I’ve been obsessing for some time over the hotels in Los Angeles: they range from the poshest shelters of celebrity to low-income housing downtown. I can’t prefer. The faded beauty of the Alexandria or the hipster rooftop of the Standard? When it boils down to aesthetics, they each have so much to express, and all of it seems relevant. Maybe a hotel in California is a symbol or a symptom of this town’s affliction: desire, illusion, heartbreak. The best and the worst hotels are full of actors.