The Hollywoodland Revue

Rising quietly above the John Anson Ford Amphitheatre, perched on a ridge that surveys the Cahuenga Pass, the Hollywood Freeway, and even the distant curve of the Hollywood Bowl, stands one of Los Angeles’ most enduring—yet often overlooked—monuments. Officially known as the Hollywood Pilgrimage Memorial Monument, but more commonly called the Hollywood Cross, the 32-foot steel structure has watched the city evolve for more than a century, its glowing silhouette offering a silent benediction over the restless traffic below.

Hollywood sold sunshine and dreams almost as soon as film came to town—young flesh and celluloid lust. But tucked away from spotlights and palm trees, just underneath the angle of flash bulbs, was another kind of commerce—one that whispered rather than shouted, that worked as hard but rarely rested. Hollywood has had prostitution since its earliest days, though not in the boldface manner of later mythologizers. The business was discreet (held indoors and away from stationary property) and conducted under the perpetual threat of arrest, molded by fear as much as libido.

There are celebrities who shine brightly for a brief time and then fade. And then there are the rare few whose personas feel anchored not just to an era, but to a concept—of elegance, of glamour, of Hollywood as a place that somehow lingers between history and folklore. Loretta Young was the latter. With elegance she navigated the evolving world of American entertainment for over fifty years, radiating grace even while her personal life remained anything but graceful.

Few Hollywood stories have garnered more rumor, skepticism and lasting scandal than actress Gloria Grahame’s later-life romance with Tony Ray, the son of her first husband, Nicholas Ray. The unbelievable story feels ripped from a screenplay, but it happened nevertheless— catapulting Hollywood’s golden era into one of its most lurid scandals of the postwar period. It consumed Grahame’s final years in Hollywood and forever changed how she was perceived by her colleagues.

Memoirs. Memoires. There's also auto-performances. You know the kind. So full of voice, personality and life experience that they sound more like spotlights are being shone on you rather than pages being turned. Kids, Wait Till You Hear This! is Liza Minnelli singing her memoir. Literally taking back the life others have spoken about for years and vocalizing it in that glorious voice of hers.

In the late summer of 1932, as Los Angeles staggered beneath the weight of the Depression and Hollywood’s bright façades concealed countless private tragedies, a quiet and unsettling story unfolded—one that read less like a crime report than a deliberate farewell. It was the story of Arpad Mihok, a 65-year-old Hungarian recluse whose final day on earth was planned with chilling calm and carried out with heartbreaking resolve.

History has remembered Jesse James as one of the most famous outlaws of the Wild West. A former Confederate guerrilla who robbed banks, stagecoaches, and trains and died at the hands of a murderer. His son Jesse E. James Jr. had a less glamorous life. Jesse Jr. tried to live down his father's violent legacy by becoming a businessman and attorney before becoming a caretaker of his father's story.

The passing of Chuck Norris on March 19, 2026, at the age of eighty-six, marks the end of one of the most unlikely—and ultimately enduring—careers in modern American popular culture. A martial artist turned actor, a disciplined competitor who became a cinematic symbol of invincibility, Norris lived long enough to see himself transformed into something beyond stardom: a myth, equal parts man and legend, shaped as much by his own life as by the imagination of the public.

On a night designed to celebrate illusion, the 2026 Academy Awards revealed something far more enduring—Hollywood itself, in all its contradictions, sensitivities, and quietly simmering rivalries. The Academy Awards have always been, for better or worse, both a reflection of Hollywood and also a funhouse mirror distortion of it. For an industry that is perpetually looking forward, praising its newest stars and inventions, Oscar night inevitably finds a way to force it to reckon with its past as well. This year, however, along with smiles and canned humility, we also got glimpses of generational conflict. There wasn’t one headline-grabbing bomb but a million tiny ones.

Viola Delee lived in Chicago at the turn of the twentieth century, when industry, immigrant neighborhoods, and vaudeville houses helped to form the city’s identity. She was born in 1883 to William and Kate Delee. They were a family of three daughters who lived on Chicago’s South Side. In the winter of 1903, Viola, like many young women of her day, enjoyed all the amusements the city had to offer, particularly the theater. Stepping out to watch a performance was an easy way to momentarily forget the repetitive cycles of work and home. Chicago welcomed its newest theater, the Iroquois, to Randolph Street that season. Dubbed the most elegant and “absolutely fireproof” theater in the nation, the irony would soon prove tragic.

Rudolph Valentino was still one of Hollywood's biggest legends in the late 1940s, more than twenty years after his death. The silent screen idol was born in Italy and had died suddenly at the age of thirty-one in 1926. His death unleashed unprecedented public hysteria with women fainting in front of Campbell's funeral home in New York while newspapers published dozens of pages of tributes to him and Hollywood came to a standstill to mourn him. For movie producers in the late forties looking back on the silent film era, Valentino's rags-to-stardom-and-death story fit perfectly with the biographical film that flourished during the post-war era. However, it turned out to be very difficult to make a film about his life.

Hollywood gathered once again beneath the glittering lights of the Dolby Theatre for the 98th Academy Awards, and while the ceremony stretched late into the evening—as Oscar nights inevitably do—it unfolded with unusual energy, humor, and a sense that the industry had rediscovered how to entertain itself. Hosted by Conan O'Brien, the evening balanced sharp comedy with genuine celebration of filmmaking, producing one of the tighter ceremonies in recent memory even if the clock still drifted well past its scheduled ending.