place to watch people and dogs sniff one another out. At the deli counter, which naturally is filled with baked goods made for canine palates, a Chihuahua is on its hind legs, yapping hysterically at a Pomeranian. Without a word, you can tell that the frantic pair standing nearby think of themselves as sophisticated, sassy and perhaps a little indulgent. Meanwhile, outside, others sit quietly sipping lattes, their Labradors and shepherds lapping up bowls of "frosty paws" ice cream. As much as their clothing or cars, these customers have silently transmitted their own MO: domestic, down-to-earth and maybe a little conservative. Then there's a whole separate distinction attached to mutts. The mangier and more mixed up the breeding, the more honorable the owner. "It's a badge of honor to have a rescue dog," says Karen Rosa, communications manager for the American Humane Assn. "It's multicultural, and what could be more L.A. than that?" With so many of us babying our cars and obsessing over our clothes, is it any wonder we've become so sensitive to the cachet of the canine? Status is a major factor drawing pet owners to the year-old Bow Wow Bungalow, a toy-filled doggie day care in North Hollywood that could pass for an exclusive preschool for unusually mouthy children. Co-owner Brie Campbell says she suspects many of her customers drop their dogs off in part for the image it projects. "The main reason they're doing this is so they can tell their friends about it," she says. "In L.A., dogs are an accessory. People want to be seen as cool and caring." Ouch. All this thinking about the status and pampering of dogs is suddenly making me very uncomfortable. What does it say about me and my wife that we chose a sexually ambiguous, possibly feral mutt as our social status symbol? And what was the real reason we took Rufus to Paradise Ranch: to give her a taste of luxury, or to give us bragging rights? In any case, it's hardly worth fretting over such questions anymore. The fact is that our infatuation with Rufus didn't last so very long. It came to an abrupt end the moment another small messy creature arrived in our home. The birth of our son Charlie ended Rufus' reign. And the arrival of another competitor for our fickle affections--this one a girl-child called Eliza--further diminished the dog's hold on us. I'm not saying we love Rufus any less now, but she definitely gets less tangible proof of that love. Trips to the dog park have become less frequent. The $45 bags of Eukanuba Lamb and Rice Formula have been replaced by bulk sacks of kibble from Costco. The only new chew toys she gets are those she snatches from the nursery. Dog vitamins, once a staple, are now given on a whim. About the only advantage for Rufus is all the mashed-up peas and carrots suddenly raining down from on high. Like so many other Angelenos, our dog was a tryout for actual children (they are just as commonly an aging baby boomer's replacement for a bird that's left the nest). Fifi & Romeo's Penelope Francis says she laughs when she hears one of her customers is pregnant. "I know I've just lost a customer," she says. She cites Rosie O'Donnell and Madonna, both public dog fanciers whose pups became invisible once they had kids. "What ever happened to Madonna's dogs anyway?" she asks. For her part, Rufus staged just one small protest. Two weeks after Charlie was born, I woke up in the middle of the night to find her skulking around the nursery, wide-eyed and whining. There, carefully arranged in a crude swirl on the new baby-blue carpet, were five steaming demonstrations of her feelings about her sudden descent from heavenly creature to lower life form. I know I should have disciplined her, but it just wasn't in me. All I could think was, fair enough, Rufus, fair enough.

East/West Smackdown

The Ultimate Turf War A Westsider and an Eastsider go 12 rounds to see which area can claim supremacy. April 18, 2002 BY CHRISTOPHER NOXON AND LESLEE KOMAIKO There are more splits in the city of Los Angeles than at an Olympic gymnastic competition. There are rich and poor. City folks and Valley dwellers. Those who work in entertainment and those the trade papers call "non-pros." And, of course, there are enough ethnicities and religions to make the L.A. County census look like a work of theoretical physics. There's also a much blurrier, but equally contentious, divide: between Westside and Eastside. It's a tricky split to define. Everyone draws his own boundaries. And the points of contention can seem downright silly to those who live in South-Central, Northridge or San Pedro. But to many who live in places such as Los Feliz or Santa Monica, the distinctions prompt raging debate. Westsiders gripe about the smog and cooler-than-thou attitude east of La Brea Avenue. Eastsiders moan about the superficiality and SUV traffic jams near the ocean. Such opinions typically are expressed privately, in the company of like-minded neighbors. It's time to get this out in the open. It's time to take off the gloves. It's time for a smackdown. Taking our cue from those masters of rhetoric at the World Wrestling Federation, we present a 12-round grudge match between a die-hard Eastsider and an equally impassioned Westsider. Christopher "Boom Boom" Noxon lives a few blocks from his childhood home in Los Feliz and feels like a stranger in a strange land when he goes west of Robertson Boulevard. Leslee "The Terminator" Komaiko was raised in Westwood, lives in Santa Monica and says the Eastside is a whole lot of hype. Round 1: Identity Is the Eastside an ugly stepsister? Leslee: Let's start with this: The Westside is Los Angeles. It is the public face of our city, and it is why people come here. Not that tourists are the ultimate arbiters of taste, but it's worth noting that most of them stay on the Westside. Sun, surf, palm trees--this is the California dream. What you guys have on the Eastside is wannabe New York. And what's up with the vintage clothing, tattoos and sullen 'tude? Are they mandatory Eastside issue? Your cool is so practiced and cultivated. Ours is effortless. It's as simple as jeans and a tee and flip-flops. No wonder Westsiders are a generally happier bunch. Life is good over here. Life, in fact, is better. Christopher: First off, thanks for so succinctly articulating why all the sullen, sun-starved Eastsiders choose to live where we do: to get away from the deluded likes of you. Your sun-and-surf Baywatch fantasy may excite clueless out-of-towners, but over here it sounds like a whole lot of bland, bubble-headed hooey. And what's this about effortless cool? All the Beverly Hills cosmetic surgeons and Brentwood exercise mills tell a very different story. While you're all madly scrambling to realize your precious California dream, we Eastsiders are busy living our real lives, thanks very much. Round 2: Neighborhoods Is the Westside a sea of sameness? Christopher: When it comes to neighborhoods, we Eastsiders have you begging for