Access Granted

THE KEYS TO THE NEW MALIBU, THE ONCE FORBIDDEN PLAYGROUND OF BILLIONAIRES AND BOHEMIANS.

- Candice Rainey

Malibu is less than an hour from L.A. up the Pacific Coast Highway, yet it has always felt elusive to outsiders. That’s a bit unfair, considering its mood-altering beaches make laying your towel in Santa Monica look like the definition of settling. Even away from the sand, Malibu is a high church of fauna and renewal with its cragged mountains; winding, sagebrush-lined canyons; and shimmering light that has seduced filmmakers for decades, from Sydney Pollack, who filmed The Way We Were there (Barbra Streisand later became one of Malibu’s best-known residents), to Kathryn Bigelow, whose Point Break, set at Leo Carrillo State Beach, is the Sistine Chapel of surfing movies. Farther north Malibu’s lush remoteness unfolds, and it becomes clear why the locals have wanted to keep this 21-mile stretch of coastline to themselves.

The truth is it has never been a particularly great place for visitors to stay, unless you have the extra mortgage payment you need for a week of vacation detox at a wellness retreat like the Ranch. Development has always been a slightly dirty word in Malibu. And the town’s more Joan Didion–minded, eucalyptus-wafting boho side doesn’t immediately reveal itself, while its cliché trappings— paparazzi, preposterously rich entertainment folk, expensive sushi—are smack dab in the center of town.

Discreetly, Malibu’s cool is becoming more accessible, as a handful of smart, stylish boutique motels have opened in the past year. The let’s-pack-a-last-minute-bag-and-get-the-hell-out-of-town weekend is finally doable. Some people think of Malibu as Los Angeles’s Montauk, the free spirited hamlet at the eastern tip of Long Island, but the analogy is off. There are no rowdy weekenders here; surfers outnumber Range Rovers.