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90210 WHAT BECOMES A LEGEND MOST?
WITH SHANNEN GONE AND LUKE AND JASON LIKELY TO FOLLOW, WILL THE TEEN-SOAP PHENOM END UP A HIT OR A HAS-BEEN?
By David Browne
''It's kind of a weird day here,'' says Luke Perry, scanning the set with his familiar squint and the faintest of smiles. ''The vibe is a little...weird.'' Sporting unmoussed hair and just enough facial scruff to let us know that his character, Dylan McKay, is bummed, Perry is hanging out between takes in one of the three nondescript white warehouses in the San Fernando Valley where Beverly Hills, 90210 is filmed. And no sooner does he return to his mark-to continue filming the fifth episode of the show's fifth season-than his take on the day becomes tangibly accurate. Perry feels it first: Asked to redo for the fifth time a scene in which he simply walks into the Peach Pit, the actor gently pounds his head on the counter of the fake diner. An hour later, another scene crashes to a halt, literally. Newcomer Tiffani-Amber Thiessen is supposed to toss a french fry into the mouth of Ian Ziering (playing amiably lunkheaded Steve Sanders); instead, it lands in his eye. It must have been one crispy spud: Ziering trashes their table and storms off, with director David Semel in quick pursuit. ''Sometimes things in a scene don't work for an actor,'' says Semel. The scene is eventually reshot. ''It's the Peach Pit,'' explains Jennie Garth, 22, who plays loose-rich-girl- made-good Kelly Taylor. ''We have all our major conflicts there. I just realized that. Today was nothing.'' It may be little more than blowing off the steam of four years at the same job. Then again, maybe the 90210 cast just isn't accustomed to outside observers. For most of the past three seasons, the set has been closed to the media, for a reason no one will state on the record but which is fairly obvious: departed cast member and tabloid regular Shannen Doherty, whose antics on and off the show brought all the wrong sorts of publicity. The attention to Doherty, however, was also testament to her allure, and the question of whether Thiessen, 20, can fill her halter tops as the designated Shannen Replacement has yet to be answered. Beyond Doherty's exit, the fifth season of ''the show you love to hate'' (as a recent America Online posting put it) is pivotal for other reasons. It's the last contracted season of the original cast-Perry, Ziering, Garth, Jason Priestley, Tori Spelling, Brian Austin Green, and Gabrielle Carteris-who must soon decide if they want to re-up or test the outside waters, which have been particularly rough for Perry and Priestley (the combined grosses of Perry's 8 Seconds and Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Priestley's Calendar Girl equal about two weeks of Forrest Gump receipts). To make the vibe just a bit weirder, 90210's trashier offshoot, Melrose Place, has overtaken it as the water-cooler show of the moment. ''People stop me and say, 'Hey, you're the guy from Melrose, aren't you?''' says another newly installed regular, Mark D. Espinoza, 29 (who plays Jesse Vasquez, husband of new mom Andrea Zuckerman, played by Carteris), with a what-are-you-gonna-do chuckle. ''Happens all the time.'' Part beach-blanket-go-go fantasy, part after-school special, 90210 has always been socially conscious TV junk, whose creators pride themselves on confronting the big questions of teen life. So, in that tradition, here's one: In the grunge '90s, where does a show about a bunch of tanned, spoiled kids- er, young adults-fit in? 90210 is still viable-its Sept. 7 season premiere, with more than 21 million viewers, tied the 1993 graduation episode for the show's highest ratings ever. But somehow, it doesn't seem as relevant as it / once was, especially compared with hipper series like ABC's acclaimed (if low- rated) My So-Called Life and MTV's The Real World. ''Luke, need anything?'' asks an assistant as Perry plops himself in front of the Peach Pit counter. ''A $30 million action film, that's all,'' Perry responds, in such a deadpan rasp that he may or may not be joking.