mercy under the heels of our boots. You've heard of neighborhoods, haven't you? Despite a few pockets of difference, the Westside is a vast grid of the similar. Over here, you'll find dozens of thriving communities, each with its own flavor. One day tooling around the Eastside might take you to Koreatown, Little Armenia or Thai Town or down avenues of neon-topped townhouses or through districts where all the ethnicities, classes and styles of architecture get lost in a fantastic jumble. We celebrate those differences. You Westsiders like your hometown like you like your fast food--dependable but flavorless. Leslee: Apparently your perceptive abilities come to a screeching halt at La Brea. Last I checked, Culver City, the Pacific Palisades, Beverly Hills and Venice weren't easily confused, not to mention Sawtelle's Japan Town and Westwood Boulevard's Little Persia. Might I suggest you invest in a Thomas Guide? Or a brain? Or run for office. Seems your "we are the world" speech is already written. P.S. May you choke on your next Tito's taco. Flavorless my all-natural, non-enhanced C cups. Round 3: Outdoors Are Eastsiders nature-starved urbanites? Leslee: You've got Griffith Park, a decent enough patch of grass with its impressive observatory. Wait. That's closed. There's also charming MacArthur Park. (At our parks the only transactions going on are between the kids and the ice cream truck driver.) I'll even toss you Runyon Canyon. But none of this compares to the Pacific and all its attendant goodness: miles of bike paths, outrageous sunsets, endless views from Santa Monica Mountains hiking trails, sandcastle opportunities, the Venice canals, beautiful tanned and shirtless boys showing off their ripped abs. Ever try to surf Silver Lake? Good luck, sucka. Buy yourself a conch shell and take a bath, 'cause that's as close as you're gonna get. Christopher: That patch of grass you so quickly dismiss happens to be 4,100 acres, the largest urban park in America. And I think you're forgetting something in your rosy view of the Pacific's blessings: pollution-related illnesses like dysentery and diarrhea. We'll stick to Echo Park, nearby Angeles National Forest and perhaps the best outdoor venue in all Los Angeles: Dodger Stadium. Have fun ogling the sweaty abs (ick, by the way); we'll be in the bleachers with a beer and a Dodger Dog. Round 4: Culture Are Westsiders cultural heathens? Christopher: Save us both some trouble and curl up right now and cry like the baby you are, because we Eastsiders have got you beat bad here. I understand you're proud of that big beige museum on the hill--you know the one, where tourists go to check out the view instead of the art--but unless you count breast enhancements or those airbrush murals they put on surfboards, fine art just ain't a Westside specialty. Out East, we've got the major museums (LACMA, MOCA), stellar music venues (the Hollywood Bowl, the Music Center), world-class live theater (the Ahmanson, the L.A. Theater Center) and countless more cultural hot spots (the American Cinematheque, the Central Library, galleries in Echo Park and on Chung King Road). While you Westsiders may equate culture with the new-releases section at Blockbuster, we Eastsiders enjoy a cultural diet rich in the finer things. Leslee: Get over yourself. To most Eastsiders, culture means having a Corona at Spaceland. Sure, you have some primo cultural institutions, but we're not exactly hurting in that department. In addition to the Getty, which you were kind enough to mention, there's the Santa Monica Museum of Art, the Geffen Playhouse, the Wadsworth Theater, the Skirball Center, plus sleepers like Beyond Baroque, the Museum of Jurassic Technology and Highways. In sum, we have more culture than Yoplait. Round 5: Dining Do Eastsiders know the meaning of haute cuisine? Leslee: Why did the Westsider cross the road? For dim sum. That's about it. The most recent Zagat survey (notably by the people, for the people) puts the city's best American, best brunch, best breakfast, best Japanese, best Italian, best French, best Greek, best Indian, best Middle Eastern, best pizza, best steakhouse, best vegetarian--need I continue?--all on the Westside. You can't touch Josie's quiche, Nate 'n Al's lima bean soup, Bay Cities' submarine sandwiches, Stan's doughnuts or the perfect elegance of a patio table at the Hotel Bel-Air, not to mention the cheese at the Beverly Hills Cheese Shop and the fish at Santa Monica Seafood. In sum, we have better restaurants, better chefs and better food purveyors. Tell that to your king of weird meats and unpronounceable comestibles, Jonathan Gold. He can wave his pompoms all he likes. We still pack more flavor. Christopher: Put that flimsy Zagat away, girl. Every self-respecting foodie knows that Zagat is about as important to food as Cliffs Notes are to great literature. Don't kid yourself--most Westside joints dish out overpriced knockoffs of food you can get better and with much less attitude here. You want fancy eats? Try Patina, Musso & Frank, Ciudad, Vida, Les Deux Cafe or Water Grill. And another thing: Say what you want about weird meats, but don't mess with Jonathan Gold. You are but a slobbering jester in his culinary court. Round 6: Getting Around Are Westsiders ocean-locked losers without a clue? Christopher: Gridlock has got us both in a stranglehold. But getting around the Eastside does have its advantages. For one thing, we've got a subway so fast and spiffy that it almost makes us forget its utter impracticality for day-to-day travel. More important, however, is the fact that we're simply closer to more of what makes L.A. special. From here you can make a relatively quick trip to the Huntington Botanical Gardens or Watts Towers or the Burbank Bob's Big Boy without breaking a sweat. Any one of those trips would prompt nervous twitches and the installation of a global positioning system for a typical Westsider. Because we don't have that big blue barrier hemming us in on one side (I think you call it an ocean), we're never too far from what makes Los Angeles so vibrant and fascinating. Leslee: Oh yes, Burbank Bob's Big Boy: Isn't that one of the seven wonders of the world? Gimme a break. And that subway? Drew Carey's treadmill probably sees more use. Over here there's Highway 1, the most awesome drive in the city, as well as Sunset Boulevard from the Strip to the ocean, the second-most awesome drive. Figure in a few bike paths and clearly you're the sorry one. Round 7: Shopping Is "Eastside shopping" an oxymoron? Leslee: Remember on "Let's Make a Deal" when the contestant would pick curtain No. 3 hoping for the shiny new car and instead get a goat? That's Eastside shopping. Call us materialistic, but we've got the goods. In addition to a handful of malls and department stores ranging from Neiman's to Target where they actually sell stuff one needs--you have to commute to buy your tighty whities!