la la land || jodie

one

los angeles, california. full of film sets and recording studios and theatres. bubbling with talent.

it's a beautiful city. dream-like. swaying palm trees, waves tumbling onto sandy shores, cloudless skies...

well, almost dream-like.

the sun beats down on the 101, where a horrific traffic jam is holding everything up. it's the morning rush hour. the downtown skyline lies before the pile up, just out of reach, yet hours away.

the asphalt shimmers in the scorching heat.

it's january, though it's hard to tell.

music radiates from the cars, creating a melting pot of styles and songs on the freeway. rock mingles with classical, disco classics blending with punk anthems.

dodie clark, a 21 year old musician, sits impatiently in her car, wearing a short black dress and playing an old cd of thelonious monk. it's scratched up and keeps skipping. her fingers race around the steering wheel, mimicking his playing. she hums to herself.

just a few lanes down sits a battered convertible. jon cozart, 24 and avidly pursuing an acting career, sits inside, restless. his hair is styled and there's the slightest trace of makeup on his face. an old interview with james dean is playing. jon listens intently as he discusses his craft. more cds are in the passenger seat- marlon brando, clark gable, james stewart- to name a few.

dodie continues tapping on her steering wheel.

jon is equally lost in what he's listening to.

the traffic is slow to let up. the honk of car horns overwhelm the collection of melodies, the whirring of engines rising in volumes.

dodie continues mimicking monk. jon switches out the james dean interview with a william holden tape.

the cars stagger forward. jon starts his engine and slowly makes his way forward.

dodie's seemingly so distracted with her playing that she hasn't noticed the moving traffic.

he honks the horn at her, swerving into the lane beside her and nearly hitting her.

"you should probably get going," he tells her with a scowl, his tone bitter.

she very briefly gives him a middle finger before he speeds past her.

his car reaches a studio lot, entering through a pass gate. he quickly parks and gets out- the traffic jam caused him to be pretty late to work.

he saunters by fixtures of old studios, white-washed buildings from the 20s, and dozens of backdrops. about half of the place hasn't changed since the silent era.

jon gazes around, taking in the names on the buildings. katharine hepburn, rita hayworth, vivien leigh... he still finds it wild that he works in such a wonderful place.

"jon!"

he turns abruptly to face his manager, who's red in the face with anger.

"you're fifteen minutes late, get to work."

with a sigh, he hurries into the coffee shop.