|
|
|
L.A. Death Trip -
Death is a star attraction in the City of
Angels
By Mark Besten
LEO
October 25,
2000
They don't call it "The City of Angels" for
nothing. Life is lived large in Los Angeles, ever since
the orange groves of an arid hamlet called Hollywood
gave way to the dream factories. In the early 20th
Century, the actors and musicians who gravitated there
wasted no time in taking their places as de facto
American royalty: They played their real-life roles
extravagantly in public view, and when their time came,
they died -- sometimes even more
extravagantly.
Little has changed in the
intervening years. Today, some foresighted and PR-savvy
celebrities secretly hope for a poignant and memorable
death, so as to extend their posthumous popularity for
many years to come.
Ah, death ... THAT'S
entertainment!
Of course, death in Hollywood is
remarkably similar to death practically anywhere else --
only much more so. The distinction puts me in mind of a
classic one-liner tossed off by a poet friend at
Transylvania University. Like many students in the artsy
cliques at Transy in the late 1970s, my friend had grown
weary of the endless campus tributes to the quiet
courage of a Transy basketball player (we'll call him
Randy Stevenson here) who had recently died of leukemia.
"Jim Morrison," observed the poet, "is deader than Randy
Stevenson will ever be."
Certainly many dead
celebrities do seem much more dead than regular dead
folk, and the manner, place and cause of death --
whether natural, accidental, homicidal or suicidal --
have the power to capture the imagination in ways that
the demise of ordinary mortals simply do not. This
phenomenon helps explain the popularity of a quirky Los
Angeles attraction once known as the Grave Line
Tour.
Established in 1987 by eccentric
entrepreneur Greg Smith, the Grave Line Tour was a
crowd-pleasing expedition done in deliberately poor
taste. Passengers were driven through the 902-something
ZIP codes of Beverly Hills, Bel Air and Hollywood and
shown the homes and hangouts of the stars -- provided
the stars died colorfully there. That the Grave Line
tourists were conveyed in a vintage hearse added
immeasurably to the tour's campy sensibility.
I
first read "Hollywood Babylon," film historian Kenneth
Anger's definitive tome on the subject of celebrity
death, at the tender age of 13. My last visit to L.A.
was in 1982, at which time I made self-guided
pilgrimages to a few of the area's most sensational
locales -- notably the former sites of the Spahn Movie
Ranch where Charles Manson and his brood of murderers
and misfits hung out and and the residence of Roman
Polanski and wife Sharon Tate, scene of one of the
Manson "family's" most brutal murder rampages. (Vincent
Bugliosi's epic chronicle of the Charles Manson
phenomenon, "Helter Skelter," vies with Truman Capote's
"In Cold Blood" for top honors on my true crime
bookshelf.) So, when it appeared that another story
would take me to L.A. in early summer, I eagerly made
plans to go "Grave lining."
With considerable
dismay, I learned that Greg Smith had put the Grave Line
Tour on indefinite hiatus, citing professional burnout.
I poked around on the Web and eventually located an
excursion known as Oh Heavenly Tour. Querying, I was
informed that Oh Heavenly Tour, in fact, made the same
stops as the Grave Line Tour. Curtis Duncan, a former
Grave Line driver, had purchased the proprietary
tape-recorded narrative and a 1971 Cadillac hearse from
Smith, although Smith refused to sell the Grave Line
brand name in anticipation of someday resuming his own
tour operations. Thrilled with my discovery, I booked a
spot on Oh Heavenly Tour at a cost of $40.
I've
missed a few buses in my day, but when that Friday
morning arrived I had the unique opportunity to miss my
hearse. The e-mailed arrangements called for passengers
to meet in front of Ubon, a tres chic restaurant
adjacent to the Beverly Center, which is a multimillion
dollar shrine to extremely conspicuous consumption
located in the heart of Beverly Hills. I warmly recalled
seeing it overrun with molten lava in the Tommy Lee
Jones turkey, "Volcano."
Arriving shortly before
the appointed time of 11 a.m., I discovered Ubon
actually has two entrances; from where I stood I
couldn't see the other. I paced back and forth between
the doors but found no tourists in either spot. Soon, a
young Ubon employee appeared, knocked on the door and
stood waiting to be admitted to the not-yet-open
restaurant. "Excuse me," I began in my best Lost Tourist
manner. "Do you know where the hearse stops for Oh
Heavenly Tour?"
