And now, to my second favorite topic: guns.

(My first favorite topic? knee socks.)

Now, if you need proof that having a gun in your household is a smart move (it’s like owning a tiny, potty-trained dog that shoots bullets) then ponder the F out of this fun story.

Last night, In Portland, Oregon, a man named Timothy James Chapek called 911. The reason: He was terrified, and in distress. He thought he was going to die, and rightly so. After all, he had an unkempt beard.

But more important, Chapak had broken into a house, and was there, in the bathroom taking a shower – when the homeowner returned. The homeowner asked Chapek what he was doing, and Chapek responded by locking himself in the john, and calling 911.

The reason? He told the 911 operator: he thought the owner, a woman, had a gun. Yep, he sought the help of law enforcement because he feared an armed lady who he just tried to rob.

The homeowner also called the cops, but the real story is the change in behavior, whenever a gun enters the picture. If someone thinks – and fears – that you have a gun, he becomes wonderfully compliant.

Which means, when a gun arrives, the lifespan of a crime diminishes, too. Here, the homeowner didn’t have to brandish a pistol. The thought of one, was enough.

Anyway, the perp ended up in jail – and I don’t think the homeowner really had a gun to begin with.

What mattered: the intruder thought otherwise.

And if you disagree with me, it’s over between us.

Tonight:

Nick DiPaolo!

Jill Dobson!

Mick Foley!

- Bob Parr/ Mr. Incredible

Children across America are getting awards.  All the time.  These accolades are not for academic excellence or superior athletic achievements.  They are receiving certificates and applause for handing in their homework on time, paying attention in class, and walking in line without kicking another kid.  They are celebrating the stuff that we expect them to do, not the exceptional feats that overwhelm us emotionally and make us update our Facebook status.  Perhaps the writer of The Incredibles was as disturbed by this trend as I was and delivered an adventure for those who recognize true greatness.

I used to love going to the movies–but that has changed.  Frankly, not since The Lord of the Rings trilogy have I felt the ride was worth the price of admission.  Regardless of how I felt about the decline of the art form, I had to curtail my movie going, anyway.  My husband and I have an autistic son with sensory issues that prevent him from being able to enjoy the experience.  So we started a tradition in our house called “Movie Night.”  We pull out the sofa bed, make popcorn, get in our pajamas and pick a movie to watch together.  We have made some terrible mistakes.  Where the Wild Things Are barely resembled the book I loved as a child and certainly was not a family film.  It is a depressing story with no resolution or hope.  I don’t want my family films to be depressing.  I want to be motivated, transported, and moved.  

Pixar never fails to entertain.  Ever since our son was born we’ve been enjoying most everything they put out, from endearing shorts like Boundin’ to the groundbreaking classic, Toy Story.  Finding Nemo not only piqued my boy’s interest in the sea; it also showed him that a deformed fin doesn’t have to hold you back.  I love a good romance but never thought I would be able to enjoy one with my family until Up delivered one of the most romantic animated stories ever made.  The Incredibles, my favorite Pixar film, taps into the core values that my husband and I believe in for our family and our country.

Although the film was released in 2004, The Incredibles continues to entertain and is even more relevant today.  It is easy to draw parallels to what is currently going on in the world.  Bob and Helen Parr are superheroes that are not allowed to be super.  Their crime fighting days were cut short by an overly litigious society that forced them into hiding and living an ordinary life. To make matters worse, their superhero offspring are also forced to pretend to be something they are not—normal.  Thank goodness they find it difficult.  For when trouble strikes we look to the truly exceptional members of society to step up and protect those that need it and defeat the ones that mean to do us harm.  In the larger, real world, this job often falls upon America.

While watching Helen try to sell this line of thinking to her son Dash, I couldn’t help but feel that Elastigirl knows this is a load of bull.  Unfortunately, there are a lot of people that feel this way in America.   Somewhere along the line pride in America became a bad thing.  If you fly a flag or celebrate our great achievements then you are likely to be seen as too boastful or arrogant.  Some people revel in our failures and setbacks possibly because it makes them feel better about their own. Never fear, for there are also people out there that want us to be what we are: strong, innovative and tough leaders.  They don’t want us to be like everyone else.

The film’s writer/director, Brad Bird, first caught our family’s eye when we saw Iron Giant.  I don’t care how many times I’ve seen that film, I still get a tear in my eye when the Iron Giant points his fist to the heavens and says “I am Superman.”  It’s those moments that stick with a kid for life and make a parent feel that they have chosen a film that can teach a child something meaningful.  I want my son raised knowing that we value those people who need protection just as much as we do the people that volunteer to protect them.

