Mother's Day with the Scientologists - and a Glimpse Inside - Lavoice.org
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Mother's Day with the Scientologists - and a Glimpse Inside
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The Celebrity Centre
(click to enlarge)
Well, the Scientologists put on a hell of a spread today. Chocolate-dipped strawberries,
prime lox, steamship roast beef - we gorged at their annual Mother's Day Brunch and then
toured (some of) the inner sanctum at the Hollywood Celebrity Centre on Franklin.
No, this is not a softball feature on Scientology.
Nor is it the velvet-fist lede to a hit piece; I'm happy in my own religious beliefs, and
by the same token, I don't need the kind of grief the Church notoriously reserves for
critics (although I'll be warily watching the comments field after posting this). It's
just a peek into the physical machinery of another world meticulously crafted by a science
fiction writer and his determined followers, who just happen to have secured a lot of
Hollywood real estate and the hearts and minds of some of its biggest celebrities:
The Mother's Day brunch is an admirable bit of marketing: Blanket-advertise a lush buffet
with extensive print and direct-mail. Bring folks into a family-friendly social setting.
Show off the magnificently restored 1926 Chateau Elysee Hotel that now hosts Scientology
seminars for and overnight stays (and longer detox visits) by celebrities. Give 'em a tour
of panoramic rooftop views of Hollywood and a peek at the airconditioned gym in the
basement detox center; And along the way, introduce your tour "guests" to philosophies,
practices and dogma of Dianetics.
We get a taste of the hard-sell even before we're seated, an earnest young greeter who
shakes our hands and hands us a printed invitation to a tour of the building. He comes
around once more during brunch - after the roving magician doing card tricks but before
the badge-wearing greeters with the clipboards.
But once we embark, the proselytizing by our tour guide, a slender, clear-eyed young woman
of 28 or so in pastel skirt and blouse - is actually no firmer nor more intimidating than
on the tour of any other religious edifice like, say, the Cathedral of Our Lady of the
Angels.
At each turn, though, there is a quote on the wall from church founder L.Ron Hubbard, a
helpful set of framed posters describing the "auditing" process, a loaded literature table
or a benignly labeled door. And lightly as she describes them, each feels like a chute
deep into the church, down which she would happily but firmly push us if we showed the
slightest hint of interest.
It is at this point that I think of the entertainingly brazen Celebrity Centre visit by
professional impostor/infiltrator Harmon Leon.
Leon plunged into the Celebrity Centre as wasted rock god "Dieter Lieterschvantz" for a
few days in 1995 and somehow escaped without any of his paranoid fantasies about getting
pummeled by truncheon-wielding goons coming true. I'm glad I have no agenda here beyond
observation: "Just a writer taking objective mental notes and benign photos here, no need
to notice me, no, you go ahead with your fascinating tour ..."
First stop inside the door after pleasantries is a heavily retouched portrait of Hubbard
gazing wistfully off to starboard, over an inspirational quote about artists and
dreamers - (no, not the one where he is reported to have said, "Writing science fiction
for about a penny a word is no way to make a living, If you really want to make a million,
the quickest way is to start your own religion." - it's actually something rather lyrical
about dreamers shaping society.)
Founder's "desk"
Next is a peek at Hubbard's "office:"
Every Scientology center has one, the guide tells us, decorated in a way he would have
liked. It is, I suppose, like setting a place at Seder for the prophet - a quaint
devotion - although the room is a fairly sterile wood-paneled affair that feels like a
set-dresser's portfolio piece rather than a tribute to a valued founder. There is a wall
of books on screened shelves, brass lamps, leather furniture and minimalist nautical
decorations including the crisp model of a schooner.
Trompe l'oeil lobby ceiling
On to the lobby, a sort of French-aristocratic sitting room with plenty of gilt, a white
grand piano, a trompe l'oeil ceiling and a sludgy-looking impressionist bronze bust of
Hubbard.
The lobby, like most of the ground floor, is positively a-crawl with young men and women
in various Scientology uniforms. The youngest lounge or hustle (depending, I suppose, upon
their duties for the day) in naval-look - cobalt-blue shirts and ties for men and white
blouse/navy skirt ensembles for women.
There are clipboard-toting program-touters with winning smiles, and ready handshakes,
their belt-lines jauntily adorned with Scientology logo badges; And then there are the
older jacket-and-tie types with serious looks, having serious conversations, their eyes
constantly flicking over the people moving through the hotel.
Not one lacks a cell phone.
Our guide ushers us upstairs with the promise of seeing some of the rooms where the
celebrity guests once stayed in the hotel's heyday, and still do now that it's a mecca for
famous Scientologists and those soon-to-join. But just off the elevator, before moving
down the dark wood-paneled hallway, she stops to describe the first of what looks like a
dozen posters outlining the Scientologist "auditing" process meant to examine and clear
"obstacles" from one's life.
Steps to ... auditing.
I take a deep breath and say as brightly but firmly as possible, "We're pretty familiar
with the church, thanks - we're more interested in the building," and she smoothly shifts
gears into the "architectural" tour. Breezily, she ushers us into the room where the
posters were meant to lead us anyway - "Would you like to see one of our hotel suites?
