Los Angeles is an acquired taste. It is the victim of much snobbery, vide Woody Allen&rsquos comparison with Manhattan in Annie Hall &ldquoI don&rsquot want to move to a city where the only cultural advantage is that you can make a right turn on a red light.&rdquo Not that the snobbery doesn&rsquot occasionally seem warranted. At Venice Beach, where the musclemen gather, all inflated pectorals and sprawling slabs of oiled, microwaved flesh. Outside Malibu restaurants, where identikit blondes (all inflated embonpoint and sprawling slabs of oiled, microwaved flesh) wait for valets to bring them their identikit convertibles. But as befits a city with no identifiable centre &mdash it undulates expansively and languorously from hills to sea &mdash LA is Janus-faced (or hydra-headed). There is tawdriness, glitz, artifice, grit, beauty and art enough to inspire writers as disparate as James Ellroy and Evelyn Waugh, Raymond Chandler and Joan Didion, the city&rsquos poet-laureate Charles Bukowski, and A.M. Homes.