“But things are different now.  And doubt is a luxury we can’t afford anymore sweetie.  You have more power than you realize.  Don’t think.  And don’t worry!  If the time comes, you’ll know what to do.  It’s in your blood”

–Helen Parr to her daughter Violet

There was a time when my son perseverated on this part of the film by playing this scene repeatedly.  I don’t know why, but I can only guess it was because of the action.  I’ve heard these words over and over again and they stay with me.  It’s a great rallying cry to those who have the natural ability to excel.  You hear that, America?  I’m the type of mother that wants my child to fight back when attacked.  That’s just who I am.  I don’t want him to be the aggressor, but when a kid on the playground has every intention of hurting him, I sure hope it’s in my son’s blood to know what to do.

In the film, Bob Parr a.k.a. Mr. Incredible is tired of hiding and wants to act.  But he can’t do it alone.  He needs the support of his family to defeat Syndrome and any other foe that attempts to destroy their way of life.  I love that my son still has some good role models in Hollywood.  They reinforce what we teach him at home.  Some mothers want to shield their children from violence, bullying and those that hate us.  I want my son to know that evil is out there and it is important to fight back.  If films like The Incredibles show our children that it is okay to be super, maybe they will be encouraged to dig deep and find the superhero inside themselves.

“Thing is, he’s going to kill me.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“Yes, of course I have.”

“And what happened?”

She shakes her head from side to side, wraps her arms protectively around her chest.

“I got a restraining order against Ned, that’s my ex-boyfriend. But you know what good that is, don’t you?”

“Tell me.”

She inscribes a big zero in the air.

Five Minutes Earlier

It’s a crowded Sunday morning in the Martin B. Retting Gun Shop in Culver City.

There’s the usual cross-section of customers:

Two elderly black women, sisters, who have been robbed countless times by drug-addicts. Ignored by the LAPD, they have no choice but to buy a gun for self-defense. The women wear colorful bonnets. Yup, they dressed up to go gun shopping.

There are a couple of hunters buying high-powered ammunition; they sound like Los Alamos scientists as they discuss the exquisite physics of various exotic slugs. It’s way beyond my comprehension.

Two Marines on leave are stocking up on rugged, combat-ready clips for their side-arms. Semper Fi.

There’s also a young Hispanic apartment manager who lives in a high-crime area. His wife just had a baby—Mazal Tov!—and he wants to protect his family from the local “desperadoes.”

I’m waiting my turn.

Protagonist

And so is a young woman who absolutely sticks out in the gun shop. She’s wearing a cream colored linen baby doll with blue grosgrain trim; on her feet, pink flip-flops that pop off alabaster skin. Her hair is the color of golden Kansas wheat. Mid-twenties, she’s an iconic all-American beauty who makes me flash to memories of a truly insane childhood crush: Tuesday Weld as Thalia Menninger on The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis.

Looking as if she’s on the edge of a meltdown, she paces, glances nervously at the display cases lined with gleaming rows of pistols and revolvers. She makes a move to exit the gun shop, then returns, as if yanked by a fishing reel.

“Excuse me, do you, do you know about guns?”

She’s even got that vulnerable, tremulous Tuesday Weld pitch to her voice.

And she is talking to yours truly.

“A bit.”

“I’m terrified of guns.”

I hold out my hands as if checking for rain.

“Sounds crazy, I know, thing is—do you think the salesmen are going to be much longer?”

“There’s tons of paperwork if you buy a gun.”

Her eyes dart about, then she just looks at me straight-on:

“Thing is, he’s going to kill me.”

Antagonist

That’s when she tells me about Ned; the evil, the obsessive, the ex-boyfriend.

Ned is a stalker, a human virus who has infected every aspect of her life.

She speaks of restraining orders:

“The thing about them is that people like Ned always find a way around them. He’s there on my computer. He’s a computer guy, for Chrissakes. He knows when I start going out with a new dude and he makes sure to tell the new one all sorts of trash about me. And d’you think the dude sticks around? No one wants that level of drama. I’ve moved twice already and he always finds me. Ned’s always there. Sometimes I wake up at night, go to my window and I’m telling you he’s watching me. Hey, I’m sorry for unloading on you. You must think I’m such a loser chick.”

“It’s fine. I feel awful for you. But it’s good you’re taking steps to protect yourself. It’s admirable. Men like Ned count on women being scared and defenseless.”

