All of Wes Anderson's films are confections, memoirs created in cinematic snow globes, with the subtext that memory is the most extraordinary confection of all.

When people start yammering about artistic responsibility, artists become wary. The subtext of such talk is that the arts need to be regulated, which is to say censored.

Drawing the desperate and the adrift, Los Angeles has long been the dumping ground of dreams both real and cinematic.

Memory runs by its own itinerary, departing and arriving at stations of the past on its own schedule.

Virtual Reality - let it's literal meaning sink in for a moment, not just the dictionary definition.

For half a century, the Sunset Strip was the asphalt timeline of American popular music. My most distinct memory, from more years ago than I'll confess to, is waiting for a table at the Olde World, which occupied a wedge of territory at Sunset and Holloway Drive, where the daiquiris became more vicious the longer you sat in the sun.