A resting place where death is one of many distractions

A former Marine dressed as a grenadier of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard stands in a museum listening to his friend, John Pomeroy, explain the importance of historical detail in military art. Pomeroy, a Disney animator who has worked on such films as “An American Tail” and “All Dogs Go to Heaven” is also a painter. His show, titled “Windows of War,” includes a portrait of his children, his wife’s sunflowers and the cover art for the “Dragon’s Lair” computer game, but mostly it is scenes of war -- “Charge of the Seventh Cuirassiers,” “Battle of the Pyramids,” “General Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans.”

Nearby cases display weaponry and military garb that Pomeroy uses to ensure the details of his work.

His paintings are indeed models of garment accuracy -- the buttons precise in number, the saber handles impeccable, the scimitars tied with rigorous correctness.

The only thing missing is the blood; like many artists, Pomeroy depicts war as exciting rather than gruesome.

An exhibit of family portraits and epic battle paintings at a time when the nation is beating a path to war might be considered remarkable enough. But the venue takes it right over the top -- the museum of Glendale’s Forest Lawn Memorial Park.

Most events would benefit from the sharp eye and wit of Evelyn Waugh, but this one is tempting enough to raise the dead.

It was Waugh who in his satiric 1948 novel “The Loved One” nailed Forest Lawn, and by extension, Los Angeles, to the collective imagination as a place where lunacy reigned even in death.

Waugh’s Whispering Glades was founded by the Dreamer who stocked the Happy Resting Place of Countless Loved Ones with famous art and statuary, all the better to encourage Waiting Ones to make Before Need Arrangements before all the good spots next to the reproduction of “The Kiss” were gone.

Two minutes through Forest Lawn’s iron gates, it is safe to assume that Waugh wrote the book with one hand tied behind his back. It is a place and an experience so otherworldly, it’s difficult to know how to react -- yes, the mock Tudor manor that is actually a mortuary is hilarious, but that’s a real live funeral going on over there.

Fortunately, it is, above all, a place of business and that’s something to hang on to as you wend your way past the front-end loaders, the memorials of flowers and Mylar balloons, and the replica of Rudyard Kipling’s church.

Asked if he knew how many people were buried in the park, the nice man in the information kiosk smiled; he did not know, but were we interested in Before Needs information? No, no, no, we said with shaky laughter. No, no, we were going to an art exhibit. We really just wanted a map. If he had one. Handy. Still smiling, the man handed us one to which his card -- “Before Needs Sales Representative” -- had been stapled.

On it were all the various landmarks and burial zones -- Whispering Pines (maybe Waugh had two hands tied), Everlasting Love, Inspiration Slope, Babyland (which doesn’t even bear contemplating), Haven of Peace. Some of these seemed to make questionable claims -- Fidelity, Mercy, Resurrection Slope -- and there’s a Graceland, although the king is not buried there.

Many celebrities are ensconced in Forest Lawn but, as is bemoaned by the unnervingly numerous Web sites devoted to famous graves, nothing like a star map is available. And even if you follow the very good directions provided by these sites, you gawk at your peril.

“The park’s aversion to loyal fans ... is particularly surprising coming from a cemetery that is often the butt of jokes for its own flamboyant style,” complains Seeing-stars.com. “Forest Lawn’s restrictive policy means that in death, these immortal stars simply disappear into the vast anonymous sea of gravestones.”

Which isn’t exactly true, since there are no gravestones at Forest Lawn, only tasteful flat markers, and that is the point. Founder Hubert Eaton was not interested in turning the Glendale cemetery he bought in 1917 into Hollywood Boulevard.

He wanted to create “a place for the living to reverently enjoy as well as a sacred repository of the dead,” a place where “prices are low because there is only one low overhead for Everything in one Place,” a place where “smoking and photography are not allowed in Forest Lawn buildings.”

Like many things at Forest Lawn, these sentiments, as well as the $1 admission fee to see two of the park’s many “World Famous” paintings, are written in stone, on a two-story tablet outside the Hall of the Crucifixion and Resurrection.

There is no admission charge to enter the park, although the Tablet reminds visitors that the buildings were built “principally for Forest Lawn property owners and clergy.”

Property owners. It’s just a big, leafy, statue-infested co-op.

Still, visitors, tour groups and wedding parties (Ronald Reagan and Jane Wyman were famously married at the Wee Kirk O’ the Heather) are encouraged to enjoy the many ambient works of art, copies of the Pieta, the David, the Declaration of Independence Mosaic, Kipling’s church and, of course, the museum.

Four or five local artists display their work at the museum each year -- the weird timeliness of Pomeroy’s work was accidental; he was booked a year and a half ago.

Two adjacent galleries contain Forest Lawn’s other permanent collection: suits of armor, Roman coins, a ring belonging to John Quincy Adams, stained-glass windows and stunning reproductions of the crown jewels.

Everything but Napoleon’s kitchen sink.

It evokes the basement scene from “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” in which the camera reveals all the art Big Daddy has bought in an attempt to make himself more refined. The stuff is beautiful, yes, but what the heck is it doing here?

This is not an unusual response in a city built by many Dreamers, artists and lunatics with lots of money, lots of land and very little adult supervision. Forest Lawn, with five locations, is a thriving enterprise despite the opinions of Mr. Evelyn Waugh, clearly a disgruntled Brit who couldn’t even appreciate the fragrance of orange blossoms much less the many facets of Hubert Eaton’s dream: a place where death was not dark and ugly but shining and beautiful, where the bleeding is done conveniently offstage, where Waiting Ones dally among swans and fountains and green, green grass.

Nothing about Forest Lawn should be that surprising. It is the final distraction, and that too is the whole point. The statues, the gardens, the faux-stately buildings and the art exhibits are an attempt to thwart not just the fear of death, but also the final monotony of it.

Here in L.A., Death can be proud if he likes, as long as he’s not boring.