"How do you feel about Shannen being gone?" booms Ziering as Perry walks by. "My job's my job, whether she's here or not," exhales Perry, 28, sternly zipping past Ziering with a quick slap of palms. Ziering, 30 and as thingyy as his character, admits, "I'm pretty happy she's gone, actually. I never liked her. Just a total lack of professionalism. Whatever. She's gone. She's history." Unlike Ziering, most 90210ers are not particularly eager to talk about Doherty, 23, although they almost don't have to, as her problems both personal (nightclub fights and stormy relationships; see Encore on page 84) and professional (chronic tardiness) have been well documented. Even after she finally would arrive on set and have her makeup applied, say insiders, Doherty would often dart back to her dressing room and wipe it all off (which would account for her daughter-of-Elvira look during the 1993-94 season). One by one, the cast members-even the diplomatic Priestley-complained about her attitude to Aaron Spelling, whose Spelling Television produces 90210 and Melrose. "They said, 'Enough's enough,'" recalls Spelling. "You get a call to be on the set at 6 in the morning, and if Shannen doesn't show up until 10 or 11, you're a little pissed, I would imagine." Asked to confirm the story, Priestley, whom executive producer Charles Rosin calls the show's "quarterback," turns somber and carefully chooses his words. "I had a few conversations with Aaron. I never said, 'You gotta fire this girl.' But I did voice my concern for her. And just let him know. " He pauses. "At times Shannen's behavior did start to affect other cast members, and some of the focus was going away from what we were putting on film every day. That concerned me." Whatever the final straw, Brenda Walsh was sent packing to a London acting school at the end of last season ("At this rate, we may never see her again," said Priestley's do-the-right-thing Brandon Walsh, with what appeared to be a touch of sarcasm, in the season premiere). Executives at Fox and Spelling Television maintain Doherty's contract was not renewed. Doherty declined to comment from the set of her latest project, a TV movie about Gone With the Wind author Margaret Mitchell, whom she portrays. But her spokesperson maintains, "Contrary to what the Spelling people are saying, Shannen chose to leave." (Informed of this comment, Fox Entertainment president Sandy Grushow laughs out loud.) As if their collective brain had been implanted with a politeness microchip regarding Doherty, cast and crew describe life without her as "freer feeling," "different energy," and "more relaxed," usually ending with some form of, "but I wish her all the best." In her dressing room decorated with Marilyn Monroe posters, Garth elaborates. "We were friends at work, and I miss her most of the time," she says, her dimple-heaven smile turning into an earnest pout. "We were all uncertain about how it would be (without her). But now that we're back, it's like she was never here." Well, almost. "Feisty little s---, I miss her," says Joe E. Tata (eternally jovial Peach Pit grill man Nat). "Nobody's replaced her."
"That was my worst f---ing nightmare," says Jason Priestley. Priestley isn't referring to the thought of Brenda returning from London, but rather to life as an eternal teen idol. Working his way through the last cigarette in his pack with his stubby fingers, Priestley, 25-whose soft face and perfectly shaped hair and eyebrows recall the blander Elvis of the mid-' 60s-is more than happy that his mug is no longer plastered in junior-high lockers the land over. "There's a stigma attached to that," he continues. "It's like a cancer. It's unbelievable! It's like having a big cancerous lesion on your shoulder. Because people are fickle, man." No one on 90210 needs to be reminded of that-the series was far from a hit when it debuted in October 1990. Within a year, though, episodes in which the characters lost their virginity, debated condom use, and developed drinking problems were making headlines. Priestley now calls the constant autograph hounds and mob crushes "terrifying"; Tori Spelling, 21, who plays more-than- like-a-virgin Donna Martin, remembers it with a gentle sigh as "a phenomenon I don't think I'll ever experience again." As with any product for adolescents, 90210 has cooled. "90210 is out of the teen-heartthrob-making business," asserts Rosin. In fact, the decision was made for him: In Sassy's January 1994 readers' poll, it was voted "suckiest show," and Perry won "least favorite TV actor" by a landslide. ("Anyone who , would say 'suckiest,' I don't care whether they're fans of the show or not," shoots back Priestley.) Teen Beat once received hundreds of letters a week about the show; now, the magazine's 90210 mail bag is virtually empty. "I have kids, and they watch Models and Melrose," says Nancy Fernandez, who plays a Peach Pit waitress. Of course, it has been a long time since most of the cast attended anything close to a real prom. Perry and Garth have both married, Ziering is engaged, and Carteris has a 4-month-old daughter, Kelsey Rose. Doherty's dressing room is now a nursery for Carteris' baby, a cast in-joke given that the two actresses didn't get along ("She's going through a rough time, and I'm sympathetic, but I don't have to live it," says Carteris, 33). Still, it must be frustrating when, on a recent Good Morning America, Charlie Gibson (during an interview with My So-Called Life's Claire Danes, 15) cracks that the 90210 actors look like they could be "in old-age homes now." "He said that?" Rosin asks, with some exasperation. Then, in a comment seemingly directed back at My So-Called Life, he says, "(Some) people do this for art and vision. We do it for people."
"Enough about stupid parties at school," says Garth. "People watch our show for a reason-they like to see us dealing with issues. When we're doing stuff in the Peach Pit, my heart isn't in it sometimes."
