Notes on the Dream Seekers

I think the guy’s name was Dean, but don’t hold me to that. He flew by so fast and flipped into the air so radically that I couldn’t read his name tag. Later, he moped about in a corner, trying not to cry in despair or wince in pain, so I didn’t pursue it.

Dean was at an open audition for a new show at Universal Studios called the Riot Act. They were looking for agile men and women who could be trained to do stunts and who could say a few lines without tripping over their own tongues.

It’ll be a western show, as I understand it, and there’ll be a lot of jumping and falling and fake fighting. Not exactly a brave new idea on the horizon of creative thought, but this is Universal Studios, not Caltech.

About 500 showed up over a two-day period to demonstrate their physical abilities. Twenty were chosen. Because it was an open call, just about anyone could try out, from world-class gymnasts to . . . well . . . Dean.

He was maybe in his mid-30s and a little overweight. Dean had probably never done anything more agile in his life than roll out of bed, but there’s something about an open audition that generates dreams far beyond reality.

A guy like Dean reads about it in Variety and begins thinking this could be his big opportunity. He’s maybe a refrigerator repairman or something, but there’s a lust for fame in his soul.

He sees himself flying through the air, then cartwheeling, back-flipping and landing gracefully on his feet without a hair out of place, looking like every man’s image of himself.

He’s a dream-seeker, flying out-of-body through places in the imagination that don’t even exist. He’s a cosmic spinner, a galactic dancer.

Planet Earth proudly presents the incomparable Dean.

L.A. is full of casting calls. This wasn’t my first. I write movies for television once in awhile and sometimes hang around when they’re trying to cast the characters I create.

We needed an Indian once for a role in a series called “Jigsaw John.” A Native American association insisted the actor had to be 25% real Indian or they’d picket.

The days were past when you could put a little makeup on a Sal Mineo, call him Running Wind and let it go at that.

But the problem was, how could you tell if a guy was really part Indian? Actors will lie like hell to get a role, and for good reason. There’s maybe 32,000 members of the Screen Actors Guild in L.A., and only about 15% work regularly.

The others shave their heads, paint their faces and insist their mother was Choctaw.

Hundreds of Indians, some of them blond and blue-eyed, wandered around the old MGM lot for days and everyone was going crazy trying to pick a guy for the part who could act and who could prove he was part Indian.

One actor tried to prove it by speaking in a gibberish he claimed was the forgotten tongue of the Apaches, but the producers weren’t buying. Years later, I saw him in a “Star Trek” episode speaking Klingon. It sounded just like ancient Apache.

We selected what we thought was an authentic Indian, but he was so bad in the pilot that they canned him when the series went on the air and wrote out his part.

I remember he shrugged, picked up his money and said, “Ciao, white man.”

Dean was something else. Even warming up he looked awkward. “We just hope they don’t kill themselves,” Barbara Epstein said, watching. She’s producing Riot Act for Universal Studios.

Alex Plasshert was the man putting them through their paces in a North Hollywood gym. Plasshert is stunt coordinator for the show. He’s 57 and has been a stunt man-dancer-choreographer for almost 40 years.

“No matter what you do,” he told a dozen hopefuls, “give everything you’ve got. A hundred percent is what life is all about.”

He led the group in applause for every effort made, no matter how bad it was.

Dean was terrible. He almost landed on his head once, and another time hit flat on his back on the mat. It made a whacking sound that echoed through the building.

At the end of the session, Plasshert went down the line and thanked the losers personally. Thank you means goodby at auditions. Winners are told to stick around. Dean was thanked.

I went outside just in time to see him climb into an old Pontiac. Others were sitting around on a lawn waiting to be called to do their stuff.

You could tell by their expressions they were still dreaming, still mind-flying through a galaxy of stars beyond reality.

I studied them for a moment and then turned to watch Dean’s car leave the parking lot. It headed east toward Lankershim, rounded a corner and was gone.