She pauses. Looks down at the display of guns.

Conflict

“I can’t believe I’m here. I’ve been against guns and violence my whole life.”

I let this pass. Now is not the time for a self-righteous lecture.

Intertitle: UTOPIA IS THE OPIATE OF LIBERALS.

“Did Ned threaten you, physically, I mean?”

“Said I belong to him and no one else. That’s about it. But I know what he means.”

“What did the police say?”

“The last cop, as he was leaving, whispered for me to get a gun.”

I tell her that owning a gun isn’t sufficient. She has to take safety classes, self-defense classes. She has to know what she’s doing. From the counter, I grab a handful of NRA brochures and press them into her hands. I make her promise that she’ll sign up as soon as she gets her gun in ten days.

“Ten days?” she says.

Nodding, I explain:

“First you have to take a test, here in the store, a written test. They’ll give you a booklet to study. Then you get a certificate making you eligible to buy a weapon in California. After you purchase the gun there’s a ten-day waiting period until you take possession.”

“But why?”

“Background check. To make sure you’re not a felon, a psychopath, an illegal immigrant, a terrorist, a drug addict. It’s the law.”

Once again, she wraps her arms around her chest, as if trying to keep her heart inside her body.

“Ned’s really smart—a psychozoid like you wouldn’t believe.”

Rising Tension

I do not ask her why she went out with Ned in the first place. The answer is obvious: psychopaths are clever at disguising their pathologies. Evil is seductive.

“You’re going to be okay. I know you are.”

She shrugs, scans a row of pistols.

“Are those good?”

“Those are .45 automatics. Probably too much gun for you. I’d recommend a simple revolver. Probably a Smith & Wesson J frame, a .38. But we’ll see what the salesman have to say, they are the experts here, okay?”

She manages a thin smile, her first since I’ve met her.

“Cool.”

“One piece of advice, even before you buy a gun, and this is important.”

“Yeah?”

“Lose the flip-flops.”

She looks down at her feet, curls her toes, lacquered a hot psychedelic pink.

“Huh?”

“You can’t run or maneuver in those things. Get in the habit of wearing a good solid pair of running shoes.”

“Oh, right, right. What was I thinking?”

I lead her to the glass case that holds the wheel guns, weapons that are simple to load, easy to handle, jam-proof. And, you better believe: lethal.

She scans the display. She seems overwhelmed.

Finally, she looks up at me and says: “What’s to stop Ned from killing me in the next ten days?”

I have no answer.

Resolution, Not So Much, For This is, Unfortunately, Reality

Hours later, I tell my wife Karen about the conversation. In the background FOX Cable News is reporting the brutal murder of a pregnant woman. The chief suspect is her ex-boyfriend, an evil piece of human garbage with a history of stalking women.

“I’m terrified I’m going to wake up one day and see that she’s been murdered. Maybe I should have done more.”

“What more could you have done?”

Shrugging, I admit I have no idea.

But Ned is out there, obsessively dreaming, watching, waiting for the right moment — to make her his own.

The Cornered Cat is an excellent resource for women who wish to learn about self-defense and firearms. Highly recommended.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

“Attack, always attack.”

My friend, the heroic Israeli tank commander, told me that in the first few days of the 1973 Yom Kippur War, both fronts, The Sinai and The Golan, were so weakly defended that had the Egyptian or Syrian high command been strategically bolder, tactically smarter, and their soldiers braver, well, the Arab armies could have achieved massive breakthroughs, and Israel would have found herself facing genocide.

The torture of Reginald Denny

But small, actually tiny pockets, of brave, determined and very well trained Israeli troops, in some cases, just two or three tanks on the Golan, held their ground and attacked enemy forces sometimes a hundred times their strength.

Screenwriter Escapes DGA Building—Note the Irony

“We had no orders except to hold our ground and whenever possible to attack—always attack.”

All this whips through my mind as I aim our car—I’m already thinking of the Lexus as a tank, a Centurion—towards the exit of the parking garage. A knot of rioters are milling about at the exit. It’s hard to see clearly but, oh boy, it looks like a few of them are brandishing baseball bats.

I’m gonna make a wild guess and assume that they’re not Little League dads.

I haven’t turned on the car’s headlights. We’re still lurking in the shadows, not yet detected by the barbarians.

Good thing the car is fashionably black.

Karen says: “Maybe there’s another exit.”

“Nope.”

“How do you know?”

“DGA building. I’ve been here like a zillion times.”

“What are we going to do?”

