Copyright by Ann Bandazian 2003, 2004, 2005

After vacating the nightmare hotel, and suddenly seeing the historic Chateau Marmont, I was convinced if I only went in, they would find a room for us.

Vazken shrugged,

"It won't cost anything to ask."

I ran into the hotel and queried the desk clerk in my best fake East Coast WASP aristocrat accent. Without giving him a chance to say yes or no, I told him about my maddening experience at the other hotel. He said they had a studio for seventy-five dollars. I asked if I could see it and waved Vazk in to join me.

After what we'd just endured, it seemed a gem. There was a bedroom, kitchenette, bathroom and dressing area. The furniture was dark and 1930's silver screen looking but serviceable.

Before there could be a change of mind, I hurried downstairs and secured the room.

Then we shopped for breakfast--peaches, instant coffee, milk and honey bran muffins. As we ate, we enjoyed looking at the lush gardens, the subdued old antiques and the joyful few who frolicked in the hotel pool.

Next on the agenda was another Hollywood landmark, The Beverly Hills Hotel. I called and made reservations for the Polo Lounge. I had heard that barely known people purposely had themselves paged for a sort of free publicity. For our Polo Lounge visit, I wore a peach jersey tunic over white slacks with a huge picture hat of peach straw.

There was smog or some merciful veil dimming the intense sun. Despite what people said--dry heat is still heat.

The Beverly Hills Hotel was too everything. Too many people to show too many people what exravagant cars they drove, what important people they were (or pretended they were.) The decor was dolly-dolly sweet and romantic in lots of pink and green. The matre d' was very cordial and non-snobby. He perhaps believed that Vazk was Iranian royalty in exile. And when I tuned to the paging, a voice was calling for somebody Ephron. I had read about the Ephrons. Well, truthfully only Nora.

As we entered, I drew looks from the men who seemed to be wondering-

"Is she important? She walks as if she is-"

We were seated at the window by the outside terrace. I saw no one of interest in the dining room except an attractive man in his late thirties perhaps an executive or a banker having lunch with an elderly woman. I guessed his mother. But this was Hollywood. She had a cane and resembled a bar bouncer--inappropriate for him as either mother, wife or sugar mommy.

On and off I remembered the invitation card to the staged reading on which my name was missing. The omission still burned. In a bit of pushiness, I placed a postcard in the ladies room and added on the back--Ann Bandazian, Dramatist, Canterbury, Ct. In another bit of pushiness, I gave Vazken a postcard with a similar message and asked him to place it in the mens' room.

Our meal of iced gazpacho, sole meuniere, and coconut mouse with raspberry sauce earned a high rating from me.

Outside, flitting from table to table was a blonde in beige linen with firmly trussed ample backside. Vazken insisted it was Zaza Gabor. But I never saw her frontal- So, I had to disappointedly confess that I never saw anyone really famous at the Polo Lunge of the Beverly Hills Hotel.

We drove all the way down Sunset and I exclaimed over the many Newport, Rhode Island style mansions.

I said,

"VAzk, where the hell did all the money come from to build these houses?"

"Had to be from the movies. What else is out here?"

We found ourselves at Will Rogers beach- paid $2.00 and walked the length of the beach in bare feet with the water just as cold as the Atlantic ocean. Though breezy and cool, the realization that this was the Pacific Ocean gave pleasure and satisfaction.

Back at the hotel there was a message for me to call Florence Heller a woman I didn't know. Our telephone connection was fuzzy but we managed to make ourselves heard. She said she'd like to bring a friend to the staged reading who was on the New York Arts Commission and a fellow who I gathered was the man's son.

I said,

"Yes-yes, by all means. At the door just say that you're my people." ("My people,")-- I liked the way it sounded.

There was another message and this one upset me-- pure stinking selfishness on my part. Evelyn Lindstrom, a feminist sister from Connecticut. The impression she initially gave was that she was a flaky five and dime store notions saleswoman. In actuality Evelyn was a brainy sociology professor--a cheer leader for me all through the drama and turbulence of N.O.W.'s early days.

Evelyn said she was in Hollywood staying at another hotel. (Praise Allah for that). Her mission she said was to bolster me-- which was fine but decency also required that I include her in what I thought was a private trip. Though pure bitch, I managed to keep the ugly bitch submerged and acted like a grateful feminist sister.

Mindful of our budget, we dined in our room with groceries bought from a Santa Monica grocery store. Our supper was deli potato salad and ham and cheese sandwiches. I told Evelyn we'd pick her up and go prowling through Chinatown.

I know it was from nervousness but once she got going, Evelyn talked ceaselessly whether we listened or not. She continued talking all the while we were trying to determine if we were on the right or wrong roads.

