Come to Malibu, said Johnny, we have a house this weekend.
By house, he meant an AirBnB on Carbon Beach.
As a friend of friends, I was able to slipstream past the access point at Geffen’s house and park in a driveway.
Being a peasant from the Valley, I arrived overdressed.
It’s hard to think of Malibu and not think of James Mason walking into the sea. Or Joan Didion composing despair on her balcony with a scarf around her head, or this painting by Alex Colville:
Which you might recognize in cinematic form, from the movie Heat.
There’s something about an empty house, the horizon line and eternity. Self-destruction must be near at hand.
Malibu did not always reference glass box ostentation and social isolation. It once meant simple cottages by the sea. Single story. Wood shingle. Mid-market.
Roddy McDowall maintained an open house policy at his bungalow in 1965 and the weekends were filled with Hollywood royalty eating hot dogs and drinking beer like, well, like people would in Van Nuys. His home movies of the stars rusticating on his veranda are a window not only into timeless Pucci dress Marlboro-on-the-fingertips glamour but an era when the social contract worked for more people. No maids. No people living in cars. No lavish landscaping. No security systems. No “coastal access points”. Hollywood people may have been prettier than everyone else but were not appropriating public spaces for themselves.
To walk the beach Saturday was to stare at a row of uninhabited fortresses, propped up on stilts, in defiance of nature. Look at me! they demand, but don’t touch. I am a show horse, here to signify the social pecking order. My utility is my expense.
The bigger the house, the less people use them. (A corollary: the fancier the kitchen, the less people cook.) Larry Ellison of Oracle owns ten, right here, within a mile of each other. I don’t think he has a mistress stashed away in each one. He’s hoarding, not from the little people, but from other mega-wealthy.
When you peek underneath the decks, things get a bit interesting. The ravages of nature are everywhere. In rough weather, the surf splashes up against the pilings, and into the wood framing and all things metallic.
If you believe in sea level rise due to anthropogenic global warming, why would you ever sink money into these structures?
Yet the prices only keep going up. The AirBnB, which was only three bedrooms, sold this year for $18 million. Despite their prolific funding of environmental causes, I suspect they don’t really believe in AGW on Carbon Beach. Or maybe they half-do but are to content to rent the sand from Mother Nature for a few years before flipping it to the person who sells the tungsten rights to Uzbekistan under the table and needs a place to park the cash.
They decry the idea of a Mexican border wall, but they love their gates and cameras. Just like they oppose all development west of La Cienega but expect crisply folded linens. They love regulating plastic straws but there is never a limit on the carbon footprint of donors to the DNC.
As we had cocktails at sunset, living as billionaires for an afternoon, a dozen people lounging on the deck…clever, pretty and kind we may have been but not a child we had between us.
Two thoughts arose: If it’s good to be rich, perhaps it’s better to be a friend to the wealthy.
We may need a new vocabulary for what we are doing in California. Someone needs to translate for future historians of our Instagram feeds how we blew through so many civilizational stop signs. How we committed suicide by other names.