We.

The Talmud teaches that when a husband or wife uses the collective we it means there is love in the relationship.

Is there a finer way to enter battle than with the woman I have been in love with since third grade?

Ariel, 11, says: “I have to pee.”

Offspring #2, seven-years old, doubles over with an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. She finds this absolutely hysterical.

“You’re going to have to hold it in for a while, Ariel, do you think you can do that?” Karen says.

“I guess.”

“Good boy.”

Karen and I exchange glances. Karen gives me a pale smile of encouragement.

Robert: “I just have to say it.”

Karen: “What?”

Robert: “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”

Karen inclines her head, questioning.

Robert: “Bette Davis, All About Eve, 1950, written and directed by the great Joseph L. Mankiewicz.”

Karen sighs, tolerantly but with affection:

Karen: “Robert, Robert.”

In the back seat, the nervous giggles from Offspring #2 increase tenfold.

My Israeli buddy, the tank commander was fond of quoting Sun Tzu’s Art of War, and one of his favorite maxim’s was:

Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.

Okey-dokey.

I inch the car forward, gain speed, 4 mph, 7 mph…

Now: I switch on the headlights using—surprise, Hi-Beams!—drenching the criminals in white light. I lean on the horn and —

WHOOOOOOOOO!

— and the rioters are captured in powerful light—G-d bless those Japanese engineers. The shrieking horn is amplified by the concrete garage walls. As I bear down on them at what seems like Formula One speed the knuckleheads are blinded, frozen, and now they fall back like bowling pins and —

Steve McQueen in Bullitt; taught me everything I know.

— and we blow right past them, make a sharp left turn—we’re ordered by a street sign to turn right, but that would deliver us to the front of the DGA building and directly into the eye of the mob, and so, tires screeching—hey, just like Steve McQueen in Bullitt—we race away from the theater.

Heaving a great sigh, I realize that I have not taken a breath in, gee willikers, a long time.

I zoom down the block, pull over, and gulp oxygen.

“You okay?” Karen asks.

I nod.

But my heart is slamming in my chest like a Ginger Baker solo.

Hey, Los Angeles is Just Like Fatah Land—Only More Fashionable

Karen snaps on her little flashlight, studies the Thomas Guide. Using her index finger, she traces a route home.

“I think we should stick to the main streets, it’ll probably be safer.” Karen says.

“You navigate. I’ll pilot.”

“Let’s get moving.” Karen cautions.

“Check.”

Karen’s like: Huh?

I have seen way too many movies. Seriously.

Anyhoo:

As we cruise through the chaotic streets we spot fires burning all over the city. A canopy of red and orange spreads through the velvety darkness. It’s kind of beautiful, like a romantic J.M. W. Turner canvas.

Small businesses are deliberately torched.

Orange streaks of fire inscribe themselves against the velvety sky. It takes me a moment to recognize the distinctive signature of Molotov cocktails.

Los Angeles has turned into Fatah Land.

“Where’s the Fire Department?” Karen asks.

Looters help themselves to everything from television sets and stereos to diapers and liquor.

Every so often we hear the distinctive flat crack of gun fire.

Nowhere do we see any police.

Trying to avoid a massive traffic jam, I turn down a side-street, Karen leans forward, peers through the darkness, spots something and cries:

“No!”

Thirty yards separate us from a group of thugs who are chilling in the street. They watch us with flinty eyes. All wicked and street savvy, they shuffle in our direction.

They’re all: yo, yo, yo.

And I’m all: oy, oy, oy.

Call me crazy, but I have a sneaking suspicion they’re not looking to discuss the cinema of Oscar Micheaux.

“Let’s get out of here,” Karen says.

Who am I to disagree with the love of my life?

I shift into reverse. Back up a few feet, shift into drive, angling for a sharp U turn, but the thugs are coming up awfully fast in my rear-view mirror.

I’m pretty sure one of the locals is toting a Tec 9. Or maybe it’s just a chunk of lumber.

All I’ve got is a Swiss Army Knife.

Repeat after me, kids: Out-numbered, out-gunned.

Do not mess with Gloria Grahame.

“Robert…” says Karen through clenched teeth.

No time for a neat, Driver’s Ed. three-point turn.

I blast forward, hurtle right up on the sidewalk, and then, ca-runch! yet another bone rattling dive down the high curb, back into the street and:

Away.

We.

Go.

“Some move,” says Karen.

She touches my shoulder.

It’s Karen’s way of saying, “My hero.”