Finally, finally we found ourselves in bedazzling Chinatown where there were a hundred shops selling kimonos, tea sets etc. I bought a darling two piece satin Chinese style pajama set for niece Louisa's baby and wished I had a grandchild of my own. As Evelyn talked and talked of street fairs and foods, it came to me that she was undoubtedly hungry. We had to find a restaurant and even though we weren't hungry ourselves, Evelyn needed sustenance. She lived on an astral plane that was beyond hunger.

(center)Only A few hours before SUPERWOMAN appeared on stage.

So there we were with hungry Evelyn, my devoted feminist sister, who had spent her good money to fly to L.A. to cheer me on with Superwoman. Maybe it wasn't all selflessness--maybe she wanted to flounce around Hollywood taking in the scene. Whatever, our immediate mission was first to feed her.

Still in Chinatown, we selected a flashy restaurant. Inside we found ourselves in the happy and excited midst of a wedding party in progress. We ordered a five course meal for two figuring it would neatly feed the three of us--which it did with three containers of leftovers to take back to the hotel. I should have remembered that Evelyn ate like a baby sparrow.

Just as we were leaving the restaurant, I heard a "pop" sounding exactly like a Chinese firecracker. In an instant I noted older girls herding young children together and pushing them away from the street.

It was immediately clear that a young boy had been shot in the upper chest. Blood was staining his white shirt. People gathered around him. In a near panic state,I hoped and prayed that someone would get help to him before he died. Very quickly the police and a medic arrived and began tending the boy.

Evelyn said,

"I think that boy was in the wedding party-"

Vazken said,

"In whatever case, we better get the hell out of here before another boozehead starts shooting-"

We dropped Evelyn off at her hotel. She seemed content that she'd not only been fed but offered an extra bit of excitement with a shooting.

Considering what had happened just an hour ago and most unlike me, I fell asleep quickly.

SUNDAY MORNING: By the pool still too early for exuberant swimmers, I jotted down the facts of our dinner with Evelyn and the shooting while Vazken stretched out on one of the yellow chaises and napped. Some damn thing--either the air conditioner or a pool filter--droned irritatingly on and on.

Back home we were walkers. In L.A. no one seemed to walk. Certain that the Schwab's Pharmacy we'd seen earlier-was the same Schwab's of cinema legend, we decided to walk there, buy a few necessities, drink a coke and --maybe see someone famous.

I bought nail polish remover, a tote bag, aspirin and Variety, a newspaper I'd never even seen before. It seemed the appropriate paper for Hollywood. Instead of a coke, we ordered a bagel with cream cheese and sat at the counter with a man straight from central casting. I wanted to pinch him to see if he was real.

He looked to be in his worn out fifties but might have been ten years younger. A tall, handsome, dissipated man with ruddy complexion wearing a sea captain's cap. His dialogue from a B minus movie,

"If I ever get some money together, I'm getting out of this rotten town-- I'm beating it so fast back to New York--now that's a real city."

Not having money to give him for his trip back to the real city, I smiled sympathetically and said,

"I know-it's awful-"

Of course, I didn't know anything about the rotten town or his situation but gave all I could offer. We said, good luck and left.

Our return back to our wonderful Chateau Marmont was like a trip through the Arabian desert. Dry heat or wet heat--heat was heat.

There was no time to waste before the afternoon reading. So not to be late, it was important to find the theater beforehand. We located it on Melrose--a darling little place with something tropical growing in the front of it nearly obscuring the name.

With less time to waste, I decided it would be fun to investigate Rodeo Drive and the shops of the dumb rich-rich. The "dumb" appelation was to console myself at not being one of the anything rich.

The Rodeo Drive trip narrowed my getting ready time but I was showered, dressed and at the theater in good time for Reading Number One. Trusty, jittery Evelyn was already there with three bottles of champagne. Bless her lonesome heart.

Amy, with excitement controlled, introduced me to a frozen faced prick who she said let us use his theater. And I immediately got the vibration that she slept with him on and off for theater favors. Instead of kicking him in the balls, I fawned,

"It's so generous of you to let us have our reading here. I hope you'll be pleased with our play-"

He walked away without comment.

Amy apologized,

"I'm so sorry. We only have about five people in the audience. It should be better tonight."

I didn't have time to be disappointed. With my pad and pen I sat in the front row to note Amy's changes and my comments.

First off you couldn't miss the fact that all the women on stage were beautiful regardless of age or dress. Amy changed the casting of Rita, the factory worker, to a Black girl--a brilliant move. My most crushing disappointment was Carol Roth in the lead role of Nan. She spoke too quickly, too flip, too tough, too in charge. Leslie on the other hand was almost spooky in her resemblance to the Leslie I'd recreated. The fellow who played Senator Romano was perfect- adding more humor. The lead male as Amy had warned me was too sweet lacking sting and snap.

