Fondation Louis Vuitton

'Anchors Away!'
Photo: WC News Service/Richard Carreño

ALL HAT, NO CATTLE

By RICHARD CARREÑO

PARIS [WC News Service] -- The super rich and powerful get all sorts things named for them; their fabulous wealth underwriting  ego-centric municipal projects from hospitals and sports stadiums to theatres and, increasingly for those billionaire one-per-centers who also fancy themselves as art connoisseurs, eponymous museums that showcase their putative, ahem, 'connoisseurship.'

 

Step forward, please, France's richest man, one Bernard Arnault, chairman of the luxury goods conglomerate, LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton, who has also created what may be one of the the world's worst contemporary art museums, the newly-minted Fondation Louis Vuitton, a Frank Gehry-designed behemoth that rises up in Paris' principal park, the Bois de Boulogne.

The mega-million-euro museum, resembling an ocean-going ark with a very large prow, opened in late 2014. I got around to it earlier this month.

True, the museum doesn't bear Arnault's name. Never mind. Arnault is Vuitton, and, in the tony precincts of the 16th, Mayfair, and the Upper East Side, everyone knows it. That, seemingly, is enough for the vainglorious Arnault.

Ava Maria! The One Guy She Didn't Screw...

Ava Gardner: John O'Hara's Pal, at his feet

... But Surely He Wished He Had

 

'She described their life together. 'I was happy traveling with the band, hanging out with Artie [Shaw, her husband] and his literary pals. Guys like Sid Perelman, Bill Saroyan, John O'Hara. Artie said all I had to do was keep my mouth shut, sit at their feet, and absorb their wit and wisdom. I was happy to do that. I was comfortable with those guys.' -- Ava Gardner, in a profile by Peter Evans in the July 2013 edition of Vanity Fair.

The PJ depends exclusively on reader support. Please help us continue by contributing directly via PayPal, or by contributing editorial content via PhiladelphiaJunto@ymail.com. Empowered by Writers Clearinghouse | S.P.Q.R. 1976 Richard Carreño, Editor Copyright MMXIII All Rights Reserved

Hollywood Confidential

 (Photo: Writers Cleraringhouse News Service)

Brand Bookshop, Glendale, California

LA GOES LITERATE

By Richard Carreño
[Writers Clearinghouse News Service]
Los Angeles
Los Angeles is one of my favourite bookish cities.

What, Tinseltown, the Entertainment Capital of the World (read, Hollywood); and home of the upcoming, umpteenth Academy Awards show, the world's greatest showcase of tasteless ritz 'n glitz, is going literate?

Who knew?

What would, I daresay, Dorothy Parker or F. Scott Fitzgerald, two of Lalaland's sharpest critics, think?

Parker probably would now say the same thing I'm saying: That in the last decade or two LA is belatedly getting a much-deserved 800 on its SAT Readings score. Fitzgerald? Well, 'I'll drink to that!'

Of course, tourists have nothing to fear. Hollywood sleaze still prevails at Hollywood and Vine. Kiddies still get the ride of a lifetime at Universal Studios, and, if you're lucky, you too can still spot a B-lister on Rodeo Drive or on Melrose.

My LA, however, is one of bookshops. Consistent, perhaps, since I'm a founding partner (along with my late father) of @philabooks|booksellers, an on-line, Philadelphia-based used bookstore. My work requires periodic book buying sprees to various cities where, over time, I've found particular success in finding titles in my speciality areas: books by and about John O'Hara; the Duke and Duchess of Windsor; books about the The New Yorker; equestrianism; and the arts (particularly about mid-20th century European and American painting and about museums).

I've honed my book buying to Boston (John O'Hara and equestrian pursuits); Washington (again, riding; and the Windsors); New York (John O'Hara and, not surprisingly, The New Yorker); and to my hometown of Philadelphia (local boy O'Hara, the Windsors, and horsey titles). Lastly, there's Los Angeles. And, this being mega-city LA, of course, its Southland environs get included.