--the Westside is home to the city's reigning shopping streets: Montana Avenue for linens and housewares, Main Street for beach gear, Robertson Boulevard for designer duds, Melrose Avenue for art and shoes, Abbot Kinney Boulevard for mid-century furniture, Rodeo Drive for bejeweled baubles. Destination bookshops like Hennessey & Ingalls and Heritage are also on our side. I challenge you to name something we can't buy over here, something anyone would want, that is. (I'll pass on the Los Angeles Zoo souvenir cap, thank you.) Christopher: Remember on "Let's Make a Deal" when Monty Hall's evil twin Melvin locked all the doors and everyone was trapped with piles of crappy appliances and an unruly goat? That's Westside shopping. Over here we're happy the retail goliaths are close enough to visit but far enough away that they don't devour our souls. Instead we've got the best local clothing designers (Sirens & Sailors, Andrew Dibbens), great flea markets and botanicas and entire districts devoted to jewelry, toys, flowers and fabric. Round 8: Night Life Is the Westside a black hole after dark? Christopher: Yet again, your feeble attempts to measure up barely merit mention. Night life on the Westside? After you've lapped up a lite beer at a seaside sports bar, the picking is thin, which is why so many of you flee 310 when night falls. Hollywood's Cahuenga Corridor alone contains a city's worth of great spots (Daddy's, Deep, Star Shoes). Meanwhile there are plenty more great bars (the Red Lion, the Bigfoot Lodge), superior venues for concerts and plays (the El Rey, the Wiltern, the Pantages), a wide selection of comedy clubs (the Groundlings, the Laugh Factory, the Hollywood Improv) and a teeming dance scene that includes everything from flashy flamenco at the Mayan to ecstatic electronic at Circus Disco. Bottom line? The only sure-fire way to have a great night on the Westside is to spend the first part of it driving east. Leslee: I'm going to teach you some respect. We don't wanna drive east, and we don't have to. Why bother when the Troubadour, the Viper Room, the Roxy, the Mint, Harvelle's, McCabe's, the Jazz Bakery, Circle Bar, Largo, Sugar, plus all the boys' clubs are over here? There's also all sorts of free, fun p.m. activities like the Santa Monica Pier summer music series, grunion watching and the Friday night skate through Santa Monica. As for those three comedy clubs you mentioned, I'd say they belong to us. Nice try, Boom Boom. Round 9: Air How do Eastsiders breathe? Leslee: You want to lay claim to something? How about being the birthplace of smog, 60-plus years ago. Congratulations. And you're still--cough--going strong. Might as well enjoy a celebratory smoke. The damage is already done. Christopher: To hear Westsiders tell it, perfumed breezes west of the 405 Freeway carry magic fairy dust and the Eastside is an industrial ghetto downwind from Chernobyl. Try to get this into your sun-scorched head: Our air is not that bad. And yours is not that good. Round 10: Public Radio Is Westside public radio more than the bloated pet of moneyed liberals? Christopher: There's no better example of the vast chasm between the East- and Westsides than the difference between our public radio stations. Admittedly, most of us listen to Santa Monica-based KCRW-FM (89.9) as much as we do to Pasadena-based KPCC-FM (89.3). But we're constantly reminded of--and deeply irritated by--how much KCRW exemplifies the Westside. Slick, calculated and stinking of liberal entitlement, KCRW feels less like a public resource than a lifestyle accessory for the Range Rover mommies sipping Starbucks on Montana Avenue before spinning class. Sure, none of our public radio stations can touch KCRW when it comes to funding or original programming. But we much prefer KPCC's earnest "Air Talk" over more insufferable nagging from KCRW station manager Ruth Seymour, endless cheesy promos for lavish trips we'll never take or yet another awkward interview with a French "turntablist" or some such on "Morning Becomes Eclectic." Leslee: First off, those Range Rover mommies aren't listening to the radio. They're talking on their cell phones, stupid. Now that that's cleared up, back to battle. No doubt Seymour could never find work as a 976 operator. The silken purr eludes her. But she has managed to assemble a mighty team of smart hosts such as Warren Olney and dope DJs like Garth Trinidad, making KCRW the best-known public radio station in the country. Besides, her voice is seldom heard. Alas, the same can't be said about Kitty Felde--whose name is "Kitty," anyway?--KPCC's interminably cheery afternoon host with the irrepressible giggle. Larry Mantle of "Air Talk" is another matter. He just might be the Eastside's best feature. And that's all the love you're getting. Round 11: Basics When it comes to important services like medical care and schools, is the Eastside lacking? Leslee: Ready for a face full of mat? 'Cause you're going down. And when you do, you'll be needing an M.D. Who you gonna call? Your Westside doc. You know the one--he's right down the street from your Westside dentist, at places likes UCLA, Cedars-Sinai, St. John's. You have Kaiser. Our schools are also superior. In Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Malibu, the Pacific Palisades, Topanga and parts of West Los Angeles, the public schools are actually draws. With few exceptions, your dilapidated mills of lowest-common-denominator learning simply can't compete. And we're not even talking about the Brentwoods and Crossroads, Harvard-Westlakes and Marymounts. When it comes to the stuff that really matters, your 'hood is about as attractive as a half-used bar of soap in a gas station john. Christopher: Overexposure to the sun has apparently done more than add years to your face. That's the expert opinion of physicians from all over the Eastside, from Childrens Hospital to Good Samaritan (where Westside heroine Madonna delivered her last baby, by the way). And while you seem certain the only good education is an expensive one, students at excellent public and private Eastside schools like Ivanhoe, 3rd Street Elementary, the Oaks and Temple Israel know better. Round 12: Housing Do Westsiders pay more for less? Christopher: There's one main reason why the Westside is so completely outclassed by the East: housing. Checked out any open houses in Santa Monica lately? The idea of a million-dollar stucco bungalow built for factory-floor aerospace workers would be laughable if it wasn't so depressing. For about half that fortune you can buy a Victorian mansion in Highland Park, a spacious Spanish in Eagle Rock or a landmark modern in Silver Lake. And while West L.A. working stiffs don't think twice forking over a third of their income in rent, less affluent Eastsiders live like royalty in grand Wilshire district townhouses or Los Feliz duplexes. The variety and affordability mean a broader range of people live and work here, which makes life far more interesting for all of us. Leslee: You know why people pay a premium to live on the Westside? Because it's worth it. I'm sorry your envy has made you so angry. I think there's a place for rent down the street. You can call me for the details. I promise I won't tell a soul.

