Toluca Lake 90068

Here’s the pitch, baby, you’ll love this.

Picture the Toluca Lake Oakwood, a sprawling apartment complex perched in the hills above the movie studios, as the setting for a new weekly soap. We open with a screen crawl, into the sky over the Hollywood sign (think “Star Wars”):

CRAWL: “Here, within the 1151 apartments, reside L.A.’s densest concentration of aspiring actors, producers, screenwriters, photographers, dancers and directors. They’ve come from Florida, Michigan, the Dakotas, Anytown U.S.A., with little experience and big dreams.

“Some go on to future fame. Others never leave.”

Starring:

LOU, the 91-year extra who has been living at Oakwood for 25 years;

MURRAY, a broke 85-year-old actor;

JACK, a Minnesota talent manager;

ANN, a wholesome Florida teenager trying to tap her way to fame;

JORDAN, a future filmmaker;

and JEFFREY GETTLEMAN, Times reporter, just passing through.

*

SCENE I: INT. NORTH CLUBHOUSE -- EVENING.

Three men burst through the front door, wearing black trench coats and black boots, their hair slathered with gel. Their strides are huge, their foreheads furrowed with worry. They are discussing the Big Deal.

FIRST MAN: “I don’t need money right now. I don’t need millions. I need one letter, one letter that says, “Hey, I need your movie, let’s make this happen.’ ”

He marches across the carpet.

“I mean, you’ve read the script, the idea has legs, right?”

Friends nod.

The three disappear down the hallway into a meeting for young directors.

Enter laughing Jack Litowsky, manager/mentor for a teen actor from Minnesota, with Murray Franklin, in a sweatsuit and slippers.

JACK (slapping Murray on back): “You should have seen this guy, what a gag. There we were, watching a movie, what was the name of it, ‘Disgruntled Gentleman,’ no . . . ‘Distinguished Gentleman,’ and this guy leans over to me and says, ‘Hey, this movie stinks,’ and he gets up and leaves. And what happens next? Two minutes later he walks across the screen. He’s in the god-darn movie, for cripes sake. He’s worked with Eddie Murphy. What a gag!”

A flash of mischief lights up Murray’s face. At 85, he’s been in too many movies to count. Though this Oakwood, located on Barham Boulevard, specializes in renting furnished apartments to new arrivals who audition or work at nearby Disney, Universal or NBC studios, Murray has been living here for 12 years. He’s slowly running out of money.

MURRAY: “I see myself constantly on TV. So, you’d think I have money. But I don’t. And I can’t find work. They tell me I’m too old for most parts. What’s a guy like me supposed to do?”

Enter Lou, one of those omnipresent guys who’s always at the edge of someone’s conversation, his ears like antennae waiting for an inviting signal.

LOU: “I’ve had no problem finding work. The key is keeping a good attitude.”

Lou Harp has been upbeat for nearly a century. At 91 years old, he’s one of the oldest extras in the business. If you watch closely, you’ll see Lou stroll past a plane in “Postcards from the Edge” and trot across UCLA’s campus in “A Perfect Murder.” He’s 5 feet high, lean and spry with Coke-bottle glasses and milky eyes.

His claim to fame is that he’s the oldest guy in Hollywood who can moonwalk. Last month, he was on the Gong Show gliding backward, heel-toe, heel-toe, smooth as Michael Jackson himself, across the stage with twins from Bulgaria.

LOU: “You should have seen ‘em--they were gorgeous.”

Lou’s been living in the Oakwood 25 years, longer than anyone else. Everybody knows him. When Jay Leno stopped by two weeks ago in search of a Boy George impersonator, he grabbed Lou, threw a dress over him and stuck a wig on top of his nearly hairless head.

FLASHBACK.

LOU SINGS: “Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma, cha-meel-e-on.”

RETURN TO PRESENT.

Lou: “The Oakwood has always been a star place. John Wayne once--”

Enter Ann Edwards, creamy-cheeked, 17-year-old actress/tap dancer, who left Sarasota, changed her name and checked into Oakwood for the upcoming pilot season.

ANN (interrupting and pointing to the tile floor of the foyer): “Mind if I practice my tap here?”

LOU: “--No, sure. Go ahead, miss.”

FOLEY: Clicky-clack, clicky-clack, clack, clack, clack.

DISSOLVE TO:

*

SCENE II: INT. ACTING CLASS

Debra Watson, an acting coach from Austin with Hollywood exuberance and a Lone Star twang, stands before 10 children squirming on the floor. Parents sit at tables along the walls, mildly interested. One dad pencils in a crossword.

DEBRA: “Stay in the moment! Stay in the moment! . . . Action!”