She knocked again, this time more
urgently. Her frightened expression told me that she
either didn't understand English or didn't care to hear
talk of hearses with a very large man pacing the streets
of the Beverly Center.
At 11:30 I concluded that
I'd missed the hearse by being in the wrong spot or --
since it seemed I was the day's only fare -- the driver
simply hadn't bothered to show. The latter possibility
seemed more likely when I reached Curtis Duncan by
telephone and had difficulty convincing him to
reschedule my tour for Monday morning; there were no
other passengers booked for Monday either. After telling
a few tiny fibs about the editorial reach of LEO, and
the huge numbers of Louisvillians who'd soon be jetting
out to the coast as a result of my story, I had Duncan
agreeing to take me on a private tour
Monday.
And, come Monday, I was psyched. About
half an hour before the appointed time, tooling through
the immaculate streets of downtown Beverly Hills in a
rental car under an azure sky that seemed surprisingly
free of smog, I was cheerfully heading for a dead
celebrity tour that I'd wanted to take for most of my
adult life. It was then that I experienced what
monologue artist Spalding Gray would call a "Perfect
Moment" -- the voice of Randy Newman singing "I Love
L.A." floated from the car radio that was tuned to a
classic-rock station. And boy, did I ever. At that point
I wanted to call Louisville and have all my belongings
shipped out to me.
I now knew exactly where to
wait for the hearse, and Duncan was right on time. He
was in his late 20s, TV handsome (in fact, he said he
had a few small acting credits, plus an album of
original music) and laid back in a way that only a
Columbus, Ohio, transplant in Southern California had
any right to be. I settled into the hearse's back seat,
and soon we were chugging slowly down Beverly
Boulevard.
"It has its problems," Duncan allowed
of the coughing deathmobile, which lacked a working air
conditioner. It was warm in Los Angeles (as a huge
"Dragnet" fan, I've always wanted to say that), so I
took Duncan up on his offer to crack a window.
I
happened to notice the El Coyote restaurant, where
Sharon Tate, Sebring and other friends had their last
meal on the night of the fateful visit by the Manson
followers. But Duncan didn't say anything -- it wasn't
officially on the tour -- so I furtively snapped a
picture without mentioning the restaurant's
significance. I didn't want Duncan to think I was a hot
dog.
The tour began in the older sections of
Hollywood, and some of the first stops had only thin, if
any, connections to death. I didn't care since they were
all very cool: the tree-lined street where Jamie Lee
Curtis babysat in "Halloween," the Cunninghams' house
from "Happy Days" (snow machines were used to make it
look like Milwaukee); and the house (with the giant
picture window) where Kim Basinger's "L.A. Confidential"
character lived.
Next up was the suburban
residential hotel where Divine (star of the John Waters
films "Pink Flamingos" and "Hairspray") died in his
sleep. Duncan shared the irony that the comic actor was
Grave Line owner Greg Smith's first death-tour customer
and was now himself featured on Duncan's. I also saw the
street corner where William Frawley (Fred Mertz on "I
Love Lucy") -- described by the tape-recorded narrator
as a far-gone drunk -- collapsed and died, falling to
the pavement with a thud (a sound-effect 'splat' on the
tape here).
In a particularly seedy section of
Hollywood, the hearse rolled to a stop at an
intersection where a street person locked eyes with me.
"Hey, big man," he called playfully, "where's the
body?"
As we rounded the bend on the Sunset
Strip, Duncan pointed out Shoreham Towers near the
super-sized Tower Records. The Shoreham is the high-rise
where Art Linkletter's daughter Diane, thinking she
could fly, defenestrated herself and fell to her death
(acid-heads do the darndest things). I was fascinated to
learn that the man -- one Edward Durston -- who was with
her when she believed she'd rewritten the law of gravity
also was in the company of buxom Carol Wayne (the
Matinee Lady on Johnny Carson's "Tonight Show") when she
drowned under highly suspicious circumstances in Mexico.
Another former resident of Shoreham Towers was one-time
Soviet ballet star Alexander Godunov, who defected to
the United States, had a second career as an actor and
finally did "Die Hard" there, ostensibly of end-stage
alcoholism. Tabloid headlines suggested a more
controversial cause of death.