Curses!

From the schoolyard to the workplace, the casual, common and public use of swearing has reached what many people consider to be shocking heights. November 14, 1999 Searching for a book at the Los Feliz library recently, Ruzielle Andrade was distracted by the voice of a 10-year-old girl sitting nearby. The girl idly poked at the keyboard of a reference computer while she talked to a boy hovering over her shoulder. "I'm gonna kick some major ass," she said. Then the girl, her shiny black hair combed straight back and a grin spread across her oval face, launched into a barrage of expletives that sounded more like the pre-show boasts of a gangster rapper than the after-school chat of a fifth-grader. Andrade, a 21-year-old college student, couldn't believe it. "When I was her age, I got in trouble if I said 'hell,' " she said. "And here's this little girl, just going off." At bus stops and coffee shops, banks and ballparks, at work and at play, cursing has become a part of everyday language. Cursing, of course, is nothing new. As long as people have stubbed their toes, played golf or gotten drunk, they have invoked the names of holy figures, private acts and other unmentionables. What is new is the casual, common and public use of obscenity. Expressions that might have drawn cold stares 20 years ago now are mere conversational filler. One study of everyday speech reported in the book "Cursing in America" says that about 8% of people's average work vocabulary consists of swear words. In leisure conversations, the crude word count climbs to 13%. And it's not just kids toying with forbidden phrases. Linguists say obscenities once associated with sailors and soldiers now spice up the public conversations of executives and housewives. Alarmed by the surge of trash talk, anti-cursing crusaders are making various attempts to clean up public language. In Michigan, a 25-year-old man recently was convicted of violating a 101-year-old law for shouting a string of profanities after tumbling out of a canoe. In Oklahoma City, city officials have pledged to uphold an anti-obscenity law and to broadcast offenders' mug shots on public-access television. And in Illinois, a reformed curser who calls himself "the dean of clean" has established the Cuss Control Academy, a school to advocate restraint as a way to a more civilized society. (In Los Angeles, foul language is not specifically forbidden. Mike Qualls, a spokesman for the city attorney, says the last time anyone was prosecuted for cursing was in 1969.) But swearing is everywhere, says Timothy Jay, a professor of psychology at North Adams State College in Massachusetts and author of four books on obscenity, including "Cursing in America." "We're exposed to it everywhere, on the radio and the Internet, in television and movies," Jay said. "Everything has swear words now. As consumers of language, you can't help pick it up," he said. For example, Dick Brett, a 64-year-old retired social worker, says he doesn't generally see R-rated films or listen to shock jock comics. But he knows the latest nasty idioms, thanks to regular lunches at the Sizzler restaurant near a Pasadena church where he volunteers. Unlike the indelicate language in videos or on TV, you can't press the mute button on the potty mouths at the next booth. "People rattle off the big curse words one after another," he said. "I don't think they mean anything by it. They just curse for the lack of anything better to say." And you don't have to leave home to hear it. Gideon Brower, a screenwriter, says he has become accustomed to being awakened in his Santa Monica apartment by the colorful language of drywall installers. "These guys stand right outside my window and curse up a storm," he said. "It's like waking up in a Scorsese film." At Farmers Insurance, a 71-year-old company that still maintains a strict dress code, managers have noted the gradual increase in cursing. "Maybe because of the loosening of standards in social settings, a lot of times people won't realize that the language they're using is offensive," said Robin Buendia, human resource services manager at Farmers' headquarters in Los Angeles. Farmers doesn't have a specific anti-obscenity policy, but most inappropriate language is covered by the company's stringent policies on harassment. "If one of our employees feels uncomfortable with language someone is using, they can come straight to us," Buendia said. "We're pretty conservative, and we put out the message that everyone is free to work in an environment that's free of harassment or intimidation. Even if it's something you'd naturally say in your home life, it's not appropriate in the work place." Psychology professor Jay has recorded conversations of kids at camp, workers in mail rooms, students in cafeterias, pedestrians on street corners, even customers at Kmart. His language-tracking studies show that the use of obscenity is no longer related to class or level of education, he said. The biggest increase has been recorded among two groups: children and women. While cussing has long been a right of passage for kids entering adolescence, profanity has become routine on and off the schoolyard. A full 52% of teenagers say that cursing is "in," according to a 1998 study by Teenage Research Unlimited. And most young people have a drastically different definition of obscenity than that of their parents. Fans of "South Park," "Beavis and Butthead" and TV-radio shock jock Howard Stern simply hear cursing differently--if they notice it at all--than those raised on "The Brady Bunch" or "Ozzie and Harriet." But children also sometimes become the family's language cop. Bobby Slayton, a comedian whose act is chock-full of four-letter words, says he is frequently chided by his 11-year-old daughter for bringing his work home. "She catches me, and I have to apologize," he said. "I just don't think cursing is such a big deal. I let her know it's not the worst thing in the world to do. "As long as you recycle, eat dolphin-safe tuna and get the hell out of the left lane when someone's trying to pass you, if there is a heaven, that's where you're going." Guillermo Carranza, who works behind the counter of a Sunset Boulevard copy shop, says he is amazed by how many customers--men and women alike--deal with jammed printers and smudged photocopies by cursing like crazy. "It trips me out that they use all this foul language all the time over something so stupid," said Carranza, 19. "If it keeps going like it's going now, there's going to be dirt coming out every time anyone opens their mouth. I don't want my kids coming up like that. I'm going to teach them how to express themselves without using foul language." The desire to polish up public appearances