“About fifteen years ago, on a sunny day, . . . a man of small height, soft movement, and imperious voice arrived in a suburb of Los Angeles. He cast his
eyes upon the green hills, upon the transparent air, upon the dazzling sun, and set up a shed on the outskirts of Los Angeles. . . .
“The city was Hollywood. The man — Cecil DeMille.
“Today strict, business streets of concrete stretch through the suburbs of Los Angeles. Skyscrapers pierce the sky. People, for whom 24 hours is not enough
time in a day, stream in a constant wave over its boulevards, smooth as marble. It is difficult for them to talk with one another, because the noise of
automobiles drowns out their voices. Shining, elegant Fords and Rolls-Royces fly, flickering, as the frames of one continuous movie reel. And the sun
strikes the blazing windows of enormous, snow-white studios.
“Every night an electric glow rises over the city.
“Bright lights, like the names of movie stars which ignite them, scatter across the gay streets. Hundreds of floodlights pierce the darkness.”
— Alisa Rosenbaum, Hollywood: American City of Movies, Dina Garmong, trans.