Two girls leap up from the rug and bound to the center of the room. Girl One has red hair that hangs in clumps and frames her face like a spaniel. She plays an angry little sister.

Girl Two is a head taller, silky blond hair, a Lolita type with tight black pants and a low cut pink T-shirt. Her nails sparkle with silver polish. She’s the bitchy older sister.

GIRL ONE: “You ate my doughnut. You did, you did. Just admit it.”

GIRL TWO: “You’re so silly. Why would I want your doughnut? They have soooo many calories.”

The girls are among the crop of pint-sized thespians who have just arrived at Oakwood, the ones who watched silly sitcoms and said, “Mom, I can do that,” and mom listened. During the throes of the pilot season, from January to May, hundreds of children transform the Oakwood’s drab peach buildings into a place that resonates with the laughter and energy of a summer camp.

But their play is sometimes haunted by the ghosts of pilots past. In the apartment complex’s own mini-mart hangs a gallery of 8-by-10 glossies, memorializing yesteryear’s mini-actors, most of whom never made it. Few conversations pass without some parent mentioning that the esteemed “Doogie Howser” once slept here.

Enter Jeffrey the Reporter. Debra the acting coach corners him. No one in Oakwood is safe from the tentacles of Tinseltown.

DEBRA: “How old are you?”

JEFFREY: “27.”

DEBRA: “Bet you would be great playing an older brother. Wanna act?”

FADE OUT.

*

SCENE III: INT. BELLY DANCING CLASS

Four women in sweatshirts and tights stretch in front of a mirror. Surrah, the teacher, rolls her hips. Middle Eastern music--keening flutes, thumping drums--blares out of a boombox. A poster on the wall says belly dancing is better exercise than jogging. Behind the door is the reporter, gathering the gumption to open it.

Enter JEFFREY: “Hey, uh, I heard there was a belly dancing class, and, um, I wanted to check it out.”

The women stare. The music stops.

SURRAH (aggressively): “Belly dancing is a woman’s dance! No men allowed!”

Exit Jeffrey.

CUT TO:

*

SCENE IV: INT. COLLEGE KIDS’ APARTMENT.

A tie-dyed tapestry hangs on the wall, next to a poster of magic mushrooms. Four college kids lounge on a couch, sipping beer. Bob Marley music wafts through the apartment. “Is this love? Is this love? Is this love?” he sings.

Jordan Ehrlick, part aspiring filmmaker, part student, all Gen-X with long hair and patchy black beard, is making burritos in the kitchen.

JORDAN (chopping and cooking onions): “You know what I want to do? I want to make movies about what’s really going down out on the streets. Documentaries should be about how people are living, you know, the things they face, society ills, stuff like that.”

Last month, Jordan drove 3,000 miles from upstate New York to join the 300 other college kids living at the Oakwood, interning at studio offices in the Burbank area.

JORDAN: “My job is to go around to different producers and say, ‘Hey, you need any help with anything?’ and they usually say, ‘Hey, no thanks.”’

Josh Kornbluth, Jordan’s buddy, works for a talent agent. Most days he stuffs envelopes with head shots. Sometimes he’s allowed to sit in on meetings.

JOSH: “I think I could flourish here. Being an agent is all about meeting people. It’s all about relationships.”

(Pauses for emphasis).

“And that’s what I like about where we’re living, you know, the Oakwood. You’re meeting people who want to be actors, directors, producers--people who are at the same stage you are. It’s kind of communal.”

FADE OUT

*

SCENE V: EXT. PARKING LOT

Lou shuffles out of the front door of the clubhouse. Murray follows.

MURRAY (grumbling): “This town, this place, it’s isolating--” His voice trails off.

Ann Edwards and her mother, Becky, step out of the clubhouse, into the bluish light of the parking lot. They start walking toward their building with the single room and the fold-up Murphy bed (think Fonzi’s pad). Ann’s tap shoes are slung over her shoulder. Her mother is holding a stack of 8-by-10 head shots. They talk about The Future.

MOM: “We’re going to stay here as long as it takes. We’ve been saving up for this for a long time.”

ANN (beaming): “You know I’m happy acting here, at home, wherever. But it sure would be nice to make some money.”

Mom throws an arm around Ann’s shoulders. Their eyes lock.

Mom: “You have a God-given talent. You’re here because you’re meant to be here. It’s your destiny.”

PULL BACK FROM ANN AND MOM. PAN ACROSS PARKING LOT. LINGER ON OAKWOOD’S EXIT GATE. CLOSE IN ON SMALL WHITE SIGN ON THE GATE: “SMILE, IT’S SHOW TIME.”

MUSIC UP. FADE TO BLACK.