‘Orange County’ the Film Is Totally Right-On, Dude

I wonder if this is how Atlantans felt when “Gone With the Wind” debuted in 1939.

“I think it’s going to bag on some things,” 22-year-old Steve Hubert says, standing in the lobby of a Brea theater before going in to see “Orange County,” the new movie about a high school senior who wants to bolt Orange County for Stanford.

It would be stretching things to say Hubert was stewing about it (“It doesn’t concern me, because I am what I am”), but I share his trepidation, if only because I don’t like being bagged on either, even though I also am what I am.

What I am not is a native Orange Countian, but my 15 years here has engendered enough pride that I don’t want Hollywood to make me look like a danged fool. We all know how these movie people can be. I spent two weeks in North Dakota in the summer of 2000, and many there still were smarting--4 1/2 years later--from “Fargo,” which made them look like snowbound dullards.

What if “Orange County” leaves America thinking we’re nothing but a bunch of shallow, materialistic sun-worshipers who talk really hip?

Not to worry. Only most of the main characters in the movie are like that. The hero is Shaun, a steadfast high school (Vista Del Mar?) senior played by Colin Hanks (Hanks? Hanks? The name sounds familiar).

Shaun opens the movie by saying, “I live in California in a place called Orange County.”

Hey, so do I. At that moment, the movie had me.

We quickly learn that Shaun’s mother drinks too much, his father is distant and remarried to a 20ish nympho and his older brother is a perpetually high parolee and lovable lout. There’s also the foxy, promiscuous cheerleader and the inept high school guidance counselor and English teacher.

With these American archetypes firmly established, the movie gets on with the story.

That’s when I really got hooked.

One of Shaun’s surfing buddies doesn’t survive the Ultimate Wipeout, and his death leaves Shaun pensive. He also finds a book left in the sand and devours it. Wildly motivated, Shaun decides to become a writer but concludes: “I don’t know if Orange County is the best environment for an aspiring writer.”

Bro, that exactly captures my life, except for the part about a buddy drowning while surfing or finding a book half-buried in the sand. “I’ve got to get out of here,” Shaun decides. “I’ve got to get out of Orange County.”

By now, I’m transfixed, practically seeing my life on screen. I am totally relating to Shaun, dude, even though he’s 18 and I’m 52 and he has a sensitive high school girl friend and I don’t.

I won’t give away the story, but let’s just say Shaun overcomes all the obstacles put in his path by bumbling people who all got together at some unknown point and conspired to keep him from attaining his rightful place on the planet.

Shaun decides he doesn’t need to go to Stanford to be a writer.

I’ve reached the exact conclusion.

Leaving the theater, I was flushed, lightheaded.

Outside, I compared notes with Steve Hubert, his twin brother Jeremy and their pal, Nathan Keller, all of Brea.

All three gave the movie six giant thumbs up. “I was, like, tearing up laughing,” Jeremy says. “Getting all jacked up at parties, it reminded me of my old days.”

“It was totally O.C.,” Nathan, 23, says enthusiastically. “That’s how being in high school in Orange County is. They got it perfect: the parties, going to the beach . . . all the moms on anti-depressants.”

I ask Steve if the movie bagged on O.C., as he feared it might. “It didn’t really bag on it,” he says. “If anything, it was a cool kind of message that everybody is so worried about going to college. I thought it was great.”

I predict big business for the movie. Word of mouth should be good, and young Hanks has the same kind of likability as that guy who starred in “Cast Away” and “Forrest Gump.”

Best of all, it didn’t make Orange County look too bad.

OK, so our teens like to party down and head for the beach. Who can’t relate to that? I know I do.

Totally.

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Dana Parsons’ column usually appears Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Readers may reach Parsons by calling (714) 966-7821; by writing to him at The Times’ Orange County edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626; or by e-mail at dana.parsons@latimes.com.