“I’m a Writer But Then Nobody’s Perfect,” reads Billy Wilder’s epitaph at the Westwood Memorial Park and Cemetery. It may be the closing line of Wilder’s film, “Some Like It Hot,” but it also seems a poignant reminder of the imperfection of our own human existence, the inability of writers to truly capture a particular person, place, feeling or experience. Reading it among the other tombstones this weekend at the Westwood Cemetery, I felt strangely at peace and even uplifted.
See, visiting graveyards typically depresses me, yet the idea of this cemetery in Westwood has intrigued me since hearing rumors of it my freshman year. When I think of cemeteries, I envision a collection of lichen-covered Gothic tombstones stuck at crooked angles in a giant, weed-ridden field fenced in a middle-of-nowhere country town with redneck hooligans chucking beer cans on to empty roads.
Westwood, sandwiched between two of Los Angeles’ most congested streets, Sunset and Wilshire boulevards, seems like a bizarre, even disrespectfully noisy, place for the dearly departed’s final resting place. Yet in this cemetery lie Marilyn Monroe, Natalie Wood, and the Hammer family. Why in the world would these influential artistic souls want to spend eternity next to the Helio building?
So, naturally, I’ve wanted to visit this place for ages if only to brag about seeing where Marilyn Monroe is buried. I used to joke to my friends about arranging midnight picnics there or telling ghost stories among the tomb stones, but, well, my friends would either nervously laugh or assert that it would be a cool plan … for Halloween.
Alas, I couldn’t spend my UCLA career a few feet away from so many famous departed souls without ever glancing at them or paying them my respect. So, I finally decided to just pack up a notebook and trek down by myself. I thought maybe I’d sit there and read? Do some homework? Hey, it could be quieter than the library.
Located near the very end of Glendon Avenue, the Memorial Park is easy to miss. Only a sign pointing to its parking garage even indicates its existence. No Victorian wrought-iron gates cage in the cemetery. In fact, the Memorial Park is barely separated from everything around it; the tall-backed grave stones seem almost modeled after the tall, straight-lined high-rise buildings jutting out from behind the park’s boundaries of palm trees.
No crying Gothic angels or bleeding crosses adorn the grave stones or surroundings. In fact, the only grave with much special adornment is Marilyn Monroe’s site with lipstick kisses smooched next to her name. Each grave stone is slick, smooth and simple in appearance. It’s almost as if the grave stones, in their unassuming, modern construct, tell visitors, “Don’t worry, folks. We’re not going anywhere. Just keep living the rest of your busy L.A. lives.”
What’s perhaps most intriguing about the Westwood Memorial Park is that it’s not quiet. This is not to say the Westwood Memorial Park is a bustling hot spot, but I certainly was not the only one browsing through the rows of tombstones.
At the typical cemetery, most people seem afraid to say anything to each other in a voice above a whisper, but here, visitors blatantly snap photos and comment on the epitaphs. (“This guy was the writer of “˜The Young and the Restless’ and “˜The Bold and the Beautiful?’ Sweet!”) Typically, I’d be annoyed by this type of commentary, but it felt strangely soothing to hear people enthused by the memories of those buried.
Maybe because the cemetery felt so active, so busy with life, it didn’t feel dour or depressing. One could almost even forget that it was a place inhabited by ““ well ““ the dead.
While there is nothing at all serene or meditative about the cemetery, that is ultimately what seems most uplifting and comforting about it. Why do the dead need to be completely separated and segregated from the living after all? They certainly don’t need it to be quiet in order for them to rest. It feels as though these souls still communicate with visitors and, as the cemetery is mostly full of old Hollywood stars or producers, not much seems to have changed for the people buried. They can be in the place where they most thrived for the majority of their lives: active, urban West L.A.
Billy Wilder’s epitaph asserts that “nobody’s perfect,” and that’s OK. I felt comforted by the fact that no expectations are even placed upon the dead to achieve a kind of immortal perfection, a separation from our own human flaws that we experience. As part of the urban Westwood landscape, they are not fenced off in any kind of sacred structure. Every passed soul may not be remembered daily, but at least they still appear privy to the simple beauty of everyday life.
E-mail Cohn at jcohn@media.ucla.edu.
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