When we stopped at
the apartment building where actor Jack Cassidy (TV's
"He and She") perished in a penthouse fire -- he "burned
like a crispy critter," the tape's narrator intoned --
Duncan told me that he once drove Cassidy's son, 1970s
teen idol Shaun Cassidy, on the tour. "So, do people
ever get offended by this tour?" Cassidy asked him.
Duncan replied (somewhat nervously, I gathered) that
humor helped to lighten up an otherwise grim
subject.
And, I found the tour was mostly
effective in using humor as an emotional detachment. I
chuckled as we approached actor Jack Haley's former home
and the taped narrator intoned, "In 'The Wizard of Oz,'
the Tin Man got a heart -- and you're about to see where
it finally stopped ticking." On the other hand, the
narrator was not without his groaners, as when we sidled
up to the final home of Jack Webb of "Dragnet" fame:
"Here's where Friday died on Thursday."
As the
hearse edged into Bel Air, I enjoyed a moment of pride
in my commonwealth when the narrator pointed out the
beautiful home of native Kentuckian Rosemary ("Come on-a
My House") Clooney -- although she's not dead yet.
Our next stop -- 668 St. Cloud -- had less to do
with death than the apocalypse.
All I could see
of the house there was its mailbox. The tape's narrator
said the house number was changed from 666 -- the
biblical "mark of the beast" -- to discourage
comparisons of the antichrist to the new owner, former
President Ronald Reagan. I did mention to Duncan that
Ronald Wilson Reagan is an anagram of Insane Anglo
Warlord. That didn't make me feel too much like a hot
dog, and Duncan trumped me by revealing that, in 1997,
the Grave Line Tour stopped for a break in a nearby park
and was approached by the former president himself.
Indeed, when I got home I found an Associated Press wire
story that contained the following bizarre passage,
under the headline, "Former President Surprises
Tourists."
"'Well, well, Grave Line Tours,'
Reagan said as he peered inside the group's (hearse)
Saturday, according to driver Ray Savage." (God, I
would've paid anything to see that.)
Next up was
the Holmby Hills area, where I got as close as I'll
probably ever get to that Mecca of male heterosexuality,
the Playboy Mansion. Nobody dead in there, at least not
physically -- but Duncan took this opportunity to point
out that Bob Fosse's "Star 80" used as its shooting
location the actual house in which Paul Snider murdered
his wife, Playboy Playmate Dorothy Stratten. Director
Richard Brooks did likewise by shooting 1967's "In Cold
Blood" inside the Clutter farmhouse in Holcomb, Kan. The
effect in both cases was very, very creepy.
As we
headed back to the Beverly Center, I asked why two of
the most infamous L.A. death sites had not been included
on the tour: the site where Sharon Tate died, and the
condo where Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman were
murdered.
"Can't get the hearse up the hill on
Cielo," Duncan said of the steep canyon side where Tate
and Polanski had lived in their dream home. The house
was demolished in 1994, after Trent Reznor of Nine Inch
Nails had converted the living room into a recording
studio he dubbed Le Pig of Beverly Hills. As for
Nicole's place, it's way over in Brentwood, and the
neighborhood association is quite active when it comes
to deterring sightseeing horehounds. The Rockingham
house, where O.J. Simpson claimed to have been chipping
golf balls when his wife was murdered, was torn down
several years ago -- after his 1995 acquittal of the
murders of Nicole and Ron Goldman.
Winding things
up, I thanked Duncan for the personal tour and for
taking time to answer my questions. I told him I thought
the success of his tour was being stymied by the absence
of the Grave Line brand name. There was a certain level
of awareness of it nationwide, thanks to frequent media
exposure during the O.J. circus. Duncan agreed, but
shrugged ruefully that there was little chance of the
owner relinquishing it. We shook hands, and I watched
him drive away in his hearse.
Even in Hollywood,
happy endings are never 100-percent certain -- unless
your last name happens to be Spielberg. Back home in
Louisville as I prepared to write about my experiences
on the death tour, I attempted to contact Curtis Duncan
to ask a few follow-up questions. I learned that he
committed suicide in early September. Those who are
quick to judge -- or write narratives to entertain
Hollywood site-seers as they make the rounds on a death
tour might offer a pithy epitaph such as, "Live by the
hearse, die by the hearse." I only knew him for two
hours; I don't know his motive or the circumstances that
led him to take his life.