prompted an Illinois public relations consultant, Jim O'Connor, to give up cursing cold turkey. O'Connor didn't have a religious conversion or moral revelation; he says he simply wanted to eliminate a habit he feared made him seem crude and inconsiderate. "We have a tendency to assume that if you swear, nobody's going to mind," he said. "But I've found that that's not true. People may not say anything, but they're either offended or they just don't have the respect for you that you'd like them to have." Soon after cleaning up his own language, O'Connor established the Cuss Control Academy to coach others in techniques he calls "Tips for Taming Your Tongue." In weekend classes and lectures to schools and civic groups, O'Connor outlines methods for managing anger and provides lists of sanitized alternatives for common curses. "When you say 'nuts,' 'rats' or 'phooey,' you may not feel like you're expressing as much anger or frustration," he said. "But we really need to look at why we have to express that emotion so frequently to begin with. Accidents happen, people make mistakes, traffic is part of driving. But we just keep getting more hostile, more aggressive, more abrasive and more belligerent." So to O'Connor, curbing cursing is akin to fighting crime by ticketing vandals and loiterers--fix the little things and you prevent the big things from ever happening. "It's not just the words, it's the attitude behind the words," he said. "When you swear, you can start to feel like the world is unfair. . . . It's just negativeness." Others say cutting curse words would do nothing to make life fundamentally cheerier. "Words express what we feel--and because we're angry people, we're sexual people, we have a language that expresses those things," Jay said. "Swear words simply do things that other words don't." Swearing is "built into most Americans," he says, "like horns in cars." And sometimes, you've just got to honk. The 10-year-old girl whose rant astonished library patrons told Andrade that she does not intend to stop swearing in public or anywhere else. Leaning against a chair with a fist planted on her hip, she said that she's sorry she offended people around her but that she doesn't understand why swearing is such a big deal. "My dad tells me not to swear, but I don't care," she said. "People just get me mad."

The Roman Empire Rises Again

A gladiator epic held no interest for director Ridley Scott--until he saw there was a world to create. April 23, 2000 Director Ridley Scott remembers groaning and rolling his eyes when he was first approached with the idea for "Gladiator," an epic adventure that marks Hollywood's return to the era so lavishly portrayed in classics like "Ben-Hur" and "Spartacus." "My first thought was basically, 'ick,' " he says. "All I could see was togas and sandals and permed hair." Yet producers Walter Parkes and Douglas Wick needed just a simple prop to spark the interest of Scott, whose credits include "Blade Runner," "Alien," "Thelma & Louise" and "G.I. Jane." Before uttering a word about story or cast for the DreamWorks movie, the producers showed Scott a reproduction of a 19th century painting by Jean-Leon Gero¬me picturing a beefy Roman warrior standing before a full house at the Colosseum. "This picture was perfect--the proportions, the architecture, the light and shadow, everything," Scott says. "From that picture alone, I thought, 'That's a great world to open up. We haven't been there in a long time.' I was in, right there." Indeed, in the 40 years since Kirk Douglas made a toga look manly in "Spartacus," the gladiator movie has gone from studio mainstay to creaky relic, with today's moviegoers more likely to associate the genre with a punch line from "Airplane!" than one of the seminal settings of Hollywood's golden age. Which is precisely why, Scott says, the time is right for a comeback. "It's so old it's new again," he says. "It was due for a good freshening up." There are few directors more suited to spiffing up a genre than Scott, an elfin Brit who at 63 has made a career of creating grand spectacles and topical adventures. Puffing a fat Monte Carlo cigar in the West Hollywood production offices he shares with his younger brother and fellow director Tony, Scott spent a recent morning discussing the making of his $ 100-million "postmodern Roman epic" before heading off to Italy to begin shooting his next project: "Hannibal," the long-anticipated sequel to "The Silence of the Lambs." With "Gladiator," Scott says he set out to re-imagine a classic form in distinctly modern terms. The mythic tale of a hero's odyssey is given a psychological and political polish, with David Franzoni's story pitting a tortured warrior against an evil emperor who is revealed to be more wounded child than cunning arch-enemy. And while its major thrills are delivered in the arena, where extravagant fight scenes are captured in teeth-rattling digital sound, "Gladiator" also deals with the savagery of public combat and the unseemly motives of those who stage escapist spectacles for the sake of "the mob." But perhaps the most striking thing about this swords-and-sandals update is Scott's sweeping vision of the Roman Empire. The film opens in the muddy forests of Germania, moves to the desert provinces of North Africa and ends in the towering metropolis of Rome at its most glorious. Each of these three settings is realized with the sort of clever digital imaging that makes "Gladiator" feel more sci-fi than Classic Lit. The generous helpings of eye candy will come as no surprise to Scott's fans, who forgive even his least successful films--Tom Cruise as a pointy-eared forest boy in 1985's "Legend" was not exactly a career highlight--for the sake of all the intricate, painterly surfaces. For "Gladiator," Scott studied subjects ranging from the plumbing at the Colosseum to the construction of ancient catapults in an attempt to fill all the film's nooks and crannies with original detail. "What I do is create worlds," Scott says. "Whether it's historical or futuristic, creating a world is the most attractive thing to me about filmmaking because everything goes--it's a matter of drawing up your rule book and sticking to it." The problem with summoning the particular world of "Gladiator," says Parkes, executive producer and DreamWorks co-head of production, was the association with what he calls "toga movies." "We wanted to avoid connotations left over from movies with cardboard sets and men wearing skirts and sandals," Parkes says. "Ridley has so much taste and visual sense that we knew that was something we didn't have to be afraid of." Producer Wick agrees that Scott's involvement eased any fears of kitsch. "The idea of Ridley Scott being a tour guide through 2nd century Rome was very exciting--that was a bus I wanted to get on," Wick says. But something far more basic than the creation of worlds sets "Gladiator" apart from its predecessors. "Filmmaking 40 years ago