The Hollywoodland Revue

Jacob Stern arrived in Southern California with the kind of ambition that didn’t bother to introduce itself—it simply started buying the future. Born on September 20, 1859, in Saxony, Germany, to Marcus and Rosetta (Goodman) Stern, he spent his early years in the workmanlike world of family labor, helping on the farm and learning, young, that land was never just dirt. Land was leverage. In 1884 he crossed the Atlantic, landing first in New York before moving on to Cleveland, where he worked for a wholesale clothing firm—practical employment that taught him the rhythms of commerce, supply, demand, and the quiet power of being the person who could provide what other people needed.

Few ironies exist in Hollywood culture like the experiences of prestige films that open weekend to discover that moviegoers have vastly misunderstood the product they are seeing. Paul Thomas Anderson's latest epic, One Battle After Another (2025), has experienced something few films achieve today: widespread critical acclaim — it's as richly ambitious and vital as any movie this year, angry, witty, and brimming with technical wizardry—while failing to find a wide audience who either didn't come out to see it, or weren't quite sure what it was they were coming to see.

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.