Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Tinseltown
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Dear Ben and Brittany,
Hello from Tinseltown.
Remember the fun our family had touring the General Motors factory tour in Kansas and the Philip Morris tobacco plant in Virginia? Well, today I took the Paramount Studios tour. Forrest Gump, Titanic, The Godfather, Saving Private Ryan.
Before filling you in, what’s the news with you? Brittany, making progress on your college essay? Ben, did you find a summer job?
The movie industry, built on magic and mystery, is artifice and trickery. A mirage. Like hiding dirty laundry under your bed when I ask if you’ve cleaned your rooms.
The sound effects for the shower closeup in Hitchcock’s Psycho were made by audio engineers repeatedly stabbing a casaba melon. The wrenching sound of a breaking bone in a barroom fight is a celery stalk snapping. Going to the grocery store with you, or without you, is never going to be the same.
For steamy sex scenes, slurpy kissing sounds are dubbed by stirring mayonnaise with a spatula. A naked starlet with fake boobs (don’t even think about it, Brittany) swimming in a crystalline backyard pool is captivating, but counterfeit. The camera angle hides her flesh-colored thong.
A boat captain battling the high seas navigates white caps made by tossing detergent into a backlot swimming pool. To avoid poisoning the cast and crew with carbon monoxide, passing cars on a city street are pushed by hidden stagehands.
During a back-alley mugging when the brawny hero is thrown hard against a brick wall, the bricks are just painted foam. Ben, a few foam bricks would have been nice last summer when we hauled all those patio pavers.
Movies and travel are entertainments where I pay to be deceived. At tourist hotspots, I see only what the world wants me to see. I’m not permitted behind the cameras. Not allowed to view the world without its makeup.
In the signature Singing in the Rain song and dance number the rain, to make it more visible to the camera lens, is watery milk. Knowing that doesn’t detract from my goosebumpy enjoyment.
In The Godfather, Marlon Brando reads his lines from a cue card taped to Robert Duval’s chest. Me? I know my dad lines. I may garble them occasionally, and an apologetic retake here and there never hurts, but I am so lucky that I get to play a role in your lives. I like the movie set we call our house.
As if I needed reminding that moviemaking is the marquee industry here, the flashing red light atop the Capitol Records building spells out “Hollywood” in Morse Code. From my hotel room, I have a clear view of the iconic Hollywood sign.
Do you know why A-List actors are called movie stars? The Paramount logo—a silhouetted mountain top bounded by 22 stars—signifies the original 22 actors and actresses under contract to the studio in the 1920s. It didn’t take long before every film featured a movie star.
You are my movie stars. You and mom. Hanging out with you is like going to the Oscars without renting a tuxedo.
Tell mom that I’ll call in the next few days. I miss you all so much.
Love, Dad aka Clark Gable.
