Three of the best

Francesca Syz selects the star Hollywood hotels

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Hollywood hotels

Chaplin remodelled it into a network of cottages, in loving tribute to his English upbringing

You won’t see Gloria Swanson walking her dog down Sunset Boulevard these days, but some tangible reminders of Hollywood’s golden age can still be found in a city that is often accused of lacking respect for its past.

One such bygone – and nearly lost – treasure, the Charlie hotel, resides behind a thick wooden gate on a quiet side street in West Hollywood. The 27,000 sq ft property was built as a farm in the 1920s. Charlie Chaplin purchased it in the 1930s and remodelled it into a miniature network of shingle-roofed cottages and rose gardens interwoven with pathways, in loving tribute to his English upbringing. The shady sanctuary served as a retreat for him and his movie colony friends – hence the names of the 13 units: the Marilyn, the Clark, the Marlene, etc.

One curious architectural and psychological feature was the original doorway to the unit occupied by Chaplin himself, set off on its own at the rear of the compound. It was only 5ft 8in tall: high enough to accommodate its diminutive owner’s frame but too low for most of his visitors, who were obliged to bend down when they entered – an inconvenience that Chaplin apparently relished, as it forced those who normally loomed over him to endure the humiliation that he lived with.

By the dawn of the millennium, however, the estate had fallen into a state of dilapidation and was slated to be demolished. It was saved by Menachem Treivush, a garment-industry magnate, who restored the dwellings to their former fairy-tale state and opened the rustic oasis as a hotel.

The Gregory, where I spent the night, contained a spacious living room with sofa, armchairs and television, a kitchen, and a bedroom. In other words, an apartment – albeit a very cosy one, with hardwood floors, mullioned windows and vases of orchids. After dark, on the adjoining patio, all was stillness and silence. Lights in windows and occupied parking spaces attested to the presence of other guests, but I never saw anybody. Had I been in the mood, I could have partaken of the abundant nightlife at various watering holes within easy reach. Instead, I retired to an enormous and almost obscenely comfortable bed.

In the morning, I strolled a few blocks to breakfast at Sweet Lady Jane, a long-standing local favourite and one of many nearby cafés on Melrose Avenue.

It almost doesn’t feel right to refer to The Charlie as a hotel. It’s more like a luxurious Airbnb (monthly rates are available): both an idiosyncratic innovation in hospitality and a throwback to a more benign and gracious era. A lot of love and care have obviously been invested in it, and it compensates for its lack of amenities with a singular charm.