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By Newsweek Editors
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The residents of Bel-Air think they have it tough
Jaguars and Mercedeses crawl down the steep incline of Bel-Air Road this winter morning, giving way to the ascending cement trucks and tractor-trailers. At 9 sharp, the laborers on the Perenchio mansion drop what they are doing to crowd around a catering truck. As the men queue up for coffee and burritos, they ignore the lengthening stream of luxury cars. The drivers, on the other hand, are scarcely indifferent: each must wait his or her turn to file past the pickups bunched near the snack wagon. Finally clear, they step on the gas and hurry toward the city below.
Poor Bel-Air. Exclusive, desirable--and out of sorts. Unlike in much of the country, real estate in Los Angeles's vest-pocket version of Monaco is still selling smartly, and at stratospheric prices. But that's the problem: the buying and building boom has stirred up a lot of dust--and a lot of debate over what Bel-Air is becoming. Louis B. Mayer and Jeanette MacDonald once could live quiet lives here. Now longtime residents say Bel-Air is so popular it's painful. Tour buses--and the customized hearse of Grave Line Tours--parade through daily, peeking at the homes of living and dead stars. Helicopters buzz overhead, giving tourists and paparazzi a vulture's view of life, behind the locked gates. And two years ago Ronald and Nancy Reagan moved to 668 St. Cloud Road; overnight, Bel-Air became a scenic rival to the La Brea tar pits. "The disturbance is terrible," says Arthur Marx, son of Groucho, who moved to Bel-Air Road in 1969. "It's not like being in Watts, or Vietnam, but it's definitely no fun."
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Marx's biggest gripe is the construction. In the 1920s, when Bel-Air was first developed by oilman Alphonzo Bell, most of the mansions were built on the relatively flat ground near Sunset Boulevard, and hidden behind hedges. After World War II, smaller, two- and three-bedroom bungalows crept up the ridges. But as land became more scarce and Bel-Air became more chic, bigger houses began to squeeze onto smaller lots. Today you can't buy anything in "old" Bel-Air for less than $1 million, most real-estate agents say. But if you want a $10 million fixer-upper--no problem. "People just seem to want bigger and bigger houses," says Cecelia Waeshcle of Prudential Rodeo Realty. "Oh, sure, their dream is the same old Ozzie-and-Harriet, but with 10,000 square feet, "
The most astounding project in Bel-Air is the Perenchio mansion. In 1986, Hollywood dealmaker A. Jerrold Perenchio (former agent to Liz Taylor and Marlon Brando, former partner of Norman Lear and former owner of Loews theaters) bought the 15,000- square-foot Kirkeby chateau for $13.6 million. He quickly scooped up three neighboring properties for an additional $9 million. With a total parcel of 11.5 acres, Perenchio now owns the largest estate in Bel-Air. In the course of spending another $9 million on a tennis court, pool, pool house, guardhouse, underground garage and wine cellar, he has stripped his once lush hilltop of most of its foliage--and alienated many of his neighbors. They hate the noise, the dirt and the army of workers. Residents just above him on the hill--people like Art Linkletter and Zsa Zsa Gabor--don't appreciate the half-hour wait when heavy equipment blocks the road.
Bel-Air's boom is not likely to bust any time soon. "Marx wants to bring back the bungalow era, and it's just not going to happen," says one of his neighbors. At least not as long as Bel-Air remains the ZIP Code in Los Angeles, and wealthy foreigners and entertainment moguls are willing to buy cute old houses, tear them down and erect new monuments. (Most, in fact, pay cash--even as much as $20 million.) "As long as you believe the rich will get richer and the poor will have babies, then we will continue to see prices go up in the high end of the market," says Jeff Hyland, president of the Alvarez, Hyland and Young real-estate firm.
Meanwhile, back on Bel-Air Road, the commotion continues. At 9:30, a truck rumbles past the Perenchio entrance, four portable toilets perched on its bed. Just as it passes St. Cloud Road, a black sedan whisks out of the drive at 668 and falls in behind. In the front seat are two men--presumably Secret Service, judging by the wires coming from their ears. Another man rides in the back seat, his profile vague behind the tinted glass. Mr. Reagan? The truck lumbers toward the east gate, with the former president's car stuck behind a bunch of slow-moving potties. In Bel-Air? There goes the neighborhood.
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