The future of both the
Grave Line Tour and Oh Heavenly Tour is uncertain.
Neither is currently offering its services to the
public.
The writer can be reached at
hackwriter@iglou.com
SIDEBAR:
Former
death tour director turns Internet
entrepreneur
by Mark
Besten
If, before today, you had ever
heard of the Grave Line Tour, you probably have Scott
Michaels to thank. During the early 1990s, Michaels was
the official "Director of Undertakings" for Grave Line's
tour of dead stars' homes in Los Angeles. His tenure
included that magical time in L.A. when erstwhile
football hero O.J. Simpson was accused of a shocking
double homicide, and the assembled worldwide media were
only too happy to provide Michaels with saturation
coverage.
"A day or two after the murders, I
decided to drive the hearse by the house where Nicole
Simpson and Ron Goldman were killed," said Michaels. He
reasoned that the people who were rubbernecking at the
scene were Grave Line's bread and butter, and he thought
it would be a great place to pass out pamphlets
promoting the tour.
"BINGO! BLAMMO! It blew up
into a media frenzy. I was on national TV throughout the
trial," including "Larry King Live," "Entertainment
Tonight" and others, recalled Michaels. "Any day there
was a lull in the courtroom, someone decided to do a
story on 'those kooky L.A. people'. I was really proud
of what I helped create, despite the criticism, jerks
and death threats."
Indeed, Michaels discovered
that escorting the curious on the death-obsessed tour
was not without occupational hazards. "I once had a tire
blowout in front of O.J.'s house. The hearse didn't
carry a spare, and I didn't have a cell phone. L.A.
Mayor Richard Riordan lived nearby but wouldn't let me
use the phone. I had to walk a mile to a pay phone to
order taxis for my guests, then wait about four hours
for a tow truck. I laid down in the back of the hearse
because the neighbors in Brentwood were absolutely
appalled by us. People turned their hoses on us, and
threatened to blow my brains out -- silly stuff like
that."
But it was not fear for his own life that
eventually led Michaels to a complete change of scene.
Following a bitter dispute with Grave Line owner Greg
Smith, Michaels met his significant other, whom he
followed home -- to London, England. There, he created
what is perhaps the definitive Web site
(www.findadeath.com) on the subject of celebrity
deaths.
Michaels' site serves as a companion to
www.findagrave.com. Findadeath provides colorful
commentary on the circumstances surrounding the passings
of more than 150 celebrities, while the Utah-based
Findagrave specializes in photographs of celebrity
graves and offers helpful cemetery
directions.
Like the Grave Line Tour, Findadeath
relies heavily upon irony and gallows humor to lighten
its treatment of a downbeat subject. And Michaels wields
a devilishly clever wit. Certain celebrity cases call
for the compassion and righteous moral outrage, however.
He comes through in those instances, such as his
treatments of Heather O'Rourke (who announced "They're
here!" as little Carol Ann in "Poltergeist"), whose
death from a bowel obstruction may have been easily
preventable, and Rebecca Schaeffer (the young star of
"My Sister Sam"). Schaeffer's murder at the hands of a
stalker led to the creation of the Los Angeles Police
Department's Threat Management Unit.)
Since
Michaels' relocation to London, he has accepted more
conventional employment as a researcher for a British
television series. His Findadeath site is largely a
labor of love, although he does vend authentic curios
such as stones from the fireplace of Sharon Tate's house
and pieces of the experimental airplane from
singer/songwriter John Denver's fatal
crash.
"People in Britain react poorly to my
chosen field," said Michaels. "I find it amusing that 25
percent of our Grave Line customers were British, but
only because California was far enough away that they
didn't think they would be seen doing
it."
Americans are less conflicted about
celebrity death, and the reasons for its appeal are
transparent to Michaels. "Celebrities are our royalty in
America. Every single facet of their lives becomes a
fascination to us. Findadeath features the details that
most other sources try to sweep under the carpet. It's
bitchy, it's gossipy and it's fun."
|
|
| |