While other back-East cities seem to emphasise, as I've noted, specific speciality areas, Los Angeles bookshops (and I count used bookstores at local libraries among these) have a lot of everything. I've long ago given up trying to understand the 'science' of bookbuying and bookselling. It is what it is, as they say. So, if my other bookbuying cities have a smattering of this or that, my LA caters to all my interest areas.

Moreover (and, at this point, I trust that my West Coast comrades will leave the room), LA pricing is generally about 50 percent, yes, 50 percent, cheaper than those found back East. In other words, I'm looking at an immediate 25 to 50 percent markup. Sometimes, even a 100 percent, or a keystone, markup since many titles are woefully underpriced at retail here. (Without mentioning names, I came away a few years ago with about a half-dozen O'Hara titles that way, and have since successfully keystoned them).

I was at a wedding at a private house last weekend, in the Mar Vista hills, overlooking a truly breath-taking view of West Hollywood (despite the area's name, no ocean views, unfortunately), when I learned that my table companion, Richard Gibson, was a collector and seller of fine art books. (Ted Gibson Framing, 4271 West 3rd Street). Later, I also learned that Gibson comes highly tauted. I'm not surprised. In between, wedding toasts, he spoke knowledgeably about his book collection and fine art framing.

Whether I'm in Long Beach on a visit to Acres of Books, LA's largest secondhand bookshop; to Book City in Hollywood; or to bookshops in Los Feliz, where my brother Mark lives, the range, number, and speciality of local bookshops never fail to inspire hope about the written word and the future of the printed page. (Forget Kindle. At outdoor cafes here, you see readers reading books).

I even like some shops with new books; though unless I encounter deep discounting, I rarely bother with them for serious buying. (Still, who can not like Hennessey+Ingalls in Santa Monica, one of the world's great art and architecture bookshops).

True, any reverie that places LA, the nation's second largest city, as the West's principal book haven doesn't always stack up with the statistics. Or alledged statistics. Believe it or not, an institution of higher learning, Central Connecticut State University, has even come up recently with data that shows Los Angeles as the 59th 'literate' city in the United States, behind, ahem, way behind, such well-known cultural meccas as Tulsa; Lincoln, Nebraska; and Tampa. (Philadelphia, at 31, also wins out).

Connecticut State has also crunched the numbers regarding bookshops per 10,000 residents in the top 75 US cities. How much humbug are these stats? Well, Newark, New Jersey, is ranked No 1. Philadelphia is 37, even with Borders closing on Broad Street. New York is 68. Los Angeles, 70. Please, enough said.

To my mind, Conn State's figures fail to pass the smell test. Who can't remember just 10 years back when Center City Philly was richer by at least five other prominent bookshops? Manhattan? Same thing. Back East, bookshops are a dying breed. Here, despite Conn State stats, they're thriving.

In all, I can easily count up to 50 bookshops in Los Angeles within easy driving distance. In sheer number alone, try that, Philadelphia! Even mid-town Manhattan!

Like driving, bookshops are part of the daily culture here. I was having lunch Tuesday with Mark at the Figaro (a fabulous French bistro on Vermont Avenue), and I was flanked by at least three bookstores and the Los Feliz branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. The nearby Skylight on North Vermont Avenue is probably is best known. New books only. Still, I usually wind up buying something.

For one reason another (again, the science of the thing), many local bookshops specialize in travel. Many others, not surprisingly, concentrate on show biz in all its forms, from film to music.

More evidence of literary LA? The Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, its 16th, to be held at the University of Southern California campus here from 21-22 April, is one of the largest in the country.

Actually, my favourite LA bookshops aren't exactly in LA, but rather in Glendale, best known for its 'Beverly Hills' of Hollywood's deceased, Forest Lawn cemetery.

To a Philadelphian, describing Glendale results in a jumble of tangled bits, in that no Philadelphia suburb quite matches Glendale in population and building density, walkability, and affluence. Wilmington, Delaware, might be something like it if Wilmington were located where Upper Darby is (with no West Philly in between) and with a main street that sported a Tiffany's and other up-market shops. And, of course, 'niceness.' If Glendale were in Ireland, it'd be the kind of place where Postman Pat would tip his tam 'o shanter and offer you a 'top of the morin'.' People smile and take pride in the community. (Earlier this week, I noticed a pedestrian on the main drag, Brand Boulevard, picking up and disposing of a stray newspaper. Why? Because he just cared).

