Sweating Out the Long Wait for Their Big Show Biz Break

The actor using the StairMaster on the left is wearing a baseball cap embroidered with the name of a defunct NBC series. “Hey,” says the budding screenwriter using the StairMaster on the right, “did you used to be on ‘Tattinger’s’?”

They start talking about The Biz. The actor, some years older than the writer, gives a little advice about the power of positive thinking: “When I go home today and see all the audition messages on my answering machine, then I’ll know it works.”

At this low-budget Studio City health club, everyone comes equipped with Attitude. Just behind the scent of sweat wafts the perennial reek of optimism.

The club lies on the perimeter of one of the world’s highest concentrations of film and TV companies. You can’t see the studios from inside, nor is there a television showing reruns of sitcoms made right up the street. But for many who work out here, knowing that Disney, Universal and MTM are just out of reach inspires daily, sweaty toil at the Hollywood Dream. That’s the local cliche that says if you perspire hard enough, you can shape yourself into something beautiful and perfect--and possibly even marketable.

According to a ZIP-code survey by the Screen Actors Guild, Studio City boasts the third-highest concentration of actors in the nation (outdone only by the 90046 and 90069 areas of West Hollywood). SAG doesn’t have statistics on how many members work out at this particular gym, but every once in a while you can catch a bona fide sitcom star puffing away.

More often, though, you’ll spot vaguely familiar-looking character actors, who during the day pedal endlessly on the Lifecycles with scripts propped open on magazine racks.

The even more common non-working species of performer pores over the Hollywood Reporter, Variety and People.

There are women (aspiring models?) whose breast implants defy gravity during aerobics class. And un-famous acquaintances who greet each other with “Can I have your autograph?” And one woman who wears a beeper while she works out. Heart surgeon on call or actress waiting for feedback from yesterday’s audition? You can never be sure.

“A lot of the day people are semi-retired,” says the actor with the “Tattinger’s” hat.

There aren’t a lot of mega-stars, probably because this club is strictly life-in-the-trenches. Forget those swanky Westside gym/megalopolises, with their valet parking, their child care and their manicure parlors. This is the Hollywood Dream for those who haven’t quite achieved it yet: An initiation fee and 20 bucks a month, drawn right out of your checking account. Hyper-enthusiastic “membership counselors” give club tours day and night to keep new members flocking in. As a result, the lines are long and one machine or another is almost always out of order. But few, in their scramble for stardom, seem to notice.

About 4:45 on Sunday afternoons, devotees of “step aerobics” begin to queue up for the 5 o’clock class. “Step,” the aerobic dance field’s Newest Big Thing, consists of fairly complex marching moves performed on and off individual plastic benches about 10 inches off the floor.

The class is so popular that there’s a sign-up sheet. Those who arrive in time get their hands stamped--yeah, just like at a night club. They circle the aerobics floor, fidgeting with their trendy baseball caps and flexing their legs like nervous thoroughbreds waiting for the gates to open.

By 4:55, the line winds back into the warm-up area, past the bulletin board with its ads for resume typing and reality-show auditions, past the skinny rock ‘n’ rollers doing sit-ups, past the stairmongers--obsessive types always on the StairMasters, no matter what time of day you come in.

People !

The Step instructor stands in the center of the room. “Hey!” she bellows. She is an actressy type, tan and diminutive, in a chartreuse crop-top and black bicycle shorts. Usually she’s almost unbearably effervescent, literally singing instructions into a microphone throughout the hourlong class. Today she’s mad.

“This is the third day there hasn’t been a microphone!” she screams. “I refuse to yell over the music. So I’m just going to give you hand signals and you’re going to have to pay attention. And I want all of you to call the main office tomorrow and complain that this is dangerous and it just makes me mad. You can see it all over my cute little face!”

Several days later, the microphone is back in working order. A couple of guys on the sidelines are critiquing the Step instructor’s amplified improvisational song stylings.

“Like some agent is gonna come in and say ‘I saw you singing in that aerobics class’ and sign her,” says one.

Then again, you can never be sure.

The guys probably don’t realize that another instructor’s high profile at the club has actually propelled him to the big time: an exercise video. One weekend, 25 exercisers/auditioners show up to vie for a place behind him on camera. Some come just for fun; others bring head shots, resumes and their best acting-school smiles. The audition consists of a few minutes of basic moves plus an on-camera statement. About half the group doesn’t make it.

“This has nothing to do with your abilities,” the instructor says apologetically. “We’re trying to get a specific look.”

After the audition, one of the let-go is spotted wandering around clothing displays in a nearby discount store. “That was so bogus,” he gripes. All the ones who got picked, he claims, were the instructor’s friends.

Sounds like he could use a lesson in the power of positive thinking.