All in all--some changes pleased-some irritated. There was too much Hollywood--feely touchy sweetness and breeziness. Whenever the audience laughed in appropriate places, I was tickled. In the end I had to hide my disappointment that the play was declawed and defanged.

Then back to the hotel to recharge for the big evening ading.

SUPERWOMAN'S BIG NIGHT

It wasn't easy concentrating on Superwoman's and my big night with Evelyn in our hotel room chattering ceaselessly with criticisms of the earlier performance--some of her criticisms incisive and valuable and others plain looney.

I escaped to the shower partly to refresh and partly to escape good Sister Evelyn. To soothe myself I chanted like a mantra Ruth Wilson's early imaginings.

"I would ask a friend who is one of the most successful agents in Hollywood-who has contacts at all of the studios and networks...if he likes it and is able to interest a producer,director, or major talent- who knows?"

Back at the theater the important Waterman's were present. She was sweet and bright but said she was sorry that their friend who we were hoping to meet was no longer with the N.Y. Fine Arts Commission. There were a great many more people in the audience. It was hard to estimate how many were relatives of the actors and crew.

Even though Daesene had written that her sister Mary would come to see the play, I had my doubts. After all we'd never met and she probably led a busy life in Los Angeles. The minute we finished talking with the Waterman's, a tall, pretty doll of a young woman introduced herself as Mary--Daesene's sister.

Once again I took my place in the front row with pad and pen. Certain scenes or lines were better this time. The entirety of a scene was numbed dulled. Roth as Nan was better in certain parts and dreadful in others. I watched Mary enjoying the play--letting herself go. Generally, there was more laughter in inappropriate places. Then the laughter became irritating to me. I wanted to shake the laughers,

"This isn't a three Stooges comedy, you lunkheads."

If there was humor in one place, the audience seemed to think the entire play was a comedy and laughed whether appropriate or not.

The actresses (they weren't called "actors" just yet) and actors were generally superb. I wanted to kiss them on both cheeks and hand them thousand dollar checks. The applause was ample without being impressive.

Immediately, when the applause stopped two women came to me saying they were feminists. The wishy-washing one asked,

"I wonder- were you making fun of the women's movement? Exactly what were you saying?"

I was so key-up, I murmured,

"I was trying to show a microcosm of a social movement."

Blessed Evelyn leaped in to head off unpleasantness with her scholarly analysis which mercifully deflected attention from me. Evelyn earned her keep and I regretted resenting her intrusion in our Los Angeles adventure.

Some generous people came up and shook my hand saying they enjoyed the play. I accepted all compliments--sincere or insincere. No one exclaimed that mine would be the defining play of the feminist movement. Declawed and defanged was it ready to be a movie? There was no special word of praise to remember. Perhaps,the audience comments on the back of the program would offer reassurance that I was the writer Mom always wanted me to be when I swore to her that I loathed the idea and never would be-- probably cursed myself to a lifetime of failures.

No successful agent with contacts at all the major studios and networks, rushed to make themselves known--no important or unimportant producer, director or major talent did either.

Amy was talking animatedly with a reporter. I touched her shoulder, thanked her for all her efforts and said I'd call her in the morning.

POOR SUPERWOMAN MORTALLY WOUNDED IN HOLLYWOOD.

Still tightly wound in a mess of emotions too turbulent to assess what had really happened to Superwoman and myself, I stumbled from the theater joined by Amy, Henry, Evelyn, and Annette Tolarski-- the woman who designed the invitation postcard and the program. I was holding myself together enough to invite them to the Chateau Marmont for champagne and discussion.

Daesene's sister Mary enthused about the play,

"I found it so healing-"

She refused all my pleadings to come with us to the hotel saying she was tired and would talk with me in the morning about her plans for showing us the real Los Angeles. A staggering offer considering she barely new us.

During champagne and discussion my mind floated in and out of the conversation. Deep blues began settling down on my soul. The entire endeavor was a failure. It was torn to shreds by hard line feminists poised against the Hollywood chocolate candy sweet story folks. It wasn't Medea and it wasn't Mary Poppins.

Having settled in my mind that Superwoman was mortally wounded, I wondered if I'd ever bother to resussitate her. I rejoined the group and talk. And talk. And talk.

Henry Chung was angry with the feminists. And then surprisingly Amy agreed with him. The real feminist, Evelyn, timidly wondered to me if Amy was the right person to direct such a play. It was too late to speculate on what was done. Done. Besides, I was damn lucky to have worked with her. As it was fashionable to say, it was educational and better than leaving the play sitting in my file cabinet gathering mold.