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

Entry in Robert’s Official Screenwriting Notebook: write this extremely scary, axle-cracking maneuver into your next script—no matter what the subject matter.

“I really, really, really have to pee,” Ariel reminds us.

I hand him an empty Styrofoam coffee cup.

Twenty Minutes to Get Anywhere in Los Angeles—Except During, Ahem, Civil Unrest

It takes us over an hour to get home. Normally, this drive would take maybe twenty minutes.

But we have to circle round and double-back countless times in order to avoid choked arteries, major intersections where madness reigns—traffic lights are ignored—and then there are unknown side streets that cause Karen to observe:

“We’ll never get out of there alive.”

Listening to the radio we hear about the Rodney King verdict. So that’s the grievance du jour.

The Fire Department, we learn, is not being deployed because their men have come under intense gun fire.

We hear—and I have trouble believing this report—that the Los Angeles Police Department has been,”Pulled back for their own safety.”

Huh?

I thought that was part of the job description.

Dopey me.

Casa Avrech: I carry Offspring # 2 to her bed where she recites the Sh’ma and then promptly falls asleep. We tell Ariel how proud of him we are. He shrugs. No big deal. Five minutes later he’s fast asleep.

Karen, crisp and efficient, pins a bed sheet over the large picture window in the living room. We cannot be too careful. I search the house for a weapon, settle on an old ice ax from my mountain climbing days. It’s an elegant tool with wicked potential in hand to hand combat, but obviously useless against firearms or a hail of Molotov cocktails.

Abruptly, I feel a burning pain—a white hot spike—shooting through both my arms. Did I get hit by a stray bullet?

I examine my hands and gosh, my fingers are curled into claws; it takes me a moment to realize that gripping the steering wheel so hard and for so long is causing severe muscle cramps.

On the TV, Karen and I watch as Reginald Denny gets his brains bashed in; we gaze in horror and disbelief as the barbarians dance over his broken body. Tears in our eyes, we see, G-d bless them, pious citizens step in and halt this atrocity.

There’s video of Fidel Lopez, a Guatemalan immigrant. He, like Denny, is pulled from his truck and robbed. But theft is almost beside the point. The rioters slash torturers smash open his head then slice off an ear. The mob graffiti his chest, torso and genitals.

Take my word for it, graffiti is not an art form.

Between fifty and fifty-six citizens are murdered in the riots; two-thousand are seriously injured.

At last, the LAPD are deployed and approximately 10,000 arrests are made.

Estimates of between 800 million and a billion dollars of property damage have been reported. Approximately 3,600 fires were deliberately set, destroying 1,100 buildings.

Korean shopkeepers were specifically targeted by black rioters. But the Koreans owned guns and heroically defended their property and lives through force of arms.

It was a lesson that should have reverberated nationally, but some commentators labeled the Koreans, vigilantes. Just another case of the mainstream media getting it wrong.

Liberal totalitarians demand increased gun control, if not the outright banning of gun sales to citizens.

Second Amendment, what’s that?

And then, of course, the race hustlers, Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and Maxine Waters, the usual suspects—vulgar demagogues—parade across TV screens informing the citizens of Los Angeles that the riots were really “an uprising.”

Oh, really?

As in: The Warsaw Ghetto Uprising?

My Hollywood Gun

Gazing from our bedroom window, we watch orange flames lick at the darkness, pillars of black smoke climbing into the sky. We can actually smell the acrid odor of burning rubber.

“Look how close they are,” says Karen.

“Just past La Cienega. Maybe eight blocks away.”

Karen gives me a long penetrating gaze:

“What do we do if they come here?”

“After this is all over,” I vow, “I’m going to buy a pistol.”

Karen says: “How about a shotgun?”

Springfield .45. My Hollywood Gun.

If the Los Angeles riots taught us anything it’s that you’re a fool if you count on the authorities to protect you in times of civil chaos — in fact, at any time. In the end, only I can protect my family.

I’m never, ever going to allow myself to be outgunned by the bad guys. All the gun laws that are on the books—and there are thousands of them—just make it that much easier for the barbarians to amass weapons, and for law-abiding people like you and me to be at their mercy.

If you outlaw weapons, as so many squishy liberals yearn to do, well then, only the state and the outlaws will be armed. Which leaves ordinary citizens at the mercy of an all powerful government and a variety of merciless criminal sub cultures.

When Hitler and Stalin snatched power, one of their first moves was to outlaw private gun ownership. They understood that armed citizens are a mortal threat to totalitarian rule.

