Universal Studios Fire, Sale a Sad End to Grand Era of Dream Factories

But all of this was somehow put into a compartment of my head totally apart from the one that encased the affectionate companionship of the movies I enjoyed when I was growing up. When I had my fill of writing about Hollywood and turned to other things, I didn't look over my shoulder very often. Sure, I missed the location trips--many of them abroad--and the screening parties and the ego-life of being on the "A" list.

But the need I had--if that's what it was--to experience what I fantasized as Hollywood on my own terms was gone. That Hollywood no longer existed, anyway--if it ever had. The studio system had disintegrated, and the industry was being taken over by financial conglomerates--first domestic, then foreign--that didn't know Judge Hardy from Rambo, and couldn't care less. And the movies they produced turned appallingly violent--or appallingly cute--and were aimed primarily at adolescent minds of whatever age.

So an era was gone, and I didn't try to fight these changing rhythms. But that hasn't prevented an occasional opening of that compartment of my mind in which my own adolescent movies are stored--and the chance to poke about in them fondly. That usually happens at this stage of my life only when something stirs these memories--as the Universal fire did the other day. The cardboard sets burned fiercely, leaving only ashes. But the movies I carry in my head--and the feelings I have for them--are indestructible.