Sunset Boulevard Quotes

That's the trouble with you readers. You know all the plots.

He never stood on Sunset Boulevard, sun blinding his eyes, with his five best friends and a record contract in his back pocket.

I looked around out the driver's window of the hearse. It was Stills! We got out and hugged right there on Sunset Boulevard in the middle of traffic. Horns were honking! To us it seemed like everybody was celebrating! Something was happening, but we didn't know what it was. It was fucking Buffalo Springfield, that's what it was.

The difference between Marilyn’s and Jayne’s approach to intellectual pursuits is that Marilyn carried big heavy books around and hung out with brainy people to absorb their intellect, while Jayne really had a thirst for knowledge. Jayne was very proud of the fact that if she like something enough she would commit it to memory. At that time, The Satanic Bible was still in monograph form, and Jayne had pored over those pages until she knew most of it by heart...Marilyn gave me a copy of Stendhal’s On Love, and I still have a copy of Walter Benton’s This is My Beloved, which we bought together on Sunset Boulevard. Marilyn turned me on to it—wanted me to read it and write something in it for her. I got as far as writing her name in it, but I ended up with the book. It meant a lot to me during a particularly dark period in my life after I left L.A. Jayne kept insisting I read The Story of O and I, Jan Cremer. She gave me a dog-eared copy of each. It seems a distinctly feminine trait to want to share books with people they care deeply about.

Loneliness isn't gray. It is the color of the sky when it bleeds crimson rays in the horizon while there you are standing on the edge somewhere in this boulevard of broken promises, waiting, and waiting for a love that already left.

There are no silicon mines in Silicon Valley. The wealth resides in the minds of Google engineers and Hollywood script doctors, directors and special-effects wizards, who would be on the first plane to Bangalore or Mumbai long before the Chinese tanks rolled into Sunset Boulevard.

A car, a blue convertible, sleek and desirable, came sweeping west out of Beverly Hills along the, as I understand it, gracious curves of Sunset Boulevard. Anybody seeing such a car would have wanted it. Obviously. It was designed to make you want it. If people had turned out not to want it very much, the makers would have redesigned it and redesigned it until they did. The world is now full of things like this, which is, of course, why everybody is in such a permanent state of want.

drive past Stansbury and make a right onto Ventura and let it take me through Studio City, where the boulevard became Cahuenga, and then head into Hollywood, cruising along Sunset until I hit Beverly Glen

the few heroic sluts on this great working-girl turf

Cruising down Sunset Boulevard with the Cramps blasting and palm trees silhouetted by the neon signs of strip clubs can sometimes repair the worst of moods.

I rented a dark little bar on Sunset Boulevard that had pool tables, three bars inside and out, and a movie theater where we played only Quentin Tarantino movies all night.

Only when they have outrun the all-too-eager shadows of the Canyon and they are back in the glare of the billboards on Sunset Boulevard, do they wipe their clammy palms, and wonder to themselves how it was that in such a harmless

The Strip was still lit by a million neon lights, though the crowds on the sidewalk had greatly decreased by this hour. Still, Bosch was awed by the spectacle of light. In every imaginable color and configuration, it was a megawatt funnel of enticement to greed that burned twenty-four hours a day. Bosch felt the same attraction that all the other grinders felt tug at them. Las Vegas was like one of the hookers on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. Even happily married men at least glanced their way, if only for a second, just to get an idea what was out there, maybe give them something to think about. Las Vegas was like that. There was a visceral attraction here. The bold promise of money and sex. But the first was a broken promise, a mirage, and the second was fraught with danger, expense, physical and mental risk. It was where the real gambling took place in this town.

Southern California sunsets, neon, flowers, ocean, desert landscapes, and wide boulevards sifted their ways into the subconsciousnesses (or consciousnesses) of L.A. artists.

In 1996 the Queen traveled to Toronto to catch Diahann Carroll playing the lead in a new staging of Sunset Boulevard. “She didn’t realize it wasn’t going to be freezing,” said Erma, “so she ordered up a mink coat from one of the better department stores. Because the coat was so enormous, she decided it required a ticket of its own. She and her coat sat together on the front row. It was hysterical.