Imagine history if several million Jews owned firearms between 1938 and 1945.

Is the mind capable of such a leap of faith, or is it too painful?

One week after the riots I legally purchased a pistol: A 1911 Springfield .45. It’s the pistol I trained with in Israel. Yes, it’s heavy, and yes, the recoil kicks like a Rockette; but this is the weapon I know best, and I cordially invite any mugger, rioter, criminal, and gun-hating “progressive” to get on the wrong side of my Hollywood gun.

FADE TO BLACK

For this is

The End

To read Hollywood is Burning, Part I, please click here.

To read Hollywood is Burning, Part II, please click here.

Note: I’m frequently asked how I’m able to remember incidents in such detail, including dialogue, from so many years ago? It’s simple. I do not rely on my memory. I have been keeping a detailed diary for over 20 years. This post, as so many others, is based on my diaries. If there are gaps in my entries, I check with Karen. She was also keeping a diary, plus Karen has a phenomenal memory.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

I’m pretty sure the mob outside is dead serious about breaking in and getting down to some serious violence.

Not to mention liberating some pretty major karats. At the reception, I noticed huge diamonds whose glitter could induce seizures; watches: at least a dozen Cartier Tanks; I could not count the Rolex Oysters, and no doubt there’s enough loose cash to make your average L.A. rioter reasonably satisfied. This is, after all, an affluent Hollywood crowd.

Armed & Dangerous With a Swiss Army Knife—Just Kidding

I have to protect my family.

In my pocket, as always, a little Swiss Army Knife.

“I’ve never yet seen an eyeball who felt that the Swiss Army Knife was not a dangerous weapon.”

This charming and somewhat gruesome comment, advice really, was given to me by my Israeli buddy, a grizzled tank commander who, one drunken evening, cheerily listed for yours truly all the common, everyday objects that have lethal potential. My friend was a big fan of the ordinary Swiss Army Knife and its zillions of nifty attachments.

So: it is pitch black, rioters are gathering outside the DGA building, and to make matters even worse, women and children in the lobby are yelling, sobbing—every moist and yucky sound imaginable—in panic.

I feel like announcing:

“People, shrieking does not help. Really it doesn’t.”

But, why bother? It’s a mob mentality and there is no reasoning with such people. Unless maybe you’re Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird.

Which I am not.

Anyhoo.

I’m busy formulating a plan, trying to figure out a way to escape this building before the rioters break in, before they figure out a way of crashing through one of the numerous doors.

Interpolation:

Karen does not scream or yell.

Unnaturally calm is the love of my life. Even as stones—where do the rioters get rocks?—thwack sharply against the front doors, Karen does not even flinch.

It’s almost eerie. Basically, everyone else is losing their collective minds, but Karen’s expression just builds into this magnificent wall of serene composure. Her posture goes taut, as if a steel rod is welded into her spine and molding her into an incredibly cute Marine.

Ten-chun!

I have this really weird urge to lift her sleeve and seek out the Semper Fi tattoo. And then there’s her lovely face. All the open and generous softness has receded and been replaced by a look of, well, the only way to describe her expression is —

Napoleon at Austerlitz

— have you ever seen those military paintings of 17th Century generals? You know those huge canvases where you get to see a full battle, say Austerlitz, or Waterloo, thousands of men are fighting, dying, blood and guts strewn about, rearing horses with eyes wide as saucers, but the general, the reason for the painting in the first place, well, he’s usually sitting on his white horse, on a hill, watching the battle, and his expression conveys, determination, resolve, bravery, a self-assurance that says to the viewer: Look, believe me, I know exactly what I’m doing.

Anyway, that’s what Karen looks like tonight.

End Interpolation:

“Karen,” I whisper, “I think we should get to the car and get out of here.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

I’ve been in love with Karen since third grade and have come to the realization that she’s one part Antigone and all Patton.

“Everybody, everybody! Attention, please! We cut the lights. We don’t want them to be able to see inside. Do you understand? We shut down the power. Not them.”

There is a collective buzz as a rent-a-cop repeats this vital announcement.

“What are we supposed to do now?” People shout.

“We’ve called the police,” comes the weak reply.

More nervous buzzing.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen, just wait for the police to arrive.”

I’m thinking: famous last words.

Offspring #2 is still in my arms, still glued to my hip, and though seven-years old, she has regressed and jammed her thumb in her mouth; she trembles mightily, as if freezing. I can actually hear her teeth chattering.

