Errol Flynn Slept Here: The Flynns, the Hamblens, Rick Nelson, and the Most Notorious House in Hollywood by Robert MatzenDocumenting the most notorious house in Hollywood, this history spans the life and death of Mulholland Farm, the elegant and infamous mountaintop showplace built by film star Errol Flynn at the height of his fame. While appearing to be stylish and refined, Flynn installed secret passageways, two-way mirrors, and other voyeuristic tools into the house to spy on the famous women he entertained, as well as couples making love. He lived in Mulholland Farm during Hollywood’s Golden Era, when he was the most famous playboy movie star alive, remaining in the home through the rape trial that almost ruined him and the snatching of John Barrymores body. The intricate story of the farm also spans five continents to include Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Ronald Reagan, Fidel Castro, Humphrey Bogart, Shirley Temple, Clark Gable, Billy Graham, Johnny Cash, Roy Rogers, the Rolling Stones, and the other two owners of the property, Christian singer/songwriter Stuart Hamblen and rock ‘n’ roll legend Rick Nelson.
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Another locale that fellow stalker E. And while I knew next to nothing about Flynn at the time I read the book, the blurb caught my eye due to a macabre practical joke that was allegedly played at the property involving John Barrymore grandfather of Drew , which I thought would interest my friend Ashley, of The Drewseum website. So I dragged the Grim Cheaper right on out to stalk the place way back in mid-February while the two of us were in L. There were also plenty of female visitors. Flynn loved practical jokes and legend has it that, on May 29th, , several of his drinking buddies pulled a whopper on him at the Farm. When Errol returned to the Farm later that night after several hours spent drinking, he walked in to find the dead actor sitting in his living room.
Jonathan Chancellor is one of our authors. Jonathan has been writing about property since the early s and is editor-at-large of Property Observer. - We never got out of the car. We figured they would think we were freaks!
Late one hot summer night in , three of my raffish teen-age friends and I left the Odyssey, a now defunct dance club, and headed north to the Sunset Strip looking for something rebellious to do. Feeling lawless, we drove up Fuller Avenue to Runyon Canyon. Benny had heard it was haunted. Tina, 5-foot-2 in spike heels and squeezed into a tiny dominatrix corset, told us the story of a bandit who was captured and hanged in the canyon back in the wild days before Hollywood was settled. We climbed a steep incline to an empty pool, nestled inside among the debris and graffiti, and told ghost stories until a pink and gray dawn broke over the eastern ridge. Over the next two years, we returned occasionally with new friends, perpetuating the rumors we had heard and starting new ones of our own.