He disappeared inside and I leaned back on the seat to stare straight up the star-crazed sky. It seemed about 6 feet above my eyes. Or maybe 60 feet, or 600. I couldn't be sure, and it didn't matter, anyway, because by that time I was convinced I was in the cockpit of a 727 coming into LA at midnight. Jesus, I thought, I am ripped straight to the tits. Where am I? Are we going up or down? Somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew I was sitting in a Jeep in the parking lot of a night club on an island off the Mexican coast - but how could I really be sure, with another part of my brain convinced that I was looking down on the huge glittering bowl of Los Angeles from the cockpit of a 727? Was that the Milky Way? Or Sunset Boulevard? Orion, or the Beverly Hills Hotel? Who gives a fuck? I thought.

He had decided before the accident not to chase them anymore, but the circumstances of the accident made him fear for Lilia's safety. he would never bring her in, not anymore; all he wanted now was to watch over her. Michaela had been reading his notes for years, but his notes were only part of it: the other part was the way he woke up at night in his bed in Montreal and knew where Lilia was, the way he could glance at a map of the United Staes and realize with absolute, inexplicable certainty that she was in West Virginia, the way he tried to ignore his terrifying clairvoyance and forget where she was and couldn't, the way he knew where she was but had to keep driving south to check, the horror of always being right: he saw her face in the crowd on Sunset Boulevard, he stepped into a hardware store in St. Louis at the moment she stepped out of the deli across the street, he stood on a corner in a run-down neighborhood in Chicago and watched her emerge from an apartment building down the block. After each sighting he returned north more depleted, more frightened, less intact.

Notte raminga e fuggitiva lanciata veloce lungo le strade d’Emilia a spolmonare quel che ho dentro, notte solitaria e vagabonda a pensierare in auto verso la prateria, lasciare che le storie riempiano la testa che così poi si riposa, come stare sulle piazze a spiare la gente che passeggia e fa salotto e guarda in aria, tante fantasie una sopra e sotto all’altra, però non s’affatica nulla. Correre allora, la macchina va dove vuole, svolta su e giù dalla via Emilia incontro alle colline e alle montagne oppure verso i fiumi e le bonifiche e i canneti. Poi tra Reggio e Parma lasciare andare il tiramento di testa e provare a indovinare il numero dei bar, compresi quelli all’interno delle discoteche e dei dancing all’aperto ora che è agosto e hanno alzato persino le verande per godersi meglio le zanzare e il puzzo della campagna grassa e concimata. Lungo la via Emilia ne incontro le indicazioni luminose e intermittenti, i parcheggi ampi e infine le strutture di cemento e neon violacei e spot arancioni e grandifari allo iodio che si alzano dritti e oscillano avanti e indietro così che i coni di luce si intrecciano alti nel cielo e pare allora di stare a Broadway o nel Sunset Boulevard in una notte di quelle buone con dive magnati produttori e grandi miti. Ne immagino ventuno ma prima di entrare in Parma sono già trentatré, la scommessa va a puttane, pazienza, in fondo non importa granché.

A. I want my readers to remember a book of mine after they’ve turned the last page, partly so they will want to read more from me, but also because I want them to feel that reading it was well worth their time. I guess I want a book that I write to be more than entertainment that is enjoyable for the moment but forgettable as the months go by. I don’t make a conscious effort to craft quotable prose when I write, but I do endeavor to pose questions and suggest insights that speak across the pages into a reader’s life. For me, that translates into a good reason for having read the book. I always remember a book more fully and longer if I’ve been so emotionally tugged that I find myself highlighting phrases I don’t want to forget. And I usually can’t wait for that author’s next book! Khaled Hosseini’s books are always like that for me. Q.

Consider California. Its wealth was initially built on gold mines. But today it is built on silicon and celluloid – Silicon Valley and the celluloid hills of Hollywood. What would happen if the Chinese were to mount an armed invasion of California, land a million soldiers on the beaches of San Francisco and storm inland? They would gain little. There are no silicon mines in Silicon Valley. The wealth resides in the minds of Google engineers and Hollywood script doctors, directors and special-effects wizards, who would be on the first plane to Bangalore or Mumbai long before the Chinese tanks rolled into Sunset Boulevard. It is not coincidental that the few full-scale international wars that still take place in the world, such as the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, occur in places where wealth is old-fashioned material wealth. The Kuwaiti sheikhs could flee abroad, but the oil fields stayed put and were occupied.