New competition notwithstanding, 90210 has moved on-on this sun-drenched mid-August day, to Occidental College, the liberal-arts institution near Pasadena that guest-stars as the cast's current school, California University. In oppressive 100-degree heat, Tori Spelling is filming a scene with another of the new actors: Jamie Walters, 25, whose working-class-joe rock musician Ray Pruit will have a fling with Donna. That's just one part of the show's plan to make the public forget Brenda, a scheme based upon a time-honored formula: sex, drugs, and rock & roll. Recovering alcoholic Dylan, who recently lost his fortune in a scam, has leapt off the wagon again, and will be aided and abetted in his vices by Thiessen's vamp, Valerie Malone. "They said Shannen was a bad girl off stage, and I'm the bad girl on the show," offers Thiessen, Green's real-life squeeze, regarding her role. Bumped up to full-time employment is Kathleen Robertson, 21, as a less nymphomaniacal version of Clare Arnold, the chancellor's daughter. (In her denim cut-offs, striped shirt, sneakers, and nail polish, Clare is a Rodeo Drive version of a Smashing Pumpkins fan.) Giving up on Brandon, Clare will now pursue Green's David Silver, free since Donna left him after catching him in a nicely sleazy limousine fling during last season's finale. Kelly, formerly with Steve, then with Dylan, is now coupled with Brandon. And, adds Rosin, "We're planning an episode called 'The Dreams of Dylan McKay,' which will be as David Lynch as we're going to get." Of course, it wouldn't be 90210 without a few somber messages slipped in between the bedsheets. This year, a Farrakhan-type leader will visit the campus for an episode on racism; in another, inspired by Amnesty International, CU is visited by the president of a fictitious country whose government reportedly indulges in torture. ("Tor-ture?" asks Aaron Spelling with genuine surprise when asked about this episode. "What's next-S&M?") In this way, the show hopes to continue to distinguish itself from Melrose Place; though 90210's 1994 season finale drew a million more viewers than Melrose's, Melrose draws a bigger share of the coveted 18- to 34-year-old female market. Yet, according to Tom Frank, vice president of TV programming for ad agency Leo Burnett, 90210 remains more attractive to certain advertisers because "there is still a moral core to the characters." Or, as Ziering puts it, Melrose is "a ****-and-ass kind of thing." How ironic that 90210 is now considered safe, wholesome entertainment- despite the attention it has paid, as Aaron Spelling notes, to "bulimia, anorexia, drunk driving, drugs, rape. Uh, abuse. Suicide. What kids go through today is amazing. When you can get shot in the mall at Pacific Palisades, you realize it doesn't all take place in South Central. It's a strange world out there, and it's gonna get stranger." Some things, however, will remain the same: "Donna will be a virgin until she's 67," says Spelling with a chortle and a puff on his pipe. "Did he mean me or the character?" asks his daughter later. "He wishes."
"You don't want to walk away from a job," declares Green between puffs on a cigarette. "Look at Shelley Long. She leaves Cheers and then begs to come back for the final show." Three days after the french-fry incident, the set is less tense. Food technicians prepare pitchers of fake, neon-colored "smart drinks" while technicians start pumping in dry-ice fog. That's right: 90210 is throwing that most modern of parties, a rave. Normally, these all-night communal gatherings are held in warehouses or open fields, but not in 90210-land. "A rave in a '50s diner-happens all the time," cracks Priestley between takes. With the exception of Priestley and Perry, every original cast member says he or she will be back for a sixth season if asked (Spelling says he would like to see the show continue through college graduation; the characters are sophomores this season). Asked about his plans for the future, Perry mumbles into his cigarette, "This is probably it," then quickly adds, "I don't know-I refuse to speculate." Asked where he sees Brandon Walsh in five years, Priestley snickers, "Taking a long dirt nap," under his breath, but says he too hasn't decided if he'll return. If so, he muses, "What would we do?" In the meantime, Green, 21 and looking alarmingly like Vanilla Ice's kid brother, is working on a rap album, due out next spring. Garth, thanks to a new career in small-screen movies (last winter's Lies of the Heart: The Story of Laurie Kellogg, the upcoming Without Consent), is on her way to becoming the Valerie Bertinelli of the '90s. ("If all I do for the rest of my life is make TV movies about issues that help people, that'll make me happy," she says with stunning pragmatism.) Priestley has completed an independent movie, Cold Blooded-an art film that sounds a long way from the more commercially minded teen fantasy Calendar Girl. "I'd rather not talk about that particular project," he jokes, adding, "As we all know, it's very difficult to make that jump from television to films. I was testing the waters. It didn't do exactly what I thought it would do, but I don't think it's hurt me. At least, not that I've seen. Yet." As dozens of extras grind around them to Bizarre Inc's throbbing dance hit "I'm Gonna Get You," he and Ziering gamely tape a scene with Brandon congratulating Steve on the success of the rave. "Looks like you pulled it off, buddy!" says Priestley. "Party hearty, man!" crows Ziering. Watching the segment, which has a the-Beaver-goes-techno surrealism, you realize that 90210, despite its '94 reconstructive surgery, is still a show about clear skin and above-average household incomes. It's still a world where the women are unattainable prom queens, the men the sort who wouldn't even acknowledge you in high school hallways and would go on to be golf-playing bond traders. Having Thiessen's Valerie toke up at the end of the season premiere was a promising hit of reality. But even so, it is hard to imagine most of these characters at a Lollapalooza concert, much less grieving over Kurt Cobain's death. "We're not old news, but stay tuned-we might be," says Rosin with a smile in a nearby office. "But it hasn't happened yet." Meanwhile, in the Peach Pit, the techno music cranks up again and the extras let out a large whoop. One more time, an assistant director yells out her order: "C'mon, everybody-big party!"
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