Karen and I edge our way to the staircase; we are not going to wait for the police. We are not going to sit here like victims.

We are going to make our way down to the parking garage, jump into the car, and drive home. We are going to take our fate in our own hands.

The cavalry, I’m pretty sure, and with all apologies to John Ford, is not coming to the rescue.

The Police Are Coming—But Not Really

“Where are you going?”

A rent-a-cop is posted at the staircase.

“To our car,” I tell him.

“That’s not a good idea, sir.”

“We think it is.”

“We’ve called the police.”

“Where are they?”

He says nothing.

“How long before they come?”

“Any minute.”

I gesture to the rioters doing their hostile little dances outside the DGA building:

“What happens when they start throwing Molotov cocktails?”

Rent-a-cop takes a deep breath.

“The police are coming,” he insists.

“Excuse me, we’re going to our car. You can’t stop us.”

The rent-a-cop has about 200 lbs.—all muscle—on yours truly and I’m terrified that he’s going to challenge me.

Thank G-d, he steps aside, murmurs something about not being responsible for our safety.

No kidding.

Poor guy. He’s trying to do his job, but he no longer knows what his job is.

Robert’s Rules for Driving Through a Riot

1. Do not stop for anyone or anything.

2. Not even to help someone. My first responsibility is to my family.

3. If rioters try to blockade the car, drive straight through.

4. If the car stalls, don’t leave the car.

5. Unless the car is on fire.

These rules flash through my mind in a split second.

The Fashionable and Magic Backpack

The stairwell is pitch black. Not good. In fact, it’s bad, very bad.

Suddenly, a golden beam of light slices through the velvety darkness.

“Look,” says Ariel, “Mommy has a flashlight.”

The children are delighted.

Me too.

Karen carries an extremely cool and very feminine leather backpack. It’s something of a joke in the family that the backpack is magic. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, it’s gonna be in the backpack.

Except for a pistol.

Sigh.

Cautiously, looking for signs of the rioters hiding in the garage, we make our way to the car. I’ve definitely seen too many movies. I almost declare: The coast is clear.

I snap Offspring #2 into her car seat. Ariel, 11, also sits in the back with his younger sister. He is pale with fear and confusion. I touch his arm and murmur: “Everything is going to be fine.”

Ariel gives a weak smile and nods his head.

Our children trust us to protect them.

The burden of parenthood has never felt more grave.

Starting up the engine, I realize that I am drenched in sweat, my shirt clings to my body.

Karen reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out the Thomas Guide to Los Angeles.

“We may have to find a different route home,” she says.

“Right.”

Using commencement-of-production bonus money from my last film, we bought a Lexus outfitted with a massive eight cylinder engine. It was a good move. The Lexus is a gas guzzler, but who cares. It’s our Centurion.

And as we cruise up the ramp, my breath catches in my throat for there are a dozen rioters milling about the exit.

Oh man, am I going to be able to put pedal to metal and plow through a bunch of real live human bodies?

My Israeli friend, the tank officer, had something like sixteen kills in a Sinai tank battle during the 1973, Yom Kippur War. When I complimented him on this huge kill ratio he waved it off and said:

“It’s no big deal killing an Egyptian tank. They have this habit of hunkering down and using their tanks as artillery platforms. All wrong. Picking them off was a bit too easy. Remember, always fight an offensive battle. Most people are cowards so if you keep coming at them, chances are they will retreat.”

Okey-dokey.

Louise Brooks, ready for a riot.

Next Week: Part III, Gauntlet. In which we manage to escape from the parking garage, only to discover that the route home is, um, a minefield.

To read Part I of Hollywood is Burning, please click here.

Note: I’m frequently asked how I’m able to remember incidents in such detail, including dialogue, from so many years ago? It’s simple. I do not rely on my memory. I have been keeping a detailed diary for over 20 years. This post, as so many others, is based on my diaries. If there are gaps in my entries, I check with Karen. She was also keeping a diary, plus Karen has a phenomenal memory.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

Karen and I lock every door in the house, shut tight the windows, we move through the house switching off all the lights.

 
L.A. Burns. Not a SFX scene from a movie.

Gazing from our bedroom window, we watch orange flames lick at the darkness, pillars of black smoke climbing into the sky. We can actually smell the acrid odor of burning rubber.

“Look how close they are,” says Karen.

“Just past La Cienega. Maybe eight blocks away.”

Karen gives me a long penetrating gaze:

“What do we do if they come here?”

My mind is racing away. The truth is, we are defenseless. Unless I get crazy inventive like Dustin Hoffman in Straw Dogs.

