At a small, unassuming gas station at 5777 Hollywood Boulevard, Los Angeles, history was made. Again, and again, and again.

The structure itself is long gone; in the spot there now stands a modern fire station that towers over what once was the roof of the structure back in the 1940s and ‘50s. There’s no commemorative plaque, and you probably won’t read about it in guidebooks. But that is entirely by design — after all, that is the spot where Scotty Bowers connected Hollywood’s elite with his roster of sex workers, changing the game for celebrities who were caged in by puritanical morality clauses.

Bower’s work and the times he tricked in is the subject of “Scotty and The Secret History of Hollywood.” The documentary takes a meandering gaze at what life was like for Bower and his crew then and now, just who exactly stopped by the gas station (as well as connected with Bowers later in his career), and how the underground sex hookup gave stars the freedom to be themselves.

If that sounds like a highfalutin take on what is essentially an escort service, you’re not alone; Bowers himself has a fairly cavalier, devil-may-care attitude, refusing to define himself — or his laundry list of experiences — to on label or another. But the film makes clear that not everyone was so aloof over the affair.

“Scotty was able to allow these people to have lives that were authentic,” one talking head says, noting that the punishment for getting caught by the vice squad post-World War II was anything from a beating to castration. Bowers’ discretion allegedly allowed everyone from Cary Grant to Katherine Hepburn to Laurence Olivier to Spencer Tracy to Rock Hudson the opportunity to build a name for themselves that wasn’t “tarnished” by scandal.

Unfortunately that’s about as profound a statement as “Scotty and the Secret History of Hollywood” is prepared to make. It’s unclear if the filmmakers didn’t have opportunity to dive deeper or just didn’t know they could, but the documentary often switches tracks on a hairpin, jumping from Bowers’ personal history to an aside about a key player to historical context and back again in a matter of minutes. The tight weaving often leaves the topics themselves feeling clipped — especially when it’s dropped for questions about what so-and-so liked sexually.

This movie, like Bowers’ book “Full Service,” can often get caught up in the salacious details of the entire thing; hell, there’s a whole chunk in the middle where Bowers recites famous names and what they liked, while suggestive b-roll from their movies or photos plays on the screen. Which is fine whether or not you ultimately believe what he has to say. But the film doesn’t seem all that interested in digging deep on his claims or his motivations. It’s more of a “he said, they also said” kind of tell-all.

And though it may be suggestive (and in the case of Grant and his rumored paramour Randolph Scott, very suggestive), there’s a nice sensibility to using Hollywood b-roll to mirror the life of Bowers and the Hollywood royalty — as well as actual royalty, with an alleged liasion with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor — that he serviced: in a way, Scotty reflects the real truth of Hollywood, and now the silver screen is being used to reflect his truth right back.

And then, of course, we have b-roll from an actual orgy.