This is the suite where Greta Garbo used to stay."
The door opens, and we see not a waiting hotel suite, but a full-on auditing center,
packed to the gunwales with reams of literature, instructional posters and a desk fitted
with electronic gear. Behind the desk is an older, balding man in shirt and tie whose
suddenly beaming, expectant grin at us wavers somewhere between shark and puppy.
I peer in, feigning interest at the draperies and fixtures and making sure our escape
route remains clear, that no one else has come in behind us to gladhand us into a chair
for a "free personality test."
And to her credit, our guide lets us look around a bit, answers questions about the
draperies and fixtures, and then ushers us onward, obviously persuaded by now that we're
mere tourists rather than potential paying converts.
The Premier Suite
After a heady trip to the rooftop deck overlooking the 101 and the Hollywood Hills, we get
a peek inside the Premier Suite one floor up - the penthouse aerie reserved for "anyone
who wants to stay there," she assures us. Antique silver, white brocade canopy bed,
ancient silk carpet. It's "nice," I suppose, in the way that the luxury suite at the end
of 2001 is nice.
Then a sheer elevator plunge into the bowels of the building, for a quick peek into a
"Toastmasters" meeting, where earnest-looking people are watching an earnest-looking
speaker try his skills.
The rest of the basement has been decorated as "a street scene," she says. But its mock
cobblestones and bricks and countless drab informational posters about upcoming in-house
theatrical productions and seminars on how to break into show business make it feel more
like some sort of catacomb.
The sensation is heightened suddenly when we're almost bowled over by three sweaty young
Scientologists-in-training jogging hurriedly around the corner wearing logo'ed t-shirts
and startled looks. We get a look at the well-used detox gym, where a solitary
bleached-blond man is doggedly working the stair-stepper.
We are shown the white-tiled sauna reception area, labeled by a faux-weathered brass
plaque that says "Purification Rundown" and decorated with stacked white towels and stern
posters admonishing against poisoning oneself with drugs.
And then it's back out into the sunlight, fresh air and a sense of having somehow escaped
something.
If you were looking for any conclusions on all this, I'm sorry to disappoint.
As I said, the Church isn't for me, for a lot of reasons I'll keep to myself. There are
plenty of critics out there who have much more time and energy than I to evaluate
Scientology from the outside, and obviously the Church itself takes care of its own point
of view.
I just wanted to give you a visual picture of the physical interior of one ultra-prominent
Church center - an unusual view of another L.A. landmark that most of us have only ever
had the courage to wonder about.
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Re: Mother's Day with the Scientologists - and a Glimpse Inside (Score: 1)
by Marc_Salvatierra on May 10, 2004 - 02:56 PM
(User info | Send a message) http://www.salvatierra.org
To the author: Thank you for the *very* enlightening tour of a place I swear I will never
set foot!
I continue to be amazed that supposedly enlightened people still subscribe to the crap
spewed out by the Hubbartites -- that's right, bring it on Scientology! My name is >> Marc
Salvatierra << and I'm not afraid to proclaim that your precious Emperor L. Ron has no
clothes!
I'm afraid Scientology simply smacks of a spiritual multi-level marketing scheme. Sadly,
whenever I happen to drive past their building on Hollywood Blvd., the parking lot is
packed. It's stunning, the mass appeal that this sorry excuse for spirituality has
conjured up.
Of course everyone's got their right to freedom of religion, but when's the last time your
church, synagogue, mosque or temple hit you up for exorbitant amounts of money, in an
ongoing, seemingly endless extortion of your soul?!
I have one friend who briefly dipped her feet into what I view as the evil pool of
Scientology. Fortunately, she had the good sense to eventually scramble away. She instead
found her salvation in a faith I feel has much more credibility, but which will go unnamed
out of respect for her. Suffice it to say its followers do manage to clog up much of
central Robertson Blvd. on weeknights.
For all the glazed-eyed zombie celebrities out there who have fallen, fawning, into the
grip of the mystical menace of Scientology, your spiritual eccentricity is rivalled only
by the frequent outburts of political self-righteousness seen elsewhere in Hollywood.
Scientology may well qualify as a religion, but it harkens back to the days -- thankfully
centuries ago -- when salvation could be bought and paid for. Though I am Catholic, I
eagerly await the day when some modern Martin Luther will emerge to tack the truth on
Scientology's damnable door.
Re: Re: Mother's Day with the Scientologists - and a Glimpse Inside by Unregistered on May
18, 2004 - 02:05 PM
Re: Re: Mother's Day with the Scientologists - and a Glimpse Inside by Unregistered on May
18, 2004 - 02:29 PM
Kults can Kill or Entertain Us by Unregistered on May 18, 2004 - 02:31 PM
Re: Mother's Day with the Scientologists - and a Glimpse Inside (Score: 0)
by Unregistered on May 11, 2004 - 05:19 PM
Interesting take on the building. I not only wondered about it but wrote an article on the
place for the January 5, 2003 LOS ANGELES TIMES MAGAZINE
Here it is if you missed it
Metropolis / Snapshots from the center of the universe; Stranger Than Paradise;
The Singular Fate of a Heavenly Old Hollywood Hotel
By MICHAEL T. JARVIS
That a local Church of Scientology center once shared a name with the Elysian paradise of
Greek myth sounds like a plot detail worthy of Evelyn Waugh. But as with much Hollywood
lore, the true odyssey of the elegant old Chateau Elysee building is as weird as the
mythology.
