Hollywood’s Eternal Riddle

Maybe it was a relatively new commute to work that takes me past the Glendale Freeway interchange labeled “Echo Park” almost daily. Or maybe it was too many desperate e-mails over the years from self-described actors and writers, either railing against “the system” that denies them entry or talking about the next “job” from which they will derive no income.

Maybe too it was a recent interview with Eriq La Salle, who, after cashing in fabulously thanks to his role on “ER,” said, “The big secret that a lot of people don’t understand about most actors is that if you are really true artists, you’ll do this for free.” Although I have no doubt that is the case for many who have that luxury, including perhaps La Salle at this stage, it seems a pretty safe bet that given the choice, most of his brethren would prefer some tangible compensation.

All these threads lead in the same direction, toward a question I am no closer to answering today than when I first saw the movie “Echo Park” at the time of its release in 1986--namely, when is an actor, writer or musician really an actor, writer or musician, especially if no one is paying them to ply their trade?

That was, in a nutshell, the underlying theme of “Echo Park,” a gentle, bittersweet film whose title played off its geography by following the exploits of a group of people living--figuratively and literally--just outside of Hollywood.

Written by Michael Ventura and directed by Robert Dornhelm, it holds up quite well, so much so it should almost be required viewing for anyone who gets off a bus from Poughkeepsie anticipating a date with stardom.

“Echo Park” has some memorable comments about how to properly address these aspiring actors and writers, both delivered by Susan Dey, playing a single mother and sort-of actress who takes a job stripping to pay the bills.

Nearly every character really wants to be doing something else, including Dey’s next-door neighbor, an Austrian bodybuilder-personal trainer with Schwarzenegger-esque ambitions; and her new roommate, a pizza-delivery guy/songwriter, portrayed by Tom Hulce, who is too sheepish and self-critical to discuss his hoped-for career.

Asked if she’s an actress, Dey’s character muses, “I try to act. I want to. I go to classes, but is that being an actress? ... If it isn’t, then no, I’m not. I have plans, but does having plans make me an actress, an artist, whatever?”

Later, Hulce expresses his contempt for those in their shared predicament: “I am so sick of all of the people in this town who are poets or screenwriters or actresses, when we’re all just delivering pizzas, every last one of us.”

Dey, more optimistic, protests that he’s being unfair. “I love that everybody is really an actress, really a singer--after they get off work at the bank. The waiter is really writing a play. Dream on.”

In the years since, I’ve often thought about those lines. Yet despite the fact that I was not long out of college myself then and knew many more waiters writing plays and bank tellers who went out on auditions, nothing much appears to have changed--including the toll exacted by doing one thing while dreaming of doing another.

Of course, those who have broken into the big time, like La Salle, can breathlessly discuss their craft in philosophical terms. By contrast, a bit more pragmatism is necessary for the majority who carry trays several hours a day to underwrite what amounts to a hobby.

For this contingent, acting, as I think Robin Williams once observed, is a career in which your job is finding a job, and the actual work is the vacation. The fortitude that goes into that hunt can be truly awe-inspiring, occasionally to the detriment of personal relationships when those committing untold hours to achieving their breakthrough tell a loved one who doesn’t secretly want to play Hamlet or Juliet, “My job is important too.”

More than once, no doubt, a significant other has ignited an argument by replying, “I’m sorry, but what has your job paid for around here lately?”

Not surprisingly, Hollywood’s presentation of this dilemma skews toward the brighter side of attaining fame and fortune. In mainstream fare, at least, plucky heroes and heroines usually come to happy endings, from the welder by day/dancer by night in “Flashdance” to last year’s “Glitter,” a vehicle for Mariah Carey.

If tragedy plays a part in these stories, it’s generally of the “A Star Is Born” variety, with protagonists seduced and done in by the aftermath of success. In that respect, the most notable aspect of last year’s cinematic mishmash “Mulholland Drive” is the film’s willingness to subvert those stereotypes with a vision of the Hollywood dream-turned-nightmare, although director David Lynch’s cavalier sense of story structure (translation: the film doesn’t have one) has resulted in this point being lost on many who staggered out of the theater.

Beyond such fictional works, the last few years have brought an entirely new wrinkle to the pursuit of celebrity in the form of so-called “reality television,” providing enough success stories to keep dangling a very large carrot in front of people who never leave home without a resume and head shot tucked under one arm.

Colleen Haskell, for example, parlayed her participation in the original “Survivor” into a co-starring role with Rob Schneider in last year’s movie “The Animal,” which seems like more of an ordeal than eating bug larvae. Few survivors of unscripted series have fared as well, but the thousands who line up at each open audition suggest that hope springs eternal.

Moreover, a strain of this programming genre has played directly to those for whom gaining admission to the entertainment business is an objective. Home Box Office’s “Project Greenlight,” for example, has chronicled the travails of a fledgling screenwriter-director who earned the right to have his screenplay produced in exchange for allowing a documentary crew to capture the process. A whopping 7,300 scripts were submitted via the Internet before Pete Jones was chosen, although many who have viewed the series may question what exactly he has won over the long haul.

Even closer to the off-the-bus fantasy were ABC’s “Making the Band” and the WB network’s “Popstars,” both unscripted concepts devoted to the creation of made-for-TV pop acts (a new boy band and girl group, respectively) after trailing hopefuls through the auditions--a conceit that E! Entertainment Television took to its own logical extreme with the self-explanatory “Vegas Showgirls.”

Although a fair amount has been written about the inside perspective provided by “Project Greenlight,” a less celebrated but perhaps more telling look at an aspiring filmmaker played last year on the Independent Film Channel. In that production, the director lets a documentary crew tail him as he pursues his dream to make a movie until--after running out of money--the depressed protagonist takes his own life.

Granted, “They Shoot Movies, Don’t They? ... The Making of Mirage” was actually a work of fiction produced and directed by two actors, Tom Wilson and Frank Gallagher, but many of those who stumbled upon the low-budget, slyly documentary-style production came away convinced that what they had seen was real--including even a few entertainment industry pros who screened it. That reaction came as little surprise to Wilson, who maxed out his credit cards to finance the project.

“You write what you know,” he said last year, when IFC first televised “They Shoot Movies,” leaving viewers to wonder about its authenticity.

Hollywood and its surroundings, of course, will always provide a beacon to those who harbor the goal of stardom in one form or another (Canadian production hubs Vancouver and Toronto are equally legitimate destinations for actors these days, but that’s another story), and no amount of discouragement will dampen their enthusiasm. Beyond the lure of riches, there is the simple hunger to perform that La Salle spoke of--a point exemplified by “A Chorus Line’s” key number, “What I Did for Love,” laying bare what impels many to chase rainbows with no pot of gold at their end.

Then again, perhaps that’s as it should be. As always, very few will make it. The rest can ultimately call themselves whatever it takes to remind or convince them that they are really a writer, really an actress, and really living just a few freeway exits from the “Hollywood” we still imagine in big block letters.

Like the lady said, dream on.

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Brian Lowry is a Times staff writer.