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Not far from the main terminal at John Wayne International — alluring, wealthy and white, the Duke is an archetypal local hero — more than a dozen private planes gleam in the morning sun. Jet salesmen usher in Bentleys and Porsches. Beaming customers pop between winged adult playthings like tykes at a new playground.
This isn't your average shopping spree: This is Orange County. (Related item:See a clip from The O.C.)
Little surprise that Hollywood chose this moneyed haven to star in The O.C., Fox's decadent late-summer hit that returns tonight (9 ET/PT). A variation on a Beverly Hills, 90210 theme, The O.C. is a stew of wealthy but wayward parents, overindulged high-schoolers and one visitor from Poorsville channeling the rebel-in-a-tank-top spirit of a young Russell Crowe.
Season with sea salt, sprinkle with designer water and voilà : Producers have an Orange County with endless story possibilities.
But do they have it right?
Though some locals insist the show is a PG version of their R-rated youth, most folks here answer with one voice: Like, not really, but sort of.
"Sure, we have parties, there's some drinking and smoking. But hard-core drugs? Not even close," says Tom Welch, a junior at Corona del Mar High School, on which the show's fictional school is based. "A lot of people watch The O.C., but mainly to make fun of it."
Senior Christine Pieton explains: "We never drive to Tijuana for the weekend. We don't call it the O.C. And it's not like I have to have Evian or I'll die."
Point taken. And, at first glance, the grounds here at CdM (a legit local acronym) offer up a model of modesty: no ivy-encrusted stone walls, no blazer-wearing students, no aura of outrageous privilege.
Ah, but slip into the parking lot and the sweet smell of excess is undeniable: Witness the BMW convertibles, just-off-the-lot Range Rovers and one Mercedes SL500 that would be a just reward for, say, 40 years of hard work.
"Certainly, some kids feel entitled, but that is not everyone's background by any means," says CdM principal Sharon Fry. "Because the perception is that everyone is wealthy, intelligent and going to an Ivy League school, some kids struggle because they feel they have to keep up that facade."
During his days at CdM High, O.C. executive producer McG didn't even try to keep up appearances.
"I was never one of the beautiful people. In a school filled with Abercrombie & Fitch kids, I looked like Anthony Michael Hall in Sixteen Candles," says McG, who, given that description, probably was going by Joseph McGinty Nichols then. Now, he's the hip guy behind the Charlie's Angels franchise.
McG says it's that "facade of perfection" that compelled him to set the show in his hometown (though it's filmed in Manhattan Beach, south of Los Angeles, because leaving L.A. County jacks up production costs). While The O.C.'s creator, 27-year-old Hollywood newcomer Josh Schwartz, is from Providence, he says the themes explored in the show are universal.
"So, OK, the people here are more tan and fit than where I grew up," he says. "But kids in The O.C. are dealing with the same issues. Affluence, keeping up with the Joneses, and growing up in gated communities where everyone feels like an outsider."
Schwartz's scripts evoke neighborhoods such as Newport Harbor and Balboa Island, where there's a dock and yacht for most every home, and Newport Coast, an exclusive oceanfront, cliff-top enclave. Houses there cost anywhere from $2.5 million to $25 million; this is where The O.C.'s protagonists return to nest after their soirees.
But compared with Newport Beach's 79,000 largely conservative, sun-kissed souls ("We're mainly responsible people who have done well and are looking for the good life," says town mayor Steven Bromberg, adding, "This show just isn't on our radar"), the rest of Orange County is a working-class American mosaic.
There are 2.9 million people of Caucasian, Hispanic, black, Asian and Indian origin, "a wonderful ethnic mix that works well together," says retired journalist Jerry Hicks, who is finishing a book on the county's history. "You watch The O.C. and you get the feeling that Orange County must be all white. Far from it."
Which is why a more accurate name for the show "would be 'The N.B.' " for Newport Beach, says Tina Borgatta, editor of Orange Coast magazine, whose readership's ethnicity is not in doubt. Of the hundreds of covers papering the magazine office's walls, the only noticeable minorities are O.J. Simpson and Danny Glover.
The glossy monthly chronicles life in the social and financial stratosphere. Articles spotlight top eating and shopping destinations. Ads hawk custom pools, cosmetic surgery and diamond jewelry blinding enough to make Liz Taylor's baubles look discreet.
"Are there people here who are into themselves? Sure, but it's not the majority. It's just not quite as shallow as the show would have you think," says Borgatta. "But I will say, I would have been hooked even if they'd called it The Greenwich or The Soho. It's fun to peek at such decadence."
If indulgence had a local address, it would be Fashion Island, a multi-tiered Spanish-style mall dotted with swaying palms.
Besides offering shoppers spectacular Pacific sunsets, there are deals to be had on 600-thread-count cotton sheets ($699 on sale) and handcrafted children's playhouses seemingly inspired by Gone With the Wind (likely fetching five figures per mini-mansion at an upcoming charity auction).
Sipping an iced coffee on yet another 85-degree fall day where the nearest cloud is somewhere over New Mexico, society columnist Gloria Zigner is eager to dissect the Newport Beach stereotype.
"There are elements of rich parents and spoiled kids, but you'll find that anywhere you find money," says the Orange Coast staffer. "It must be hell for kids to try and keep up with their parents, with the boats and the planes."
Typical entertainment for Newport's elite includes intimate concerts with classical stars such as Placido Domingo ($5,000 buys the cheapest seat), one of the community's many functions that benefit charity. And it's not just the rich who give back: Local surf apparel company Toes on the Nose often hits the waves with less fortunate and largely inland O.C. kids.
The O.C. acknowledged the altruistic side of O.C. life with a teen fashion show benefit as well as an adult Casino Night. The show also tweaked reality to come up with a key character. Peter Gallagher's real-estate developer wife is the daughter of a wealthy magnate who owns much of the town; in real life, developer Donald Bren, the low-profile head of The Irvine Co., has a son who builds homes along the local coastline.
"There's a lot of brains, talent and money here," says Zigner.
And sometimes those brains, talent and money spawn some hard-living kids.
Ryan Huntsman, 24, was thrown out of Corona del Mar High School after police found a marijuana pipe in his car. He sued the school (for lack of due process), won, but then was busted again. He eventually finished college and now works for a title insurance company.
Over lunch at a local California Pizza Kitchen, Huntsman and two other CdM grads, Lauren Peyton, 23, and Phil Dade, 21, recalled fast times when girls binged and purged obsessively, guys led prescription drug parties, and breast augmentations were so routine they were considered more rites of passage than plastic surgery.
Dade, a serial entrepreneur who started his first company while in high school, recalls heading to New York with a friend who had $60,000 in cash on him to buy a Hummer at auction. Peyton, who works for local bad boy Dennis Rodman, says a friend of hers "once cried, actually cried, because she got a Nissan Pathfinder instead of a BMW."
Huntsman laughs. "Trust me, we could entertain you for hours."
"And if the truth were really known," says Dade, "we'd probably also spend many lifetimes in jail."
Fact? Fiction? Who's to say? The three certainly seem matter-of-fact to the point of being blasé.
But they aren't finished yet. They've watched The O.C. and have a few pointed concerns.
"I just want to say that the last time I wore a bikini to a party was, like, never," says Peyton with a flip of her curly blond hair, referring to the show's flesh-and-flip-flops beach blowouts.
"Trust me," adds Huntsman, "if that stuff was going on, we would have gone out a whole lot more."
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