In this idyllic place (don't forget the palm trees), I've found my top fav bookshops, four in all. Thankfully, a branch of Barnes & Noble has replaced the Borders on Brand that bit the dust. Hold on! This isn't just any B&N. In its location, in the new Americana mall, it's the largest in square footage and inventory west of the Mississippi, more than three times the size of the B&N on Rittenhouse Square in Philly. And the branch specializes in books, not the book paraphernalia that seems to encroach on B&N branches back East.

It's also a 'sustainable.' Not surprising, this being California and all. 'Do you want paper or plastic?' the youthful sales associate asked before wrapping my purchase. When learning of my Philly roots, he added, 'We're sustainable here. I don't think you have paper bags at the branches back East yet.' He was right.

Bookfellers, also on Brand, is another favourite. This place is especially well stocked in American literature. (In other words, John O'Hara country). For the arts and equestrian titles, the Glendale Public Library's resale shop, the Book Nook, is the place to go. When in idle conversation, I mentioned that I was from Philadelphia, the sales associate was genuinely interested in my bookbuying adventures. Had I tried the Goodwill store, with its extensive collection of used books? I had. It was closed. 'Anyway, welcome to Glendale!' she said.

For my purposes, I can find no better book emporium in Los Angeles than Brand Bookshop on North Brand Boulevard, overseen by the genial and knowledgeable Jerome Joseph. (And aged. He's 83. His son, who also works in the shop, is 63. A murky future, maybe?)

Since 1986, Mr. Joseph has presided over an inventory of more than 100,000 titles. This is shop that caters to my every whim. I whip off the shelf Roger Scruton's On Hunting. Two books, one by Lllian Ross and other by E.J. Kahn, Jr., whet my New Yorker interest. What? Two books by Margaret Cabell Self, the mid-20th century eminence grise of riding instruction. These too are spoken for in short order. I scope out the shelves, yes, shelves of books on museums.

Brand Bookshop does what few other used book stores can't or are unwilling to do. Books are clean, plentiful, and reasonably priced. And uniquely sold by Mr. Joseph, one of the most kindly and convivial booksellers I have ever met. That combination, no doubt, accounts for the fact that Brand Bookshop is rated, year after year, as the 'BEST USED BOOKSTORE' in LA by Los Angeles Magazine.

'Good to see you again,' Mr. Joseph told me as I concluded my purchase.

Needless to say, as well, for bookbuyers, welcome to Glendale.

@ the Cinema

Brides-mades in Hell

By Victoria Ordin
[Writers Clearinghouse News Service]


Los Angeles
I saw Bridesmaids last night with J after a great sushi dinner, at which I ordered a special roll posted by a FB friend of mine in Oregon, after whom the restaurant named a special roll (spicy salmon, spicy tuna and cucumber on inside, tuna and halibut on the outside, with a sweet and spicy Tobiko sauce–fabulous).

J loved it and I would give it a B- at best. The movie has some cry because you’re laughing so hard moments. The movie opens with Kristen Wiig–a zany, super skinny, beautiful blonde, about 40, who truly is like a Lucille Ball/Carol Burnett cross with Meg Ryan (physical comedian as well as romantic comedy star)–having just about the worst sex I have ever witnessed in a movie or TV show, with Jon Hamm of Mad Men. He is wealthy, lives in a crazy beautiful modern home and drives a late model Porsche, very nice car.

