The Hollywoodland Revue

By the late 1960s, Hollywood had become something of a self-devouring empire. The studio system was gone, the old-guard moguls were dead or retired, and their stars were being plundered—mercifully or sadistically, by cineastes—by a brash new generation weaned on television, exploitation films and irony. Born out of that awkward renaissance was Savage Intruder, aka Hollywood Horror House, a cheap independent feature that would provide legendary actress Miriam Hopkins with her last appearance in a feature film and became one of the oddest Hollywood endings ever.

At the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in Brentwood, on 12305 Fifth Helena Drive, sits a modest Spanish Colonial-style hacienda that has become the improbable epicenter of a bitter legal battle over heritage, ownership, and the culture of preservation in Los Angeles. Built in 1929, the 2,900-square-foot adobe-style home entered Hollywood lore when Marilyn Monroe bought it in February 1962 — the only residence the actress ever owned — a purchase she financed after her third marriage and where, six months later, she was discovered dead of a barbiturate overdose in her bedroom at age 36. Around the doorstep sits a tile reading “Cursum Perficio” — “The journey ends here” — a poignant message that has become eerily resonant through decades of debate over the house’s fate.

In Hollywood's darkest days--the uncertain, telegram-filled years of World War II when movie scripts were rewritten to suit patriotic needs--there was one Hollywood hot spot where glamour took a back seat to thankfulness. Tucked away on a corner just south of Sunset at 1451 Cahuenga Boulevard, behind an unassuming facade that hinted at nothing grand inside, the Hollywood Canteen swung open its doors and redefined celebrity volunteerism. The Canteen wasn't exactly a nightclub, nor was it the invention of Hollywood studios, although at times it sure acted like one. For three years, from 1942 to 1945, it became a bastion of equality and mutual sacrifice as movie stars waited tables, scrubbed pots and danced with servicemen and women who were about to ship out to fight in World War II.

With awards season still echoing and Valentine’s Day looming, the February 6 weekend brings a refreshingly varied slate of new theatrical releases—ranging from comfort-food romantic comedy and franchise horror to daring arthouse drama and lavish gothic spectacle. Whether you’re looking for escapism, provocation, or old-fashioned big-screen atmosphere, this week’s openings offer plenty of reasons to leave the couch and head back to the movies. Here’s a quick guide to what’s arriving—and which films might best suit your mood.

In the late summer of 1928, as Hollywood studios raced to wire their stages and retrain their stars for sound, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer authorized a project that ran counter to almost every instinct guiding the industry’s transition to talking pictures. The film was Hallelujah—a rural Southern drama with an all-Black cast, heavy musical content, extensive location shooting, and a director willing to gamble his own salary to get it made. In trade terms alone, it was a high-risk production at the worst possible moment to take one.

Time, fame, and money have always traveled lightly in Hollywood, and few lives illustrate that cruel arithmetic more poignantly than that of Pierre Collings, a gifted screenwriter who reached the industry’s highest summit only to disappear almost immediately into obscurity and poverty.

Hollywood is filled with celebrated faces, but its most faithful custodians are often those who never sought the spotlight at all—the patient, obsessive, quietly brilliant detectives who notice what everyone else walks past. John Bengtson was one of those rare figures. A business lawyer by profession and a film historian by vocation, Bengtson became, over the course of more than two decades, one of the great interpreters of silent-era Los Angeles: the man who could freeze a single frame of a comedy short, read the angle of sunlight on a wall or the geometry of a fire escape, and tell you exactly where the camera once stood—sometimes down to the very doorway—nearly a century after the fact.

Viola Davis’s greatness has never been the kind you can mistake for luck. It’s the kind forged—scene by scene—out of craft, nerve, and a lived understanding of what it means to be underestimated and still walk into the room as if you own it. Born August 11, 1965, in St. Matthews, South Carolina, Davis spent her earliest years straddling two Americas: the rural South of her family’s roots and, soon after, the hard-edged reality of Central Falls, Rhode Island, where poverty wasn’t a talking point but a daily condition. She has spoken plainly about growing up in severe deprivation—about the indignities and dangers of it, about the way hunger and instability mark a child—and those experiences did not simply “inspire” her later work. They sharpened it. They gave her an instrument most actors spend a lifetime trying to approximate: truth that cannot be faked.

Grady Demond Wilson, who played Lamont Sanford, the responsible son and often-patient straight man in the long-running sitcom Sanford and Son, died on January 30, 2026, at his home in Palm Springs. He was 79. His son Demond Wilson Jr. said Wilson died from complications due to cancer.

Clara Blandick spent most of her life on the edges of celebrity. Her face was among the most familiar in American films. Born Clara Blanchard Dickey on June 4, 1876, she had a long, career-obsessed life as a stage, film, and character actress, the kind of performer Hollywood needed and little acknowledged. She is, for generations, Aunt Em in The Wizard of Oz, stern but loving Kansas aunt whose quiet presence grounds Dorothy’s homesickness. Clara Blandick’s actual story – particularly its end – was far from Technicolor comfort.

The death of Catherine O’Hara, confirmed today at the age of seventy-one, closes the curtain on one of the most quietly influential and deeply beloved careers in modern screen comedy. For more than five decades, O’Hara inhabited characters with a precision so exacting and a humanity so generous that she reshaped how comedy could look, sound, and feel—especially for women whose wit did not require apology or softening.

Americans like to think our national arguments are original. Every generation likes to believe it is living through uniquely calamitous times, utterly disconnected from what has gone before. Few debates are more stubbornly cyclical -- or more willfully misunderstood -- than the struggle between religion and government. The battle over church and state didn't suddenly erupt in the twenty-first century. It wasn't created by modern secularists, or contemporary "culture warriors," or even activist judges. It's as old as the republic itself -- and it was intentionally written into the nation's political DNA by people who had seen firsthand what happens when faith and power sit together on a throne.