tended to be much more theatrical," Scott says. "You're always standing back looking at this beautiful tapestry. That's nice, but to me you can't beat a close-up of a good actor doing his thing properly. I wanted to get inside, to do something about real people who had real predicaments as you would see them in a contemporary movie." There are predicaments galore in "Gladiator." Franzoni, John Logan and William Nicholson's script mixes Roman history, classic myth and superhero action. As a general the Roman emperor ordered killed, Russell Crowe must overcome slavery and conscription in the brutal gladiator games. As the emperor Commodus, Joaquin Phoenix tries to outmaneuver a squabbling congress that seeks the restoration of democracy. And as the emperor's sister, Connie Nielsen attempts to aid in the resistance while protecting her only son from her brother's paranoia. ••• Crowe may not have been the most obvious choice to play Maximus, especially coming off the part of the paunchy, middle-aged executive that earned him an Oscar nomination for "The Insider." But Scott says he was more intrigued by "Romper Stomper," in which Crowe played a murderous neo-Nazi. "I thought, 'Wow, there's an animal,' " Scott recalls. "When you meet him, he's also smart and articulate and very well-read. He does his research and comes to the table fully prepared--and God help you if you're not." Crowe also contributed suggestions for character and story, elements Scott says he has only recently come to appreciate fully. "Over the years, I've learned to pay attention to material to the extent that I now understand that story and characters are the most important thing in any movie," Scott says. "The audience must identify with someone in a film and go on a journey with them. That's called escapism. I don't care if it's the stupidest mainstream movie or a really smart movie--it's got to communicate." This no-nonsense sense of story is what Scott thinks sets him apart from more highbrow filmmakers, particularly in his native England. "The problem with communicating means it's also got to sell--which is very anti-British," he says. "The British seem to admire failure rather than success, providing it's artistic or adheres to certain intellectual criteria that are noncommunicative except to a few people. But we aren't in the business of a few people; we're in the business of a lot of people, just by definition of cost. If you deny that, you're a moron and you will very soon not continue working." Such notions are not just idle pondering--the nature of mass entertainment is one of the central themes of "Gladiator." With most of the action revolving around spectacles staged to distract the masses from the hardships of their everyday lives, the film could easily be seen as a commentary on the Hollywood blockbuster. When the emperor Commodus announces the commencement of the games, a political opponent wryly notes: "He'll conjure magic for them, and they'll be distracted." Which begs the question: Is he talking about gladiators or "Gladiator"? Scott admits he feels a close allegiance to Proximo, the gladiator trainer played by Derek Jacobi, who describes himself as "an entertainer." But Scott says he sees no conflict in milking thrills from bloody battles while simultaneously condemning the combatants for their brutality. "It's guilty pleasure," he says. "If we could only get the world to get their religious and political rocks off by sitting in a theater rather than killing each other, wouldn't that be healthier?" ••• Scott began his career as a painter, graduating from London's Royal College of Art (where he was a classmate of David Hockney) before hanging up the brushes to make commercials. While he has few regrets about leaving the artist's life behind--for one thing, he probably couldn't afford the homes in Brentwood, London and Arles, France, if he had remained a painter--Scott says he sometimes wishes for a more solitary career. "I really think the perfect life is a writer, painter or musician," he says. "You're on your own. You're not relying on anyone. You have your own brushes or canvas or note pad. I need a bloody army to do what I do." For "Gladiator," that army was an international force, dispatched in battalions to London, Morocco and Malta. By fortunate accident, production followed the story's sequence, beginning in a forest seven miles from Gatwick Airport that doubled as ancient Germania. The film opens on a gloomy winter evening, with Maximus unleashing a barrage of 16,000 flaming arrows in a jittery, bloody battle sequence that looks worlds away from the majestic set pieces of classic Roman adventures. Scott says he was directly inspired by the gritty realism in "Saving Private Ryan." "Steven Spielberg threw down the gauntlet with 'Ryan,' " he says. "To me, that movie put everyone who makes films on notice that if you're going to see battle, you had better take people right there and have metal whizzing past their ears. They better really get how unglamorous it all is." But in the process of re-creating the carnage of war, the producers completely destroyed nearly everything within a few miles. Scott says the production was merely fulfilling the wishes of the local forestry commission, which wanted to remove undernourished pines in a section known as Bourne Woods. "The forest commissioner told me either we could take down the forest, or he would," Scott says. "I told him fine--we'd rip the expletive out of it." Next, the crew moved to Morocco for a section of the story that was added relatively late in the development of the script. "If we jumped straight from Germany to Rome, we used up Rome too quickly," Scott says. "We invented a journey through the provinces in North Africa because we wanted to save Rome for the third act." Rome was re-created on the island of Malta, where a 17th century Spanish fort stood in for the floor of the Colosseum, the surrounding streets and a local marketplace. Digital effects helped elongate the views, adding upper levels and top stories. "Romans had six-story tenements and tall buildings," Scott says. "The Colosseum stood 265 feet high. Every time we've seen Rome in movies before, it's been a horizontal city, but I wanted this to be a vertical city, looming over everyone." In fact, life in ancient Rome must have felt remarkably similar to life in any big city, Scott says. Sitting in a crowd with 36,000 at the Colosseum would have been much like attending any modern sporting event. Scott says he may have underplayed such a comparison in his past work, but "Gladiator" is explicit, casting the gladiators as sports heroes and the crowd as clamoring fans. "In the past I often took a jump and hoped people would get it--and of course they didn't," he says. "It was too internalized. I've learned to take the jump and make sure people get it. "It's exactly the same as going to a football match. The only difference now is that everyone gets up at the end of the game."

