Through the keyhole of Villa Bonita

Built by Cecil B DeMille and photographed for a new book, this apartment block tells you all you need to know about LA, says Cameron Crowe

Iwas born in the desert resort city of Palm Springs, California, where tumbleweeds were the size of tractors and the only crystal-blue body of water nearby was a sunfaded mural on the library wall. It was a cool place. Actually, it was never a cool place. It was beyond hot. Life had the egg-white colour of an ageing Polaroid. These were the in-between years for Palm Springs. Once the getaway spot for Elvis and Frank Sinatra, the Hollywood crowd had long since moved on and left it mostly to retirees and golden-age vacationers. Everybody was just passing through. There were virtually no kids my age. Community was a concept I read about in books.

My dream was to find some mythical bohemian community of writers and artists and musicians, a world populated by muses of all kinds, with maybe a forest or a river nearby. Green was the idea. Someplace green. Moving to Los Angeles for work at a young age, I ended up living in a 13-unit condo instead. Not too much green. I looked for a sign of community, but there was little to be had. There seemed to be an unwritten LA rule – stay in your own world unless otherwise summoned.

There was an actress, a comedian, a shadowy businessman, a caretaker, a television writer who wore only baby-blue coloured blazers, and a busy psychiatrist who practised out of his apartment. I’d see him at the mailbox, and he’d offer his standard line, always with a big smile: “So what’s so great about you?”

When the big earthquake hit, we were all in the courtyard together, in pyjamas and T-shirts. Mostly we were all loners, but on that day, with ruptured gas lines leaking and sirens blaring, it was crisis that brought us together. I loved it. Finally. Community.

And then, just as quickly, that sense of togetherness disappeared. The caretaker died of a heart attack, and the paramedics carried her stretcher past our doors. We watched like a presidential procession. Another occupant moved in, a young man from Arkansas. His name was Lowell.

Lowell violated the unwritten rule of LA dwelling. He began knocking on all our doors. Lowell would politely and forcefully wipe his hand on the side of his pants, and then offer it for a firm handshake.“Do you have a moment?” he would ask, with a salesman’s confidence, though he was only selling himself. “Ugh... I’m a little busy.” “I’m Lowell, from Arkansas, and I’m your new neighbour,” he explained, wiping and grasping. “I’m a kick-boxer, sport of the future, and I’d like to show you my sport sometime and even invite you to see me fight.” I asked him for a rain check. I was too busy. “That’s fine!” The more you turned him down, the more his good nature increased. “I’ll be back! By the way, I’m fighting a very tough Hispanic dude this

Apartment 2C: Barbara, left, a retired teacher, has lived at the Villa Bonita for 17 years