VALLEY WEEKEND : CULTURE COMES TO SUBURBIA

I rented “Valley Girl” on Christmas Eve.

I’d never seen the 1983 movie--the one that branded the San Fernando Valley as the capital of, like, totally grody syntax. When I lived in Ohio, I simply had no interest in the story: two teens who fall in love despite the fact that he’s a punk from Hollywood and she’s a prepster from the Valley.

But when I actually moved to the Valley last April, my resistance to the movie hardened. In the months surrounding my move, I had to bear countless “fuhr-shurs” and questions about how close I lived to the Sherman Oaks Galleria (universally pronounced gal-er-EE-ia!). I would spot the videotape at Blockbuster and look away, denying Nick Cage and his supporting cast of big-haired girls.

On Christmas Eve, I was ready to face the movie and the reputation it wrought. The film just didn’t hit me with brutal, embarrassing recognition the way I feared.

Valley stereotypes certainly exist here. The supporting cast of girls could easily have grown into the women I see pushing strollers around the Sherman Oaks Fashion Square. But relocate the Fashion Square anywhere in America--Texas, New Jersey, even Ohio, where I grew up--and the stereotypes still fit, because they’re based more on notions we have about suburbia in general than the Valley in particular.

In fact, I find myself defending the Valley in much the same way I used to defend Cleveland: battling an outdated image held by people who have only driven through. Forget Cleveland’s world-class symphony, art museum, music scene--they couldn’t see any of that from the turnpike. Instead, they remembered the debris fire on the Cuyahoga River and the mistake-on-the-lake moniker.

Reputations die long, slow, painful deaths. The lasting effect of the Valley’s reputation as a sedate bedroom community can be seen on people’s faces as I tell them that I’m an arts and entertainment reporter covering the San Fernando Valley. “Really?” they say. “What do you cover?”

I resist the urge to reply, “What part of ‘arts and entertainment reporter in the San Fernando Valley’ was unclear?” Instead I talk about the small theaters, jazz clubs, galleries, the Autry Museum of Western Heritage, the Alex Theatre, A Noise Within, the new performing arts center at Cal State Northridge.

Maybe it’s because I love kitsch that I don’t feel a constant pressure to speed through Laurel Canyon into West Hollywood. A story on lounges in the Valley provided the opportunity to explore piano bars from Toluca Lake to Tarzana. There were plenty I never got to; there were plenty I’d go back to.

I’ve heard poetry and spoken-word performances in Canoga Park that were as good as any on the Westside. Really. I’ve watched transvestites do Madonna impersonations in Glendale, I listened to one of Cuba’s greatest jazz pianists in Northridge, I interviewed a performance artist from Topanga and a dancer-choreographer who was putting on a show in--that’s right--the Los Angeles River.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not always easy to find out what’s going on here. A lot of arts organizations--theater groups, in particular--operate on threadbare budgets that can’t cover advertising costs. But on good days--the ones when I don’t feel the gravitational pull of the Music Center and its $8-million subsidy from the county--it’s an adventure, like finding the best Chinese takeout.

No, the Valley does not have a Music Center, just as the Bronx doesn’t have Broadway. But there is more here than block after block of ranch-style houses.

And some of the best-kept secrets are hidden in those ranch-style houses. Roy Brocksmith, for one, operates the California Cottage Theater out of his. About once a month, Brocksmith herds three dozen people through the bedroom, down the hall and into the living room, where they sit on folding chairs, the overturned sofa or whatever is available.

Over the summer I took a friend to see Brocksmith’s latest creation, “Letters From Queens.” The living room got a little warm, but the play was charming and the performances delightful. Theater can’t get more intimate.

By the way, his shows are free. If you like what you see, Brocksmith asks that you send a donation to the theater. And he does his best to make sure that you like what you see.

I brought my friend Bob, a graduate student and professional cellist. As we walked down the Sherman Oaks residential street back to his car, he said, “Who would have thought that this is in the Valley?”

I would have. I lived in Cleveland.