“After this is all over,” I vow, “I’m going to buy a pistol.”

Karen says: “How about a shotgun?”

Dissolve:

Two Hours Earlier:

The rioters are surging towards the front doors of the theater. They are shouting, but the glass doors are so thick we cannot hear what they’re screaming. But one look is all we need, faces are twisted into expressions of raw hatred. The mob looks intent on some serious violence. Though, I do glimpse a few kids laughing, milling about aimlessly and in apparent good cheer. Hey, maybe this is just a community street festival.

We’re at a screening for a new movie. It’s a Hollywood premiere and charity event for, get this, inner city youth.

I’m friends with the executive producer.

“Bring Karen and the kids,” the producer chirps on the phone,“it’s a kid-friendly movie, there’s gonna be a reception, and really Robert, it’s gonna be fab-u-lous.”

And so: because this producer is my friend and I want to support her movie, and because I’m a Hollywood screenwriter and personal relationships grease the wheels of the business, and because the producer is a player and admires my work, I schlep Karen, Ariel, eleven, and Offspring #2, seven-years-old, to the screening slash charity benefit in the DGA building on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.

What could possibly go wrong at a swanky premiere?

Inner City Youth Are Outside—But Not For Long

It is a Wednesday evening, April 29, 1992. The Rodney King tape has been running like an eternal loop on every network 24/7.

The film, a real stinker, at long last, cuts to its final fade to black. Everyone is now mingling in the reception area. Guests congratulate the producer, director and stars, assuring them that the film is: ”Great, just great,” and “the best work you’ve ever done,” all the expected and acceptable lies we tell each other.

Suddenly a chill sweeps through the room.

Something is happening.

It’s happening outside.

I step towards the large plate glass doors of the theater. The security men, two burly rent-a-cops, deeply alarmed, start locking the row of doors.

Snap, click.

Snap, click.

Snap, CRACK!

Mesmerized, I stare as something hard bounces off the thick glass. There is a tiny white wound.

“Step back from the doors,” the security men call out in surprisingly firm voices.

I stay put. I want to see what’s happening.

“Please, step away from the doors,” they plead as more guests press forward trying to glimpse the fearful gathering outside.

I see it happening. A classic shot unwinding in slow motion: the mob swarms towards the DGA building, towards us: a thick wave of fury marching with a terrible velocity towards this cocoon of—there’s no way around this—Hollywood liberals.

Sheesh, talk about a target-rich environment.

It’s almost funny.

Here we are, inside, raising charity for inner city youth, and —

— and the inner city youth are outside trying to get in.

Not, mind you, to express their ever-lasting appreciation for our spectacular generosity. Nope, hard as it is to believe, but it looks as if the objects of our charity would like to lynch us.

Or maybe burn us to death.

Almost funny. But not quite.

Hey, This is Just Like the Movies, Only Not Really

Abruptly, we are plunged into darkness.

And as if on cue, a woman screams, just like in the movies.

Offspring #2 leaps into my arms.

Trembling like a frightened rabbit, she stutters:

“D-d-d-addy, what’s happening?”

Karen grips my arm:

“Robert?”

Ariel squeezes my hand, and asks:

“What happened to the lights?”

I’m thinking: Um, Do I really look like I have the answers?

A rent-a-cop calls out: “We turned off the lights so they can’t see inside. It’s a safety precaution.”

I sense panic spreading like a virus through the crowd.

During the 1973 Yom Kippur War I had a long and detailed conversation with an Israeli officer, an incredibly brave and highly decorated tank commander, who explained why Israel always beat the Arabs in war:

“We maneuver, we remain flexible, creative and liquid. The Arabs have a fatal tendency to fall back into a defensive posture. You cannot win a battle or a war when your position is static. We shoot and scoot. We keep moving, we probe the enemy’s flanks and then move in for the kill.”

Excellent advice.

We are trapped in the lobby and outside a mob of rioters are moving in, surrounding the building.

Time to go Israeli.

Next Week: Part II: The Get-a-Way. In which Los Angeles devolves into anarchy, and the police are revealed to be helpless, hopeless and useless.

Note: I’m frequently asked how I’m able to remember incidents in such detail, including dialogue, from so many years ago? It’s simple. I do not rely on my memory. I have been keeping a detailed diary for over 25-years. This post, as so many others, is based on my diaries. If there are gaps in my entries, I check with Karen. She was also keeping a diary, plus Karen has a phenomenal memory.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech