Most pretentious teenagers in the 20th century, before smart-phones became ubiquitous, had a favorite doomy book they liked to be seen “reading” — though precious little of that got done, the tome in question being an accessory every bit as much as a bag or boots. Angsty boys were keen on a bit of Sartre or Camus but because I was such a fan of the Golden Age of Hollywood even in my teens, mine was “The Day Of The Locust.”

That’s a 1939 novel by Nathanael West. It’s set in Tinsel Town, the main character being a young artist called, Tod Hackett who works on film sets while dreaming of achieving his masterpiece; a painting called “The Burning of Los Angeles.” Though I’m aware that Los Angeles isn’t California, the book has been on my mind a great deal recently.

Anyone writing on the subject of the California fires who isn’t 100 percent lachrymose is reviled at the moment, especially in the light of the cranks posting that it’s “karma for Gaza.” Yet there is a point to be made about how Hollywood (stars who’ve lost their homes often being the angle the British press finds most compelling about this story) considers itself far superior to the rest of America.

This and the shock the “creative community” must be feeling to have this trouble happen so soon after they were effectively told where to go by the regular Joe. Think of the phrase “flyover states,” which, according to Wikipedia, describes “the parts of the contiguous United States between the between the East and West Coasts…the origins of the phrases and the attitudes of their supposed users are a source of debate in American culture; the terms are often regarded as pejoratives, but are sometimes ‘reclaimed’ and used defensively.” 

One might venture that the last time they were reclaimed was during the election of Donald Trump, when a nation cocked a snook at its liberal-leaning — and preaching — New York intellectual and Los Angeles showbiz communities. 

As seen in the subsequent meltdowns from the likes of Rosie O’Donnell, famous people vastly over-calculated how important their opinions are to the average — often struggling — American.

Why, it’s almost like they see them as entertainers! Stars were once sometimes seen as celestial beings and taken seriously indeed; five women killed themselves when Valentino died. These days we’re more likely to mock them; see the recent ragging of the Wicked stars.

Despite the lip-service Hollywood pays to liberal values from its gated communities, extremes of wealth and poverty — driven by the entertainment industry — rub up against each other in California as nowhere else in the USA. Maybe this is why Americans are torn between contempt and disbelief when they are instructed how to vote by their capering overlords.

The fires have thrown this situation into sharp relief; the question is now whether the famously extravagant Oscar parties will go ahead. An “insider” told the US Sun of the Oscars: “The board’s main concern at this time is to not look like they are celebrating while many Los Angelenos are dealing with heartbreak and unimaginable loss so the hierarchy decided that the focus will be support and fundraising when the right opportunities present themselves…”

It seems that “the very thought of having a waiter, a poorly paid, who has lost their home, serving delicate Wagyu burgers and sliced cucumber sandwiches to multi-millionaire movie stars doesn’t exactly sit right.” The report adds that “The extravagant $171,000 goody bags will be eliminated, as they have been deemed in ‘bad taste’ by board members…these lavish gifts included a three-night stay in the Swiss Alps, beauty treatments, exquisite jewellery, and a $1,220 barbecue grill”  — The latter seeming in particularly bad taste in the circumstances.

Even without the recent arson arrests, there’s an apocalyptic feeling to the fires, seen from over here; that they are punishing humankind for colonising this wild paradise of desert, mountains and sea and making it into a glorified brothel, highlighted by the fact that were wasn’t enough water to put out the fires in a locale where swimming pools are the norm. Add the savage extremes of deprivation and privilege and it’s a recipe for mayhem.

California seems an unlikely place for class war to take place – but where millions of thwarted dreams fester, one never knows. In “The Day Of The Locust,” Tod Hackett meets people who have “eyes filled with hatred” and have “come to California to die,” leading to the rage which boils over into chaotic mob rule outside a premiere at Mr. Khan’s Pleasure Dome. Reading this book again gave me goosebumps — even more so when I remembered the original title: “The Cheated.”