The champagne was gone and Vazken was openly yawning. I adjourned the group with hugs and kisses and thanks. I amazed myself at how quickly I caught on to the Hollywood way.

As we drove Evelyn back to her hotel, she chattered the entire time brathlessly giving criticism--as usual along with some profoundly insightful and valuable observations. Other comments amounted to miniscule quibbling. Getting out of the car, she optimistically chirped,

"The play is so light and nice now--it would be a wonderful musical."

She was probably right but I was too exhausted to ponder how it would have to be altered. Superwoman was wounded--that's all I knew.

Wondering what tour Mary had in mind for us the following day, I fell asleep on the couch by the window and later moved to the bed.

SO LONG SUPERWOMAN--SO LONG HOLLYWOOD.

Dark blue Monday. Six hours sleep. Felt utterly destroyed. Discussed the entire experience with Vazken.

"I don't know how I can rebuild this play from ashes again. It's so far from the original-"

"It's too soon after this disappointment to say never ever-"

I went off to shower and shed tears without sobbing. Tried consoling myself that this was probably what God wanted. Then realized with a jolt that I'd have to explain failure to all those who prayed for my/the play's success--whatever their idea of success was.

The shower refreshed.

Daesene's sister, Mary called to say she'd pick us up in an hour.

We conpacted ourselves into her little Volkswagen. First she took us to Marina Del Ray--lush with boats and sumptuous restaurants. All the while Mary bubbling, sparkling--fairly exploding with love-the-goodness-of-you-me-us. A kind of religion reminding me of mad, magnificent Beatrice. No matter how we insisted and begged otherwise Mary paid. Even though she had a teaching job, I doubted she had money to be treating. There was nothing to do but graciously accept her generosity.

Then we went to a place called The Warehouse--heavy with tropical flowers, tropical fish, kegs of phoney rum or explosives, ropes, and boats. We ate al fresco by the water that particular moment --mewithout a complaint in the world.

Mary asked about our marriage and how we managed to keep it successful. There was that word "success" again. I don't remember how I answered but I just hope it wasn't cliche or smug.

After lunch we strolled through the farmer's market and drank espresso. And after that we returned to the hotel. Mary wanted to discuss the play. Once again she said that she found it healing-the women's relationships with eachother were typical and amusing and the ending tender and lovely. We said goodbye to Mary with profuse thanks, blessings and hugs.

In our room, I somewhat reluctantly, gingerly picked up the play again as if it was covered with boils. Then reading it, I forgot the boils. I went over Amy's version to see what I would cut and what I would leave and it seemed too much a mess.

At any rate we'd planned a last supper for that evening with Amy and Henry. I hoped and prayed she would suggest a further or future direction and not think the play dead beyond resuscitation.

When I called at ten of six there was no answer. I stiffled panic. Was she deliberately avoiding me? Were we too harsh in our judgements? We went out and bought Vazk some gorgeous Adida sneakers.

When we returned, I called Amy again. This time she answered. She said that Henry was busy but she'd come herself and suggested a Japanese restaurant in Century City. I decided against taking the play script. In my present mood it would be best to stay away from the subject.

Amy came to the Marmont. Vazken took pictures of us in front of the hotel.

Century City consisted of sterile flawless buildings: theater, cinema, businesses, restaurant etc. It came out that Amy was Buddhist. She and Henry were married in a temple. She further enlightened me that nearly everyone in the cast was also Buddhist. She said that Christians were taught discrimination to which I had no defense. No expert on the two religions, I wasn't prepared to fight for the Christians.

Amy gave me Lajos Egri's 1946 book saying,

"This is an old timer but always good."

She said that the man I secretly named the frozen face prick--the super boss of the theater--loved what he saw of the play and that he was a real macho type. Did that cheer me? Not a whole lot.

There was an awkwardness in our relationship probably stemming from my disappointment which I poorly failed to conceal. Then I was blunt about what I expected from various actor's performances. She said,

"There are two things I want you to know. One: You must never give direction to a director-"

Ouch. And I blanked on number two.

After which and I'm not proud, I became sassy and plotted aloud a play for her with only three characters--one of whom was deaf and the other two had legs blasted off in land mine accidents- She smiled her good Buddhist smile when she should have slugged me.

She was deep into Hollywood style and I believed I was into European free style. I went to the ladies room and I was so inhibited I couldn't pee.

Amy returned to the hotel with us. At our room I gave her Lauren bath oil and after shave for Henry. We chatted about an article on Hollywood that I'd brought with me. Our quick kiss goodbye was strained. She was going on about a book she hoped would become a film about two couples who exchanged lives or husbands or something and wrecked their personal lives. I sincerely wished her luck with it.

As she drove away I knew I was free of Hollywood, drifting, floating free. No tears-just wondering where I'd land.

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