Dust to stardust

The last time I talked to Johnny Grant was just before Halloween. A couple of venerable actors had been perplexed that our friend Norman Corwin, the founding father of radio drama and subject of an Oscar-winning documentary, did not have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I called up Johnny in his Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel penthouse. Hollywood's honorary mayor for life professed astonishment that Corwin was a man without a star. Get me the paperwork, he said, and I'll take his name to the committee personally, immediately.

The first time I talked to Johnny Grant was when I was covering one of the hundreds of Walk of Fame star dedication events he arranged and emceed for the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce. Eventually I'd give speeches myself at three of them -- for my friend Michael York, for Times film critic Charles Champlin and for a special star for The Times itself.

For a while, in the late '90s, Johnny and I didn't talk at all. He was miffed over a sharp column of mine about the secrecy and over-commercialized vibe of the Walk of Fame, which, after all, belongs to the city of L.A., not the Hollywood Chamber. His letter to the editor said: "I hope I'm still around if and when her nomination comes in for a Walk of Fame star. ... That will be the day I enjoy a really big laugh." But then a mutual friend died -- a woman made famous against her will, unlike most people Johnny dealt with. We talked a lot and cried a bit, and that was that.

The Johnny Grant who died in his rocking chair Jan. 9 was a dynamo from an age when places like Hollywood were run by interlocking circles of acquaintances who decided the public good in private. A contact, a lunch, a handshake -- and matters were settled.

As Johnny's type went nearly extinct, so did Hollywood. For years, L.A. almost let its most famous asset slip away. (That's one reason the Hollywood Chamber wielded power -- by default, because the city didn't.)

Sam Yorty, the 1960s mayor, told me once that as he traveled the world, people would ask, "Los Angeles -- is that anywhere near Hollywood?" Yet by the 1970s, the Hollywood sign, one of the most recognized of man-made landmarks, was collapsing. The Hollywood Chamber stepped in, dismantled the carcass and recruited deep pockets to replace the sign.

The sign and the Walk of Fame have a curious custody split: The city owns them, but the chamber owns their trademarks, and the royalties are meant for their upkeep.