Spending time around her house, I came across a cache of 16mm movies in her basement. It turned out that Barbara [Stanwyck] had a lot of her own movies, and I convinced her to spend some time watching them with me. I ran the projector. She had prints of Union Pacific, Ball of Fire, and Baby Face, among others. She didn't particularly like watching them, but she did enjoy reminiscing about their production: how she got the part, what the location was like, that sort of thing. She liked people with humor and always spoke highly of Gary Cooper, Joel McCrea, and Frank Capra. Oddly enough, she wasn't crazy about Preston Sturges; she seemed to feel that he expended all his charm and humor for his movies and that there wasn't anything left for his actors. In broad outline, all this sounds a little bit like the scene in Sunset Boulevard where Gloria Swanson sits with William Holden and watches a scene from Queen Kelly, rhapsodizing about her own face. But Barbara couldn't have cared less about how she looked; as I watched her films with her, it was clear that, for her, the movies were a job she loved, as well as a social occasion for a woman who was otherwise something of a loner.

engages youth through film in the promotion of safer and more diverse learning environments, free from homophobia, transphobia and bullying.”) Follow him @razielreid. Table of Contents Preproduction Hair and Makeup The Set Child Star The Small Screen Rehab Movie Poster Flashback Sex Scene Train Wreck Sunset Boulevard Shoot-out Fight Sequence 9021-Opiates Typecast Hidden Feature Rewrite Hollywood Ending Director’s Cut

During this period, I served many celebrities, including Jennifer Aniston, Vince Vaughn, Gary Oldman, Leonardo DiCaprio, Juliette Lewis, Rob Lowe, Colin Farrell, Tom Selleck, David Spade, Thomas Haden Church, Sharon Osbourne, Brad Pitt, John Malkovich, Tara Reid, Toby Maguire and Diane Keaton. You know all of them, so no explanation needed. The hardest thing about serving such famous Hollywood icons, at least for the first time, is trying not to stare at them. It’s so otherworldly to see someone like Selleck, who’s not just huge -he’s bigger than life- and who you´ve watched on big screen and small for years… they are, invariably, taller or shorter than you’d imagined. And the women are either spectacularly beautiful or very ordinary without screen makeup. But you can’t stare. It’s verbatim by ownership. Brad Pitt was cool and very humble. He had a few Pyramid beers with a producer friend, and then took off on his motorcycle down Sunset Boulevard, heading West towards the Palisades. Am I saying that he was driving drunk? No. He was there for two hours and had two beers, so he wasn’t breaking the law. At least not with my assistance. He had been there many times before, I just hadn’t been the one serving him. I remember when he came in during his filming of Troy. He had long hair and a cast on his leg. Ironically, he had torn his Achilles’ tendon while playing Achilles in the epic film.

4. Random examples of items which are part of the canon of Camp: Zuleika Dobson Tiffany lamps Scopitone films The Brown Derby restaurant on Sunset Boulevard in LA The Enquirer, headlines and stories Aubrey Beardsley drawings Swan Lake Bellini's operas Visconti's direction of Salome and 'Tis Pity She's a Whore certain turn-of-the-century picture postcards Schoedsack's King Kong the Cuban pop singer La Lupe Lynn Ward's novel in woodcuts, God's Man the old Flash Gordon comics women's clothes of the twenties (feather boas, fringed and beaded dresses, etc.) the novels of Ronald Firbank and Ivy Compton-Burnett stag movies seen without lust

Unknowingly, I had set the stage to grieve. I did not have to answer to anyone, and I was alone to grieve. I went to bed. Waking up, it felt as if a big, fat child were sitting on me, pushing the life out of me, trying to squeeze me into a pancake. The pain had tentacles and they would grab my back, squeezing me. My back and chest were locked in a painful, vise-like grip. “Breathe, breathe,” I told myself. I couldn’t breathe, and hoped I would get very small and disappear. I am going to have a heart attack, I thought. “Take my heart out of my body, please God.” I prayed. “If not, then I will forget my body because this is too much to bear.” My heart feels like it is getting bigger. It is too big for my body. Surely it must explode. Big tears fall, just fall out, slowly and constantly. I don’t blink very often, there is no need. I can’t let anything in.

There are serious doubts that Meghan saw any violence, not even the minor looting in a store near the ABC studio. In her absence the riots spread to Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards. After five days the curfew was lifted and they returned to Los Angeles. Meghan drove past burnt-out buildings, though no houses near her home were damaged. More than 20 years later Meghan recalled a different experience: ‘I remember the curfew and I remember rushing back home and on that drive home, seeing ash fall from the sky and smelling the smoke and seeing it billow out of buildings and seeing people run out of buildings carrying bags and looting.’22 She also saw ‘men in the back of a van just holding guns and rifles’. Equally memorable was a familiar tree outside her father’s home ‘completely charred. And those memories don’t go away.’23

He wouldn’t attract flies,’ was the verdict of a club owner invited to book Sinatra for a week of performances. Most believed that and because he’d angered so many people in the movies and recording industry few were willing to help including those who had made good money from his career. His friend Mickey Cohen stepped in with a ‘testimonial dinner’ in early 1951 at the Beverly Hills Hotel, the pink palace standing proudly on that tributary for fading stars, Sunset Boulevard, but it was a disappointing affair. Cohen had to outfit his own bodyguards and assorted other hoods in evening wear to make up the numbers. The invited ‘girls’ got more attention in the hotel’s Polo Lounge. Most of Hollywood thought it was all over for Frank Sinatra but across the country in New Jersey, which has a warm approach to all things Italian, was a pal who always believed the best was yet to come. Paul ‘Skinny’ D’Amato, a maestro of the entertainment business in Atlantic City, a Mafia indulged fixture of the Boardwalk, a gambler, and a fixer and, importantly, an entertaining and loveable man, met Sinatra in 1939. He proved a valuable connection and loyal ally.

I no longer regret that I will never again breathe the wet air of London, with its scent of baking bread. Nor do I waste my time wondering what our lives might have been like had Edward survived the crossing. I cannot change the past, and even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want to. And yet he does not leave me. Indeed, sometimes, when I’m driving down the freeway, or along Sunset Boulevard, he comes back; just appears there, in the passenger seat of my car.

I wanted to be wanted. And for the past dozen years I've known firsthand what it's like to be sought after. It's funny how when you get what you've always longed for, sometimes the reason you wanted it no longer exists.

We're going to be okay. Lainey isn't the glue that keeps us together. We are. We're the glue. Okay?

...tired people don't give up. Tired people just take a rest. Rest a bit and try again.

We were both shattered. We were broken people who longed to be whole. We thought it was love that was driving us to do what we did. But it wasn't love. It was fear. We were both too afraid of ending up unwanted and unneeded.

That's what we did, didn't we, Audrey? We learned to be brave when it was easier to be afraid.

... love and fear can sometimes feel the same, but each will lead a person to take different actions. When a decision h as to be made, fear usually motivates me to choose what is best for me, whereas love motivates me to choose what is best for another person. Fear urges me to hang on, white knuckled, to what is mine, while love can actually lead me to let go.... when you hold something you love tightly to your chest for fear of losing it, you actually risk crushing it against you.

The major challenge was Navin Johnson’s mansion, which he bought when the Opti-Grab glasses made him rich, and did we get lucky. In the heart of Beverly Hills on Sunset Boulevard, just down the road from the Beverly Hills Hotel, was a fully furnished, decorated, enormous, gigantic, outrageous estate owned by an Arab potentate. No one had ever slept in it, not even for one night.

Designed in a 'Pueblo Deco' style, which blends Mission with Art Deco influences, the DCA tower is a composite modeled after real Hollywood landmarks built in the 1920's; possible influences include the Hollywood Tower at 6200 Franklin Avenue, The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel at 7000 Hollywood Boulevard and the Chateau Marmont at 8221 Sunset Boulevard.

A murderer's light spilled out from the sunset. It flooded William Street with its ruddy glow and ran beneath the blue-black hail clouds and up the boulevard like hot blood.

Amos cookies store on Sunset Boulevard. My dad would go there, sit down with Wally Amos himself, have coffee, and talk for hours. Wally was a neighborhood institution, a former talent agent who

Anyone who has ever ventured to Hollywood with dreams of someday making it in this town, has ventured into Mel’s Drive-in on Sunset Boulevard.

Anyone who has ever ventured to Hollywood with dreams of someday making it in this town, has ventured into Mel’s Drive-in on Sunset Boulevard. This old dame has seen us all.

He drove, to her direction. They followed a suite of quiet residential streets, emerging onto a commercial boulevard. They said nothing, as if they were a sunset couple taking their ten thousandth car ride together in this life. He wanted to give her the wheel, to see if she still drove like she was sailing an ice boat across a windy northern lake.

as I drove away from the Spartan I flashed my chrome happily at a two-year-old Chevy parked around the corner on Clinton. On Sunset Boulevard I turned right and headed for Lyle's, where I often have my meager breakfast when I'm too lazy to cook my own mush.

The seventies were crazy everywhere, but crazier in Los Angeles. It was the era of freewheeling drugs and sex, the rag end of the sixties. I refer to sprees, to strange couplings and triplings, to nights that started with beer and wine and ended with cocaine and capsules, to debaucheries too various to chronicle. In a sense, we were all Robert Mitchum, smoking rope in bed with two girls while the sun was still noon high. We thought it was normal. You would walk into a house for a pool party, and there, on the cocktail table in the center of the living room, as if it were nuts or cooked shrimp, would be a platter of cocaine. We did it because we were stupid, because we did not know the danger. When I talk about my drug years, I am talking about twenty-four months in the middle of the seventies. I was in the rock and roll world, which meant I was around the stuff all the time. Of course, it was more than mere proximity. I was fun when I was high, talkative and all-encompassing. I could go forever, never be done talking. To some extent, I was really self-medicating, using the drugs to skate over issues in my own life. The fact is, money and success had come so fast, while I was away doing something else, not paying attention, that, when I finally realized where I was and just what I had, I could not understand it. There was this voice in my head, saying, Who do you think you are? What do you think you did? You are a fraud! You don’t deserve any of this! I tortured myself, and let the anxiety well up, then beat back the anxiety with the drugs, on and on, until one day, I stood up and said, “Screw it. That’s over. I’m done.” No rehab, no counseling, nothing like that. Just a moment of clarity, in which I saw myself from the outside, the mess I was making, the waste. I was slipping, not working as hard as I used to. I started leaving the office early on Fridays, then skipping Fridays altogether. Then I started leaving early on Thursdays, then arriving late on Mondays. I was letting myself go. Then one day, I just decided, It has to stop. I threw away the pills and bottles, took a cold shower, had a barbershop shave, and stepped into the cool of Sunset Boulevard, and began fresh. Maybe it had to do with my family situation. I was a father again.

We walked down to the corner and crossed the street to the cab. Collins gave the driver some directions and we turned into the Boulevard. We went eight or ten blocks toward Los Angeles, turned and headed uphill. At Sunset Boulevard we turned again and went to a street called Laurel Canyon. It seemed as if we climbed up Laurel Canyon forever. It was dark and the road wound upward toward the dark sky. In two hours it would be time for dawn, but Collins said it was foggy and probably wouldn’t

The subjunctive is the onion of grammatical moods. Most of them are just old future tenses vainly clinging to relevance Sunset Boulevard-Style, anyway. Be gone with them, I say!

Nate recognized a similar condition in his friends who had moved to LA and fallen under the spell of the film industry. Down there everyone knew weekend box office grosses. In the Valley, everyone knew whether the latest IPO had met expectations. If you lived in LA, you couldn’t help but envy the studio execs and film stars when you glimpsed them behind tinted windows, gliding down Sunset Boulevard in their Range Rovers. If you lived in the Valley, the cool kids were the venture capitalists and entrepreneurs who could sometimes be spotted piloting their humming Teslas into the gleaming, low-slung corporate campuses of Menlo Park, Milpitas, and Cupertino.

