Scattering ashes with a 1980s horror film director
Banjo’s last serenade in the Hollywood Canyons
Text and Photographs by Julie Grace Immink
A bag of cremated remains is at my feet as I drive to the Los Angeles canyons that overlook the city freeways below. A horror movie director buckles himself into the seat to my right. What we are about to do is not in opposition with my moral compass, although it might be considered a misdemeanor in California to scatter ashes on public land without permission.
Harry, my passenger, will not allow me to turn on the car radio because he cannot tolerate pop music’s mindless beat. He prefers music composed before this century. Instead, we chat about his British upbringing. He has practically been raised as an orphan since a hired nurse was the one who took care of him. His mother passed away when he was a baby, and his father worked away from home. The few times a year when they saw each other, it was quietly sitting across a long dinner table.
Harry lived among these Hollywood Hills mansions on Mulholland Drive we are driving past. He threw parties with celebrities in attendance after achieving a…