L.A. Imax Says No, So Disney Builds Its Own Huge Screen

Created to show 'Fantasia/2000,' the deluxe but temporary theater will be dismantled four months after its opening on New Year's Day. December 7, 1999 Rebuffed by operators of the only Imax theater in central Los Angeles, Disney is taking the extraordinary step of building a temporary theater to showcase its first Imax feature, "Fantasia/2000." The new theater, a steel and fiberglass tent constructed at a cost approaching $4 million, will open New Year's Day in West Los Angeles, off the 405 Freeway near Howard Hughes Parkway. The theater will include 622 stadium-style seats, a 12,000-watt digital sound system and a 56-foot-tall, 80-foot-wide screen that builders say is as large as any Imax screen in Southern California. But the theater's most impressive feature is its short life span: The entire facility will be broken down and cleared away just four months after it opens. "Fantasia/2000" is an update and reworking of the 1940 classic, featuring seven new animated sequences set to classical music. Disney executives have booked the 75-minute film at 76 Imax screens worldwide. But when Disney executives went searching for an Imax in L.A., they found locals a little less eager to welcome Disney. Directors of the California Science Center--which includes a 480-seat Imax theater as part of the nonprofit science and technology museum--say negotiations with Disney broke down over the educational merits of "Fantasia/2000" and the studio's demand for an exclusive engagement. "We tried to be flexible, but we couldn't turn over our entire schedule to Disney," says Joe DeAmicis, vice president of marketing for the California Science Center. "We're an educational institution, and we had real questions about whether this would meet the mandate of the school groups we serve." The center schedules four early weekday show times for groups of schoolchildren on field trips to the museum. Flashier Imax features like the current "Siegfried & Roy: The Magic Box" are shown only in the afternoons, after most school groups have left. DeAmicis says Disney would not budge on scheduling: They wanted the entire day for "Fantasia/2000." "It was a very painful decision for us," says DeAmicis. "Disney is a donor to the museum, and we wanted very much to make this work. But we just couldn't live with their conditions." Dick Cook, chairman of the Walt Disney Motion Picture Group, says he doesn't understand the museum's objections because the company feels that "Fantasia/2000" met the educational requirements. The film is showing at 20 other museums and science centers, along with Disney-designed exhibits exploring the art, music and technology showcased in the film. In addition, Cook says Disney is providing study guides and sponsoring teacher conferences to encourage students to learn more about computer animation and classical music. "The argument that this isn't educational is just bogus," Cook says. "This is a tremendous learning opportunity--that's why it's been embraced by 20 other museums and science centers." After nearly six months of negotiations, Disney made the decision to go it alone, Cook says. "Luckily, we have the technologies and capabilities to do something very unusual and build a theater from scratch," he said. Disney's special-events division was called in the last week of November to build the theater--including four layers of soundproof tenting material, digital sound equipment, and heating and cooling systems--in just four weeks. Lyle Breier, vice president of Disney special events, says the project was suited to a staff that has previously erected a temporary theater on Alcatraz Island for the premiere of "The Rock" and another at Kennedy Space Center for the premiere of "Armageddon." Cook says he and his colleagues understand that some people might consider a tad outlandish the idea of building a deluxe theater for a four-month engagement. "That crossed our minds, but only fleetingly," he says. "This movie is very special to the studio, and it speaks right to the heart of our company. We felt we couldn't not do it."

Taking a Fast-Track Career in Stride

After 'Romeo Must Die' made him a U.S. star, Jet Li declined 'Matrix' sequels. The mild-mannered Buddhist made an unlikely choice instead: a hyperviolent action film. July 4, 2001 Four years ago, Jet Li decided he was done with movies and martial arts. The thoughtful, energetic native of Beijing had just turned 34 and was feeling increasingly burned out and beaten up after a long run as a superstar of Hong Kong cinema and as a master of the modern form of kung fu known as wushu. "I started to feel very tired--physically and creatively," he says. "I had trained and worked since I was 8 years old. I wanted to change my life and focus on the next level." Li planned to retire and devote himself full time to the study of Buddhism. He envisioned a quiet life of study, chanting and meditation. Fast forward to a recent sunny afternoon at a posh hotel in Beverly Hills, where Li is fielding questions from a phalanx of eager showbiz reporters. Dressed in a snug silk T-shirt and black slacks, he's the centerpiece of a 20th Century Fox junket to promote his first English-language star vehicle, a gritty and graphic $25-million punch-up called "Kiss of the Dragon." He's also recently wrapped a sci-fi fantasy and produced a television pilot with Mel Gibson. When this promotional whirlwind is over, Li will head back to mainland China to begin work on a period adventure with director James Wong. So much for the quiet life of contemplation.Li says he was convinced not to retire by an unlikely person: a teacher of Tibetan Buddhism named Lo Kunsang Rinpoche. "He said, 'You can't quit. You have a larger responsibility to continue to do your job.' I asked him what is that responsibility? He told me he didn't know. I had to figure it out myself." And in a twist of fortunes that Li himself cannot quite explain, his career took off almost immediately after his encounter with the monk. With the Hong Kong film industry falling apart under the pressure of rampant corruption and the impending takeover of the colony by the People's Republic of China, Li got a call from an agent at International Creative Management asking if he would consider a role as a mob boss in "Lethal Weapon 4." Soon Li left Hong Kong for Los Angeles, where he spent four hours a day with a language tutor and began developing projects of his own. After the surprise box-office hit "Romeo Must Die," which paired Li with rapper DMX in a story of a Chinese cop transplanted to Oakland, Li was suddenly a hot commodity--so much so that he felt secure turning down offers from Oliver Stone to appear in "The Art of War" and from the Wachowski brothers to appear in the next two "Matrix" sequels. Somewhere along the way, Li also arrived at the spiritual answer he was seeking. That message is spelled out on his official Web site, http://www.jetli.com, where fans expecting to learn about his famous spinning kicks or favorite leading ladies may be surprised to find Li's musings on the nature of karma and Taoist philosophy. Visitors are greeted by a swirling lotus, which unfurls into Li's reflections on why he sticks with a career distinguished by "grueling physical work and constant risk of injury." It's not money or celebrity, he insists: "I have made enough money to take care of my family for a long time. And fame, as we all know, is fleeting." So why not give it up? "Last year, I finally figured it out," he wrote. "I had a responsibility to help introduce Buddhism to the West--in nontraditional ways and through nontraditional media." But don't expect much in the way of spiritual teaching in "Kiss of the Dragon," a rough piece of business that casts Li as a government agent battling a corrupt police captain on the mean streets of Paris. Written in three weeks, shot in six and produced by a new European company headed by French filmmaker Luc Besson, the film is a showpiece for the sort of bare-knuckle, unadorned combat Li says has been missing from the current wave of American martial arts movies. From the start, Li says he wanted to avoid the wire work and digital adornments that have distinguished successes like "Charlie's Angels" and "The Matrix." "After 'The Matrix,' everybody do action movie with people fighting while flying around," he says. "Suddenly everyone can fight. Man can do, girl can do, little boy can do, even cartoon can do the same thing. In this movie, everyone really can do." That's the essential appeal of Li to American audiences, says his manager and "Kiss of the Dragon" co-producer Steven Chasman. "People can identify with a guy who is well under 6 feet tall and 160 pounds--they can root for him," he says. "This is a guy who can do something with his hands without laser guns or nuclear weapons." And unlike Jackie Chan, who is known for his comic pratfalls and elaborate stunts, Li has fashioned a persona that's sexy and potent. While Chan is constantly scuttling away from danger, mugging for the camera as he blocks the attacks of enemies, Li walks solemnly into even the most dangerous trap, dispatching all comers with economic flourish. If Chan is the exuberant clown of Hong Kong imports, Li is the ace fighter, sleek and dangerous. Those skills are on full display in "Dragon," which pits Li against the entire French police force after he is framed for the murder of a Chinese spy. Holed up in a storefront in the city's red-light district, he befriends a strung-out American played by Bridget Fonda, who has been forced into prostitution by a police official, played by reptilian bad guy Tcheky Karyo. Light on humor and heavy on the bloody neo-noir Besson perfected in "La Femme Nikita" and "The Professional," the movie serves up thugs aplenty for Li to flatten, impale and otherwise pound. The level of violence is such that after seeing the final cut of the movie a few weeks ago, Li felt compelled to make an unusual pre-release announcement. The morning after the screening, Li posted a notice on his Web site warning parents of small children about the movie's "very realistic, hard-core, action-packed fight sequences." "I'm very proud of the final result and hope that my fans enjoy the movie," he wrote. "However, this is a movie that I do not feel is appropriate for children." Li says he decided to post the notice without consulting with his American partners at 20th Century Fox after reading an e-mail from a fan who said he was looking forward to taking his children to "Dragon." "I am a parent too," says Li, who turned down a starring role in "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" to be closer to his family around the time of the birth of his now 14-month-old daughter, Jane. "Sometime we are walking in the mall and I see kids and they see me and say, 'Hi, Jet Li! Kick! Kick!' They do some moves, they talk to me, and I play with them. And they are only 3 or 5 years old! These kids see my movies--and I know I need to mention to their parents and say, this is an R-rated movie, this is for adults. That is my whole point." Li advises parents to wait until November for a more family-friendly release called "The One," in which Li faces himself in several dimensions. It's hard to imagine many other action stars promoting another movie in the days before the opening of his first star vehicle, but Li says after 25 movies in Hong Kong and three in America, he's learned to take a sage, long-term view. "In Buddhism, nothing is permanent," he says, squinting into a courtyard garden. "This flower is very beautiful now, but a few months later, no flower. Now martial arts movie is popular all over the world, but how long? You don't know. One year, two years, maybe gone. You hope your movie becomes successful, but all you can do is your best and keep your responsibility to yourself."