Victoria Ordin

The scene is hilarious as he likes to fuck very, very quickly and it’s like she’s on a mechanical bull on overdrive. She tries to slow it down and he resists and the poor girl gets bounced around more than a teenager on a trotting horse who doesn’t yet know how to post. The best part is that he won’t let her sleep over and she cannot get out of the gate, so climbs on top of the power gate which begins to move, so that she is being metaphorically kicked to the curb, by a mechanical gate, all the while straddling it in her very short dress. (She’s very thin, a 0 to 2, and has very long, thin legs which she shows off in short dresses throughout the film. A FB friend of mine, a genius with multiple degrees in his 50s said he would see the movie, which he found hilarious throughout, just too see Kirsten Wiig in her underwear again. I’m a girl: I would only see it again at home on DVD to see the adorable yellow labrador puppies which are party favors at an extravagant wedding part. Little Emmas (J’s lab’s name).

Wiig plays a down-and-out girl in Milwaukee who lost her business–a bakery named Cake Baby–and works in a low end jewelry store. It is funny when she talks a blissfully in love Asian couple out of a ring, basically, and then tells a stupid teenager who wants a “best friends forever” necklace that she is unlikely to remain best friends with this girl for life (projecting of course, her own situation with her childhood best friend, Maya Rudolph, the bride in them movie with whom I had occasional playdates on the boat or at her house, in the same elementary school class with me at St. Augustine as Gwyneth Paltrow). She was not my best friend or anything, but we went to Universal Studios with my housekeeper and I still have the pictures somewhere. She came to the boat for one or two sleepovers and her father Richard, who lived in Westwood, with Maya after her talented mother, a singer with 5 octave range before Mariah Carey was even born–Minnie Ripperton–died of breast cancer. That amusing scene ends with Wiig calling her a cunt and getting fired, and I did enjoy both of those scenes.

Maya Rudolph’s character, Lillian, becomes engaged and asks her best friend since childhood to be her maid of honor. The best comedic scene in the film comes early when Wiig shows up at the fancy club to which Lillian and Doug belong, along with her new best friend, extremely wealthy trophy wife, Helen (very pretty with killer body but not intimidatingly pretty, the sort of girl you stand next to and feel profoundly inferior).

(As an aside, the movie takes a very dim view of children. When the annoying and snobby Helen asks her stepkids, whom she at first calls kids, if they want to go to the snack bar at the country/tennis club, one tells her to “fuck off.” And the married, funny, not beautiful but well-to-do blonde who wants to do the bachelorette party in Vegas because her hair stylist can get them free blow, which will presumably make having “balls in her face” that much more enjoyable and memorable, has three sons, one of whom also tells her to fuck off. Maybe it’s a boy thing; none of these women has daughters or step-daughters.)

But the whole wedding–very expensive–along with the pre-wedding dinners, showers, parties gets to Wiig who is of course understandably jealous both for financial and romantic reasons. Her boyfriend dumped her when the bakery went under. She lives with a brother and sister from England who are funny but also depressing (the sister is obese and dumb and gets a horrible tattoo which becomes infected and when Wiig tells her to put frozen peas on the infection, she opens a bag and dumps it out, ignoring Wiig’s explanation that you’re supposed to leave the peas the bag).

So she doesn’t even have her own place (at 40, we know she slept in Lillian’s bathtub at 38). She works a shitty job she only got because her mother, played by the late, great Jill Clayburgh, sponsors her boss in AA, which she attends for its inspirational value, in spite of never having been a drinker. She only has one friend, really, her best friend since kindergarten, and then later, the gem of the movie, Melissa McCarthy, who played Sookie on Gilmore Girls, the wonderful and quirky best friend and later partner at the Dragonfly Inn, of Lorelai (Lauren Graham from Parenthood). McCarthy is absolutely phenomenal as this very fat, outspoken, smart, vulgar sister the groom-to-be.

It is hilarious when they go to a cheap Brazilian restaurant (and not at all hilarious when they get food poisoning and puke and shit in the bathroom of an elite bridal boutique which requires appointments for which one has to wait 7 weeks, unless one knows the owner, as Helen does) and McCarthy starts to laugh when Lillian is in the bathroom. The other bridesmaids ask why she is laughing and she responds that she just cannot believe Lillian is going to marry her brother, whom she loves but thinks is a “total fucking asshole.”