The Chateau Elysee legend got a boost last year, thanks to "The Cat's Meow," Peter
Bogdanovich's movie fiction about the mysterious death of director and studio founder
Thomas Ince during a jazz age revel aboard William Randolph Hearst's yacht in 1924.
Hollywood folklore has it that Ince was felled not by the indigestion cited in official
accounts, but by Hearst in a gunshot meant for Charlie Chaplin, who was paying court to
Hearst's mistress, Marion Davies. For years, the rumor mill insisted that Ince's widow,
Eleanor, built the Elysee with hush money forked over by Hearst in a cover-up abetted by
gossip columnist Louella Parsons.
It didn't help that the seven-story building on Franklin Avenue was a Hearst-worthy
endeavor. Designed by Arthur E. Harvey in French Normandy castle style, it had turrets,
drawbridges, a grass moat and 77 apartments ranging from singles to deluxe three-bedrooms.
The Elysee opened to temporary and permanent residents in 1929; guest book entries include
Bette Davis, Edward G. Robinson, Clark Gable, Carole Lombard, Humphrey Bogart, Katharine
Hepburn, George Gershwin and Cary Grant. Errol Flynn reportedly liked to gamble with the
chauffeurs in the garage, and Parsons was married on the premises in 1930.
Barbara and Richard Ince, the director's son, were married at the Chateau Elysee in 1941,
when the bride was 17. That year Richard died in a motorcycle race in Oakland. "They [the
Inces] were known as the tragic family of Hollywood," says Richard's widow, Barbara Ince
Simmons, a Beverly Hills resident married to her late husband's best friend, David
Simmons, former head of Lockheed Air Terminal (now the Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena Airport).
Eleanor Ince sold the Chateau in 1943. In 1951 it became a residence for retired actors
and artists. The place was slated for demolition when the Church of Scientology bought it
in 1973, renaming the building the Manor Hotel. Today the complex is one of 12 Church of
Scientology Celebrity Centres International, facilities for members connected with the
creative arts. (The city designated the premises a Historic-Cultural Monument in 1987.)
Today the Renaissance Restaurant on the ground floor is open to the public, and 39 hotel
rooms on the top three floors are perpetually booked, primarily by church members, says
spokeswoman Linda Hight. Everything from the fifth floor down is original, including
doors, wood casings and cabinets, according to building overseer Art Medeiros. Of course,
there are contemporary touches. Church offices occupy four floors, a new screening room
has joined the original movie projection chamber, and a sauna in the basement is used for
"detoxifying."
The church has not weighed in on the Ince mystery, but Ince Simmons puts the kibosh on the
Hearst-Ince murder theory. "Mrs. [Eleanor] Ince told me and my husband that Mr. Ince was
not shot and that Los Angeles police stopped the funeral procession and examined the
body," says Simmons, who explains that her former mother-in-law built the hotel with funds
from the sale of her Dias Dorados Ranch in Benedict Canyon to Carl Laemmle. Like his wife,
David Simmons is firm in his belief that it was the indigestion that did Ince in. "Mr.
Ince was known to have a million-dollar mind and a 10-cent stomach."
Feisty
Android Cat
> http://www.lavoice.org/article105.html
> Every Scientology center has one, the guide tells us, decorated in a
> way he would have liked. It is, I suppose, like setting a place at
> Seder for the prophet - a quaint devotion - although the room is a
> fairly sterile wood-paneled affair that feels like a set-dresser's
> portfolio piece rather than a tribute to a valued founder. There is a
> wall of books on screened shelves, brass lamps, leather furniture and
> minimalist nautical decorations including the crisp model of a
> schooner.
Where's the Coke machine and the pack of Kools?
--
Ron of that ilk.
Jommy Cross
<androi...@hotmail.com> wrote in msg
<v6edd.1694$57....@fe51.usenetserver.com>:
BOTWO-ed away.
Ever yours in fandom,
Jommy Cross
---------------------------------------------------
This message brought to you by Radio Free Albemuth:
before you hallucinate
--------------------------------------------------
Jommy Cross
msg <ROddd.18889$Qv5....@newssvr33.news.prodigy.com>:
>http://www.lavoice.org/article105.html
<snip>
>The door opens, and we see not a waiting hotel suite, but a full-on
>auditing center,
>packed to the gunwales with reams of literature, instructional posters and
>a desk fitted
>with electronic gear. Behind the desk is an older, balding man in shirt
>and tie whose
>suddenly beaming, expectant grin at us wavers somewhere between shark and
>puppy.
<snip>
ROTFLMAO