Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

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RIVERSIDE LOVED IT.

Because the ancestral home sat on NOT A THROUGH STREET beside a moatlike culvert, access was relatively easy to control. With the enthusiastic urging of residents, the city council quickly approved a gated checkpoint. Unless permitted, only locals were allowed entry to the five-square-block area in question. Per special ordinance of the mayor, those trustees of the stalkerazzi — helicopters, small planes, and hot-air balloons — were naturally disallowed in the airspace above. The neighborhood rallied round its fallen hero amidst a tide of global ink, for it really did take a village: Riverside thrilled at its own retooling of image, torqued from homicidal methamphetamine shithole to nurturing municipality. Burke Lightfoot reveled too in his once vaguely hostile hometown’s embrace, rejoicing in their newfound antimedia puritanism. He renewed his bonds of affection with this brave new world, county of movers and shakers, of speedy utilitarians, of fast learners that he’d never after all abandoned, kingdom of civic morality and pragmatism, this adroit, far-seeing, unexpectedly with-it protectorate whose vivacious, obstreperous, out-of-left-field support had been counterintuitive, and left him with nothing but praise and exultation.

Always, a flotilla of media vans and trucks on the neighborhood’s outskirts and the small industry of shiny catering campers that sprung up to feed them (with proper permits, further enriching city coffers). Newshounds made the requisite, random inquiries but were shined by the locals re: purported condition of and/or formal or casual neighborly encounters with the tragic superstar who (allegedly) shuffled, shambled, lurched, and recovered among them. It was unprecedented, but neither grainy image nor insipid anecdote had yet been leaked or sold to tabloids. No bark and no byte. The united front was impossibly, utterly, wholesomely Capraesque, almost as much of a story as its subject. Had a touch of the Branch Davidian too.

Lawns were tidier. This godly little acre took on a lush utopian tinge, a peculiarly Middle-American Shangri-la ruled over by Lord Lightfoot, natty ringmaster and gemütlich Wizard of Kit. If one looked with a very keen eye (the streetlamps did not cast a wide or bright light), one might see them strolling at eventide — wounded wild-child and martyred keeper. By sunny Riverside day (and by night too), troops of saffron-robed monks came and went, polite, amiable, unobtrusive, discreetly stitching themselves into the community quilt. Burke used them for running errands and cleaning house. They engaged Kit in physical therapy, for the father did not trust those sent from the hospital; after their visits, memorabilia seemed to go missing.

Only a few of the old cronies ever called or even asked to stop by. Kiki came just once (it’s true she checked in a lot, but Mr. Lightfoot discouraged actual visits), as did Robin Williams and Edward Norton — but not his so-called soul mate ex-fiancée or Alf, putative running partner and self-proclaimed best friend, now rumored to be dining on Viv’s snatch, or any of the studio parasites, business managers, or legal eagles who had coolly leeched so many hundreds of millions off his handsome hardworking boy. Fine, then. Better he be ministered to by selfless monks.

Larry King and Barbara Walters called, to cajole. Barbara wanted an interview in the worst way. “I’m very, very, patient,” she said slyly. Tough Jew. Ton of moxie. They flirted over time, Burke putting her through his time-tested charmathon workout. Whenever Barbara hung up — after saying she’d call again next week, which she did, like clockwork — he thought: Captivating lady. A real pro, and a hottie in her day, too.

Becca in Venice

BECAUSE OF RUSSELL CROWE’S conflicting film schedules, Look-Alikes was shot over the holidays and into the new year. Becca finished the gig just before Thanksgiving. She never stayed on to do camera-double work because Drew asked that her regular double take over. (Drew was loyal that way.) She was kept abreast of any juicy set scuttlebutt by a second A.D. whom she’d furtively kissed on a day Rusty had been mean to her. Lately, there were a lot of those kinds of days.

The big gossip was that the true Russell (his wife, who was expecting, had only been in L.A. for part of the shoot) had some sort of dalliance-dustup with the true Drew and that the Billy Bob look-alike was hitting bull’s-eyes with all the female look-alikes (and one of the males), even though he had hopelessly lost his heart to the true and very young Scarlett Johansson. Which was funny because, as the second A.D. pointed out, the true Scarlett and the true Billy Bob already had a dalliance (on-screen) in that movie where Billy Bob played a barber. The second A.D. said that the true Scarlett, who may or may not have had a dalliance with the true Benicio, definitely “had it going on” with the true John Cusack. The second A.D. said that he thought the true JC was maybe having something with either the true Meryl (who had a small, very hip cameo) or the Meryl look-alike, or both. Becca doubted the very married Mrs. Streep would be having an affair with anyone, and suddenly all the second A.D.’s whispered intelligences were put into question.

She was pleased that Rusty had spoken of his counterpart with such genuine respect and affection. They’d already shot a few scenes, and Rusty apparently had held his own. He told Becca that “the Gladiator” (though he never called him that to his face) was nothing short of a gent. They’d even had a drink together.

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LIVING IN VENICE was fun. Becca loved going for jazzy little walks on Abbot Kinney and having drinks at Primitivo. She loved popping into retro furniture boutiques and making mental lists of what to buy for her future hillside home. (She was thinking Los Feliz. That’s where Spike and Sofia lived, and the chief of police too.) Rusty’s apartment was cramped and moldy, and even though she enjoyed hearing the sound of the ocean, she was embarrassed to find herself pining for the absurdly decorated nouveau riche Dunsmore aerie.

The desire for a house tugged at her in the way she imagined the desire for a child one day would — craving nest before eggs — and coincided, as usual, with wanting her mom to come from Waynesboro for a visit. She didn’t like the idea of Dixie staying at some Surfside or Ocean View — type motel but couldn’t afford to put her up at Shutters or the Viceroy, either. (Her mom would insist on paying her own way, anyhow.) But it wasn’t like she felt she needed to shoot for the moon either. Aside from being a “Hot Property” junkie, she was always scanning the classifieds in the Times; there were lots of great places for half a million or just a little bit more. Becca had a feeling in her bones that she and Rusty had set a course toward that price range, but her practical, thrifty nature prevailed — she resolved that if it wasn’t soon to happen, she would bide her time. She could see living communally, if she had to. She read in a magazine that, since her divorce, Drew had been staying with a passel of roommates (like in that old sitcom on TV Land that Becca and Annie liked to watch when they got stoned) and her dogs, Templeton (half Lab, half chow), Vivian, and Flossie (the Lab who saved her life on the night of the fire) in a bright orange— orange! — three-bedroom house. Though maybe that was journalistic wishful thinking, as none of it seemed to sync with what Becca had read vis-à-vis the nine-thousand-square-foot gated grounds and servant’s quarters, though it did seem possible that the orange dwelling was on some other part of the property and the publicists were just downplaying how huge and amazing Casa Barrymore really was. (Sometimes they worked like that, in collusion with staff writers, adding or subtracting details in order to make the celeb lifestyle optimally palatable to readership, in terms of the up- or downscaleness of each specific publication.) Becca loved the instant family idea. She’d move Annie and Larry in, forthwith.