New Year’s Day of 1924 should have dawned with optimism in Hollywood, but instead it delivered one of the most bruising scandals of Mabel Normand’s already troubled career. The beloved comedian—once the irrepressible sprite of Mack Sennett’s Keystone lot—again found herself yoked to violence, tragedy, and newspaper frenzy when a party spiraled into gunfire inside the luxurious Los Angeles apartment of oil heir Courtland S. Dines at 325-B Vermont Avenue.

Hollywood is more than just a location. In fact, for over 100 years it has been a state of mind. As much a dreamscape as a place, Hollywood has been both geography and mythology, carved as much by the power of imagination as by a surveyor's line. But behind the shimmering illusions of stardom is a real neighborhood, a place with real boundaries shaped by history, development and the steady urban creep of Los Angeles. It has never been a separately incorporated city, but generations of planners, historians, preservationists and civic leaders have agreed, almost unanimously, on what they define as the true heart of the Hollywood district.

In a move that has stunned Hollywood, rocked Wall Street, and ignited a cultural firestorm, Netflix has announced its acquisition of Warner Bros., a merger so monumental that insiders are already calling it the most consequential entertainment deal of the century. The streaming giant, once dismissed as a mail-order DVD service, has now absorbed one of Hollywood’s most storied studios, effectively redrawing the boundaries of power in the global entertainment landscape.

For nearly 30 years, two women ruled Hollywood with more power from their typewriters than the heads of most studios: Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons. A feud petty, vicious, glamorous and historic, their saga was a show almost as thrilling as the films they chronicled. To read Hollywood gossip during its Golden Age was to watch a battle royale between two queens battling for the right to wear a crown of unchallenged supremacy.

In a gesture that bridges Hollywood nostalgia with Atlanta’s puppetry legacy, the family of Jim Henson has gifted a towering 12-foot statue of Kermit the Frog — dressed as Charlie Chaplin’s “Little Tramp” — to the Center for Puppetry Arts in Midtown Atlanta. This iconic piece, which stood for a quarter-century at the gates of The Jim Henson Company’s former Hollywood studio, will now greet visitors in a city proud of its own puppetry heritage.

At one hundred years old, Dick Van Dyke stands as one of Hollywood’s last living links to the Golden Age — a performer whose very name evokes buoyant optimism, nimble charm, and the kind of wholesome, unmanufactured warmth that once defined family entertainment. Born on December 13, 1925, in West Plains, Missouri, and raised in Danville, Illinois, Richard Wayne Van Dyke grew from a lanky Midwestern dreamer into a beloved American institution. His journey from modest radio announcer to Broadway star, from television fixture to film icon, is the story of a performer who made joy his life’s work — and who, astonishingly, is still doing it.

When D. W. Griffith arrived in the little agricultural village called Hollywood in early 1910, he was not intending to make history—he was simply trying to outrun the East Coast winter. Griffith, then a rising director for the Biograph Company, had taken his cast and crew west on a location-hunting tour, hoping to find warmer weather and fresh scenery for the company’s one-reel dramas.

Few fast-food chains have found themselves at the center of cultural debate quite like Chick-fil-A. What began as a regional Southern favorite slowly transformed into a national phenomenon — and along the way, the company developed a complicated and often contentious relationship with the LGBTQ+ community. The story isn’t simple, and it isn’t static. It’s a history shaped by public backlash, shifting policies, and a lingering tension between corporate evolution and foundational beliefs.

There was a time, in the flickering light of silent cinema, when Marie Prevost was one of Hollywood’s most luminous faces—a woman whose charm, timing, and mischievous spark made her a favorite of both audiences and directors. Yet her story remains one of the great parables of early Hollywood: a rise shaped by wit and beauty, followed by heartbreak, decline, and a death later twisted into one of the most enduring myths ever attached to a fallen star.

In the bustling world of early Hollywood, where aspiring actors arrived by the trainload and studio lights burned late into the night, few performers embodied their name as sincerely as Sunshine Hart. Born July 6, 1886, in the small river town of Vevay, Indiana, she grew up far from the glittering dream factories of Los Angeles. Yet, through determination, comic talent, and an unmistakable warmth, Hart carved a place for herself on stage, in vaudeville, and ultimately in silent films—leaving behind a brief but memorable legacy.

Once more Hollywood Boulevard was turned into a glowing tapestry of light, sound and color. Crowds lined the sidewalks under the glittering neon marquees as marching bands, vintage cars, floats and all kinds of familiar faces passed in front of Hollywood's famous landmarks. These photos celebrate the spirit, the color and the sparkle of the 93rd Annual Hollywood Christmas Parade, a time-honored holiday tradition that unites the community and keeps some of Hollywood's old magic shining bright.

In the mid–1920s, as Hollywood Boulevard was transforming from a dusty trolley route into the film capital’s neon-lit main street, a veteran character actor named Henry Bergman quietly set about building a different kind of stage. Bergman, best known as a stalwart member of Charlie Chaplin’s stock company, had spent decades in theaters and on movie sets, playing everything from bartenders and mayors to comic foils. By 1925, he was ready for a venture where the audience could eat, drink, and gossip between pictures. With Chaplin’s financial backing, Bergman took over a storefront near the corner of Hollywood and Vine and created Henry’s Café at 6325 Hollywood Boulevard—part delicatessen, part late-night canteen, and, for a brief but glittering moment, one of the town’s most important meeting places.