It was the old Los Angeles story, gold, bandits, fool’s gold, fools. “The greatest talents from all fields—as much artistic or scientific or literary—have passed through Los Angeles,” Polanski would say. “At the same time it’s a place where there aren’t any new developments—either intellectual or cultural.” It was a kind of dreamer’s physics: For every California promise, there was an L.A. disappointment. The sun set over the ocean; night emptied the streets; the Beverly Drive estates that once delighted, isolated. The moon rose. It got quiet. Where’d everyone go? “It’s like an immense
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