That pooping and puking scene is an indication of some of what follows, including a scene at which the full theater laughed uproariously, and at which I felt queasy and highly annoyed. The second abysmal and irritating scene is the one at the wedding shower, planned by Helen after the disastrous and embarrassing plane trip organized by Wiig to Vegas for the bachelorette party. The plane ride is cut short because Wiig goes batty (I won’t spoil the surprise for you in case you enjoy that kind of embarrassing, slapstick, frustrating I Love Lucy kind of humor), drinks too (fear of flying), fights with a gay flight attendant, and gets escorted by a federal agent off the plane when they land. Lillian fires Wiig as maid of honor and puts the society woman accustomed to such roles, in charge.

Lillian has never been to Paris and Wiig suggested a sweet and modest Parisian-themed shower. It ends up being a truly over-the-top and ostentatious party at Lillian’s estate, complete with an Eiffel Tower fountain with chocolate rather than water, horses, and yellow lab puppies as party favors. The wedding shower is to my mind the worst scene in the movie. Wiig’s jealous finally explodes when Helen gives Lillian a trip to Paris with her to have her (ghastly but expensive and couture) dress fitted by the designer. She’s not drunk and she goes on a rampage, destroying the giant cookie, trying to push the stone fountain with her 105 pound body, and just totally losing it in a verbal tirade at her best friend and the interloper of whom she is very jealous both because of her looks and her money.

My take: sober people do not behave this way and even if they do, it’s not my idea of enterainment to watch a self-destructive and adrift woman forty years old, with no job, no boyfriend, no apartment of her own, no direction in life, and finally no money, make a fool of herself and ruin her childhood friend’s party. Wiig meets a charming and sweet Irish cop, who pulls her over due to broken tail-lights and he’s the other gem of the film. He is tremendously sweet and self-deprecating (“I’m very strong and tough” he says explaining why a foreigner was able to be a cop) and after they spend the night together, he has a kitchen stocked with baking supplies for her, because he wants her to bake again. He used to go to Cake Baby, feels she is talented and wants her to pursue her passion.

So what does she do? Naturally, she treats him like shit and run out the door, because God forbid, she finds a kind, stable man who wants the best for her. I have no patience for this sort of thing. Of course, this is a romantic comedy so you know how that ends. She also reconciles with her best friend and the wedding is touching, complete with a performance by Wilson Phillips (a high school band of her, and my, era, with their hit “Hold On”"). Helen promises this will be the last instance of her largesse and Helen and Wiig even come to terms by the end.

There are two standout funny scenes in the film, after the opening sex scene (no sex in the movie other than that, it’s R mostly for language): a) a toasting contest at the first party between the old and new best friends, one-upsmanship at its best and b) the reckless driving scene at which, having alienated the sweet cop, she breaks the law in about five ways so as to get pulled over and enlist the cop’s help in finding the bride who has gone AWOL.

I do not regret seeing it, but it was very irritating in many parts and I had, as I said, so little sympathy for this women. I come now to part two of this post: my musing on fuck buddies.

Let me say at the outset: I have no moral or ideological opposition to the concept of a fuck buddy. Nor do I have a problem with having two fuck buddies at the same time, men who fulfill different needs, have, as it were two different skill sets, neither of which includes a full-time, committed relationship.

The FWB (Friends With Benefits), the benefits being of course sex–is a fine dating institution for people too busy or too emotionally stunted to handle a serious and monogamous relationship. However, if you are going to have a fuck buddy, you must get something out of it, either material or emotional. If you are going to fuck a rich asshole, you had better get dinner, wine, drinks, clothes, lingerie or even jewelry. As my friend and blogger and new novelist, Lennie Ross, put it in her blog: this woman is a glorified hooker, and at least hookers are smart enough to get paid. This woman doesn’t even get fed. If the guy is broke, he had better be smart, funny, sweet, into movies, music and literature and great in the sack. Of course: bonus points if he has a New York or Boston accent, but that’s just me. Extra bonus points if he grew up in NY or New England and came to LA at 20 or 30.