At her school on a road traversed all day by hulking trucks and double-decker buses, Anna’s lungs are likely getting an even bigger dose of exhaust. Spikes like that, on and near the busy streets where so many of us spend much of our time—strolling to work, driving, sitting in our living rooms—make pollution a threat even in places where overall air quality is good. As afternoon turns to evening and a pickup basketball game heats up outside the conference room, McConnell tells me about the Colorado hospital where his mom was treated after a heart attack. It sat beside a major highway, and he couldn’t help thinking when he visited about the evidence suggesting air pollution causes arrhythmias, clotting problems, and other changes dangerous for heart patients. Even putting the parking lot between the road and the hospital would have made a difference, he says. The building’s designers probably didn’t know that, but zoning officials should, and they can make rules to reduce unnecessary exposure. “If you’re building a new school, why would you build it next to a freeway?” he asks. Exercise greatly increases the amount of air—and thus, the pollution—our lungs take in, so McConnell wishes the runners he sees along L.A.’s Sunset Boulevard knew how much better off they’d be on one of the quieter roads that parallels it. Those who do, he believes, ought to nudge them in that direction.

Seeing a sunset, Linnea felt connected both to the earth below and God above.

Don’t suppose you know where 8152 Sunset Boulevard is?” “What do I look like? A street map?

I was halfway up a wide curving staircase when Mimi Warren and her friend Kerri came around the corner and started down. Mimi’s nose was red and her hair looked like she hadn’t brushed it. When she saw me she took a half step back up toward the landing, then stopped. “How did you find me?” I spread my hands. “You’re supposed to be kidnapped. You go to clubs on Sunset Boulevard, you gotta expect to be found.” Kerri said, “Who is this?” I said, “Peter Parker.” Kerri looked confused. “Most people know me as The Amazing SpiderMan.

pulled out into the Chavez Ravine Road, headed toward Elysian Park Avenue and Sunset Boulevard. We'd driven

For all its tropical beauty there was something charmless and hard about it, a vulgarity as decidedly American as the picture industry which thrived on the constant waves of transplants eager for work, offering them nothing more substantial than sunshine. It was a city of strangers, but, unlike New York, the dream L.A. sold, like any Shangri-La, was one not of surpassing achievement but unlimited ease, a state attainable by only the very rich and the dead. Half beach, half desert, the place was never meant to be habitable. The heat was unrelenting. On the streets there was a weariness that seemed even more pronounced at night, visible through the yellow windows of burger joints and drugstores about to close, leaving their few customers nowhere to go. Inconceivably, he was one of that rootless tribe now, doomed to wander the boulevards, and again he marveled at his own fall, and at his capacity for appreciating it.

Now, with only seventeen shopping days till Christmas, he blew into Hollywood, extending the season’s greetings at gunpoint to one and all. The first day, he stuck up a motel on Sunset Boulevard for $759. Haphazardly, he hit motels and restaurants and once paused on the street to relieve a passerby of $150. He wasn’t very bright, and he didn’t think big, but he was a busy mugg, and that kind causes just as much trouble to a detective. Forbes and Hubka were right behind, trying to make him a Christmas present for the division, as he ran up $5,168.15 in holdup loot. They missed their private goal by two days.

I applied at Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard after my band broke up. I really wanted to work there because it involved the love of my life, music. It was also located on the world famous Sunset Strip, a place I dreamed of going to ever since I was a teenager in the 80's to become a rock star.

You should listen to your assistant. She clearly understands about fattening foods." Her tone is not kind. And I'm done being polite. Or quiet. I turn to North, who is sprawled back in his chair, blue eyes alight with undisguised anticipation. An ally I desperately need. "Tell me something..." "Anything, babe." I kind of love him just then. Because I know, I know, he's calling me babe to irritate Macon. It's in his eyes and the way his mouth twists to hold back laughter. "Do agents in this town take Cliché Bitch 101 classes around here?" A muscle in his lower jaw twitches while Karen huffs out a sound of annoyance. "Pretty sure they offer a special discount at UCLA." We both grin. "All right," Macon cuts in. "That's enough." I shoot him a look. Tell that to Ms. Sunset Boulevard. And he returns one of his own. Behave. Make. Me. His answering grin is crafty. "Later." "Later for what?" Karen demands in a snit. "To perform my other services." I dab the corner of my mouth. Because fuck her. Macon chokes on a sip of his water. North, however, just laughs, a big booming sound. "I like her," he says to a glowering Macon.