A Mighty Powerful Ranger Call : More than 1,000 quick-with-a-kick hopefuls turn out for a brief audition in Burbankfor Fox’s top-rated children’s show. Super-hero wanna-bes who can hip-hop may have an edge.

It wasn’t your usual casting call.

Late last week, producers of the TV show “Mighty Morphin Power Rangers” advertised an open call for new Ranger candidates.

Monday, at a dinky Burbank office building on Magnolia Avenue, more than 1,000 people and a mob of TV cameras showed up. Among them, crews from E!, CNN and every local affiliate, although some were looking a little lost.

“Who are the Power Rangers anyway?” asked someone from the KCBS crew.

That guy’s been watching too much Action News to not recognize the stars of the highest-rated children’s show in the United States.

In each episode, the Power Rangers “morph out” to save Earth from Rita Repulsa, the Empress of Evil, by using the Coins of Power to transform themselves from ordinary teen-agers into a band of super-heroes. The Fox-TV program appears daily at 5 p.m. and for the next two Fridays in prime time at 8 p.m. The Rangers likenesses are also featured on hot-selling action figures, trading cards and, of course, pogs.

Although a far cry from President’s Day, when the Power Rangers’ appearance at Universal Studios drew an estimated 35,000 kids and clogged freeways for eight miles, Monday’s casting call still managed to cause a minor traffic jam and earned the concern of Burbank police.

By the end of the day, casting director Katy Wallin had seen about 800 people, turning away more than 200. While Saban Entertainment, the producers of the phenomenally popular show, were keeping quiet as to how many pairs of Power Ranger boots they were actually looking to fill, rumors flew that some--if not all--of the six original Power Rangers will not return next season.

“Our audience will learn how this search for new talent will affect the show in the coming months,” was all Saban spokesman Elie Dekel would say. “It’s part of our effort to keep the show exciting and fresh.”

Saban had requested applicants appearing between ages 15-18 and possessing intermediate to advanced martial arts and/or gymnastics skills and/or hip-hop dancing abilities. All ethnic types, the ads said, were encouraged to apply to the non-union show.

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By 6 a.m. Monday, the line had begun to form, headed by 23-year-old dancer Kimberly Jordan. Like a lot of would-be Rangers in their 20s (or even 30s), Jordan was hoping that she looked 18 or younger. She had camped out early in order “to beat the crowd.”

By 2 p.m., it appeared that Jordan had made the right move: More than 250 aspiring Power Rangers had registered for individual auditions, each armed with a prepared one-minute routine. Dozens of others were lined up across the baking heat of the black-top parking lot, down the sidewalk and around the corner.

Some wore white judo outfits, proudly displaying their brown and black belts, while others wore sweats, bike shorts or even just jeans and a T-shirt. Two little girls came dressed as Power Rangers. They stretched into splits, did handstands, kicked and leaped high into the air, and even practiced their hip-hop routines for their neighbors.

Inside the air-conditioned casting office, Wallin announced the audition rules to the first 15 applicants: “Focus on the camera, and remember the room is small. No kicking walls. And I’m not interested in seeing weapons. Does anyone have weapons? Good, then let’s get going.”

Sean Moran, 15, was one of the first to audition, making the trip with his mother from the Northern California town of Dublin.

Moran practices a form of kick-boxing known as Muay Thai and heard about the casting call through his agent.

Once his name was called, Moran entered the audition room, took off his T-shirt, gave his name and age directly into the camera and began his routine, slowly kicking and thrusting his fists into the air.

“Cut!” said Wallin smiling, after about 30 seconds. “That was good. Do you know how to hip-hop dance?”

“Sure,” answered Moran, retrieving his T-shirt, “I can dance.”

“Great, thanks for coming. Make sure you fill out an information sheet. Are you emancipated?” Wallin asked, making sure that Moran had parental approval to work. When Moran nodded, Wallin opened the door, and shouted, “Next!”

In the now-crowded waiting room, Moran’s fellow auditioners accosted him with a chorus of “How was it?”

“She asked me if I was emancipated,” Moran told the crowd, intent on learning from his mistakes. “I didn’t know what she meant, so I said, ‘Yeah.’ ”

Meanwhile, the logistic complications of the open call began to mount.

Tenants with the bad luck of sharing the building with a casting agency complained of a mess in the bathroom and that they couldn’t get to their parking spaces.

Outside, the TV crews were in full force. It didn’t take long for those standing in line to deduce that their chance at fame might not lie inside the building. Their best shot might be one of those people loitering on the corner hoisting a minicam.

“Do you want her to tumble?” one father asked a nearby cameraman, referring to his 10-year-old leotard-clad daughter. “She can tumble. Honey, tumble for the man!”

And predictably, as the heat rose, so did the weirdness quotient.

April Quaker, 25, who accompanied a friend but wasn’t auditioning because “I don’t think I’m violent enough,” said that one guy in particular made her a tad nervous.

“He was twitching and kicking all over the place,” she said, “and I’m like, ‘Please, let your inner child out!’ ”