I had a friend and FWB–he was mean to me but has since apologized–in the TV business (production, not talent). He was older, heavy, standup comedian funny, witty, and whipsmart. He had a term which describes what used to be the old rule about first date sex: “the feed and fuck”. In LA, and I presume NYC, there exist what have become known in the online dating world as “restaurant whores.” These are girls , usually very pretty, and in NYC, often educated and smart but without a career, who will fuck a guy in return for an expensive meal (200 dollar range, including wine and booze for the night). Wiig isn’t even a restaurant whore, much less a real whore. On top of which, Hamm is not funny, sweet, cultured, witty or sexually skilled. He’s hot he’s rich (a lot of good that does as he doesn’t take her out).

So my take on booty calls is this: they suck. Going over to a guy’s house, even it it’s a 5 to 10 million dollar estate, for sex, late at night, is unappealing unless the sex is really great and the guy is very cool (funny, smart, kind, sexy, interesting). Hamm is none of these things and I would not, even were I single, fuck this man for a dinner at Michael’s or Melisse in LA. No renumeration, tangible or intangible (gifts, not money) could persuade me under any circumstances, to sleep with this guy. He won’t even let her sleep over. Now, my FWB didn’t like that either. He said it would be “too commitmenty” and it is not my finest hour, I admit, but I used to drive from the San Fernando Valley, after an evening there and leave around eleven to drive the 80 or 90 minutes back to SB in no traffic. (Again it very enjoyable and had little if anything to do with the sex because he was smart, dynamic, a storyteller of the highest order, a comedian of sorts with a New York accent, for which I am or at least was, willing to overlook a very great deal in the way of character flaws ).

The (sad) truth is: I not only loved being with this man–in person or on the phone, hearing his amazing voice and funny stories, and he did have a good heart, was very close to his mother, worshipped his immigrant musician father, and lost his mother shortly after we parted, absolutely crushing for him–I sort of loved him. He was fat and mean to me often (nothing physical, just verbally abusive), but he had one of the best personalities I have ever encountered and I have known some spectacularly intelligent and creative people in my life. His personality was larger-than-life, as was his body of course, and he was exciting in every way.

I agree with Lennie Ross that in LA, you do get a lot of the fuck buddy thing in the entertainment industry, but disagree that this is more of an LA thing. It’s just as common in NYC, but there, it’s centered on the Wall Street culture. The hookers and blow at Goldman Sachs you see in the brilliant, Oscar-winning documentary about the “takeover” or “capture” as Simon Johnson, ex-IMF Chief Economist and MIT professor puts it, The Inside Job, may have been driven underground, that culture is still alive and well. And of course, there are plenty of wannabe Gordon Gekkos running around Manhattan willing to buy a nice dinner in exchange for sex, a more subtle form of prostitution. But if you are only going to fuck a guy because he takes you to Daniel, you’re still in the whore category in my book. I do not say this with venom or judgment; it’s literally the case, to me, if you are only fucking a guy to get dinner and wine or drinks or theater tickets.

My friend on the East Coast, a genius with five degrees and many accompmlishments, truly enjoyed the film, laughed his ass off as he put it, and told me I was taking it all “way too seriously.” That may be the case. But I have to say that seeing a woman in her financial, emotional, professional, romantic situation at forty years of age does not, to me, represent entertainment. It’s sad more than funny, though I will say I loved about 45 minutes of the film.

There is, finally, one dramatic scene between McCarthy (Megan) and Wiig, after she has hit bottom and moves in with her mother. McCarthy has come to visit because her calls are not being returned and she has no tolerance for Wiig, who is wallowing in self-pity (self-inflicted wounds so much of her messed up life). It is the best dramatic scene in the film, with McCarthy delivering what might be the funniest line in the movie, in the course of her description of how hard high school was for the fat girl they all called a freak: “You might think it was smooth and easy for me in high school: not the case.”

I would recommend waiting for the DVD, so you can skip the absurd and annoying parts, about 30 minutes of them movie in my view. Maya was good but her character is fairly straightforward and Wiig and McCarthy are the real draws of the film (along with the man who plays the cop, whose name I will now look up).