Ars Gratia Artis
By Monte Swann, San Fernando Valley Branch
I grew up in Culver City and, when I was younger, I spent a lot of time sneaking into the back lots of Desilu and MGM studios.
On weekends, when studio security was most lax, my friends and I would go over the fences and enter a fanciful world few kids could imagine. We’d wander through the
cobblestone streets of medieval Europe, or the small town of Mayberry, always keeping an eye out for the security guard. We could roam through the facade of an Arabian castle or board the Cotton Blossom, the old paddle wheeler from the musical, Showboat, permanently dry-docked on MGM Lake.
One weekend, while on a solo mission, I found myself being escorted off one of the backlots by an old security guard. “Next time I catch you in here,” he threatened, through a grill of misaligned bridgework, “I’m gonna shoot you!” That’s what they always told us, but they never did.
Dejected, I headed for home. On the way I passed another small lot just across from the studio bordering the La Ballona creek. I’d passed this lot many times before but never considered exploring its grounds. There were no actual sets on it, just a few dilapidated buildings and some old studio equipment blistering in the California sunshine.
Determined to recapture the day, I squeezed through the gate and walked through the dry weeds towards one of the old houses. It was a simple wood frame farmhouse with a sagging roof, and a fenced corral area on one side. Not very fanciful.
I walked around the collapsed porch towards the back of the house where an old circus wagon rested in the shadow of an overgrown eucalyptus tree. Its gaily painted scenes of circus life had faded long ago. I approached the cage and peered through the bars, squinting my eyes in the darkness. It smelled dirty inside, like a wet dog.
The bed was covered with matted straw and appeared empty except for a dark shape lying in one corner; a canvas tarp, I assumed, rolled up and moldering. I leaned into the cage for a closer inspection and the old wagon shifted slightly, its rusted springs squeaking in protest. The dark shape suddenly began to stir and the hair on my neck prickled to life. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing!
It was a lion! He raised his head and stared at me with big yellow eyes that seemed confused, as though awakened from a dream. Sitting up, he shook his massive head, throwing off bits of straw and dust from his matted mane. His mouth stretched
open in a wide yawn, his ragged teeth and pink tongue glistened in the darkness.
“Run!” I told myself, trembling like a scared Chihuahua. But I couldn’t move. I was frozen in place, my hands fused to the metal bars in a death grip. The lion just sat there, stone faced, like a statue guarding the entrance to a library, toying with me, before springing forward to kill me. But he didn’t. He just blinked his eyes then lowered his head and rolled onto his side as though he was expecting me to rub his stomach.
With my heart pounding out a thundering beat in my head, I backed away from the cage, never looking away from that dark shape breathing quietly in the cage. When I reached the corner of the farmhouse I ran as fast as I could.
It wasn’t until I was over the fence and halfway home that I realized who that lion was. He was Leo, the once majestic mascot who roared at the beginning of every MGM film,still waiting here for his next closeup.
That was over forty years ago and, although the memories are cloudy, most of the story is true. I had been on that lot and I had seen the cage, the location and layout of the lot
confirmed by old city maps: It was part of the circus of MGM animals that one occupied the site in the 1940s. But today, I realize how unlikely it is that Leo was really there. Was it my adolescent imagination or was it part of a dream that was slowly woven over time into reality? I’ll never really be sure.
A commercial building stands on the site where the lot used to be. The only witness to its famous past is the La Ballona creek silently flowing west towards the Pacific Ocean.
SFV lost a beloved and vital member when Monte Swann passed on in
December 2022. His “Ars Gratia Artis” first ran in the February 2023
Valley Scribe, newsletter of the San Fernando Valley Branch.