Up Till Now Page 14

  Roddenberry changed the name of the captain from Pike to James T. Kirk—after considering other names like Hannibal, Timber, Boone, Flagg, and Raintree. I tried to provide Kirk with the sense of awe and wonder that had been missing in the pilot. Kirk was a man who marveled and greatly appreciated the endless surprises presented to him by the universe after making that left turn. He didn’t take things for granted and, more than anything else, respected life in every one of its weird weekly adventure forms.

  And if every once in a while he could slip a whoopee cushion under the behind of the supreme commander of the Evil forces, figuratively of course, that would be okay too.

  In the second pilot Captain Kirk and Spock immediately developed the chemistry that had been missing in the pilot. Mr. Spock was half-Vulcan, an alien struggling to suppress his human emotions—his choices and decisions were all based on logic. If his commander also was serious and somber, as it had been originally written, Leonard had nothing to play against. As he remembers, “The writers couldn’t get a handle on the difference between Pike and Spock, so Spock came off as this weird kind of colorless character who was little more than a competent first officer.”

  But when Kirk was rewritten as a man with very human emotions, as well as a sense of humor, the character of Spock emerged. The broad range of emotions displayed by Kirk was a perfect contrast to Spock’s lack of emotion. We expected that viewers would find Spock strange and interesting, while at the same time Spock was finding human beings—Kirk in particular—strange and interesting. He was always curious about why Kirk did things that were not logical. This was probably the first time that viewers could look at themselves through an alien’s eyes.

  One of the reasons the relationship worked is that Leonard’s acting style and mine were as opposite as Kirk and Spock. As Leonard explained, “Bill has always been a very externalized actor, he just opens his arms completely to the audience. By the time this show began I’d been a working actor for seventeen years, I’d been teaching acting for five years, and my style was much more internalized, each action I took and every word I spoke seemed considered, thought out.

  “The best thing that Gene Roddenberry gave to me when he offered me the part was to tell me that this character would have an internal struggle. That part of the Vulcan dynamic would be the need to find logic in often illogical situations.”

  When we began filming I didn’t know any of the other actors. The only member of the cast I’d worked with previously was Leonard Nimoy, although I was unaware of that for many years; we’d both appeared in an episode of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. We may have appeared in a crowd scene together, but we had no dialogue and we definitely did not get to know each other. In addition to Leonard, DeForest Kelley played Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy, James Doohan was our Scottish chief engineer Scotty, George Takei was our Asian helmsman and weapons officer Sulu, and Nichelle Nichols was our African-American female officer of the deck, Uhura. Our Russian navigator, Chekov, played by Walter Koenig, did not join the cast until our second season.

  Desilu Studios did not spend a lot of money on the show. Our special effects were primitive. Outer space was a black cloth with holes in it lit from behind. Our technical crew used anything they found lying around that looked interesting and called it something else.

  On September 8, 1966, for the first time we entered “Space: The Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: To explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilization. To boldly go where no man has gone before.”

  Do you think Francis Scott Key knew he had written America’s national anthem when he jotted down a few words? Do you think Christopher Columbus knew he would soon discover a new world when he sailed? Did Michelangelo know he was going to create one of history’s greatest masterpieces when they told him the Sistine Chapel ceiling needed a paint job? And do you think Gene Rodden-berry knew that the space suit worn by Dr. McCoy in an episode of Star Trek called “The Tholian Web” would one day be auctioned off by Christie’s for $144,000?

  Probably not, at least based on our first reviews. According to Variety, “Star Trek ...won’t work. Even within its sci-fi frame of reference it was a... dreary mess of confusion...a long hour with hardly any relief from violence, killings, hypnotic stuff, and a distasteful, ugly monster.

  “William Shatner... appears wooden...”

  Well, apparently we’d licked the “too cerebral” problem. And not to be critical of the review, but aren’t monsters supposed to be distasteful and ugly? That’s why they’re called monsters. What kind of monster would be “a tasteful, attractive monster”?

  I wasn’t at all concerned about our reviews. The many excellent reviews I’d received during my career had not made me a star. So what damage could a poor review do to me? But over the next few weeks Leonard Nimoy’s character, the highly logical Vulcan Mr. Spock, began receiving most of the attention. Spock fan clubs were formed. Magazines started writing stories about him and the network sent Roddenberry a memo wondering why Spock wasn’t featured in every story. In other words, the ears had it.

  Wooden? Me, wooden? Not that I took it personally, of course. Or even noticed.

  I’ve often heard it said that acting is not a competitive sport—but never by actors. Believe me, I’ve sometimes thought it might be a good idea at the start of every production to have the actors meet in the middle of the stage to go through the rules with the director: No stepping on another actor’s lines. No upstaging below the belt. And after you’ve said your lines go to a neutral corner. The truth is that every good actor has an ego. Actors are ambitious people. And every moment center stage can lead to the next job. The day I reported to work on the first episode of Star Trek I was already wondering what would come next. And so was every other member of the cast. I was supposed to be the star but Leonard Nimoy was getting more attention than I was. It bothered me so much that I finally had a discussion about it with Gene Roddenberry. “Don’t be afraid of having other popular and talented people around you,” he said. “They can only enhance your performance. The more you work with these people, the better the show’s going to be.”

  He was absolutely right, and from that day on it never bothered me. Although perhaps when Leonard was nominated for an Emmy as Best Supporting Actor—in three consecutive years—while I was not nominated I did get a little envious. I remember wondering, why is that not happening to me? Here I’ve sacrificed so much and yet someone else is receiving the acclaim. It did bother me. It bothered me a lot.

  . . . Star Trek refrigerator magnets; Federation uniform pins; ladies’ jumpsuits; drawstring bags; backpacks; a briefcase; wooden plaques; various patches . . .

  Eventually Leonard and I would become best friends but at that time we didn’t know each other at all and didn’t really get along. We actually had one pretty loud argument. The process of getting Spock’s ears just right had been difficult and expensive. Finally the head of the makeup department, Freddy Phillips, paid out of his own pocket to get the right pair of ears made. Leonard felt Freddy had prevented Spock from becoming some kind of visual joke, so when a national magazine wanted to do a photo story about his makeup process, featuring Freddy, he agreed. But nobody told me about it.

  We began filming every morning at 8 A.M. Leonard reported to makeup at about 6:30, but I got there about forty-five minutes later. One morning I came to work and found the photographer in the makeup room snapping away. I didn’t like that at all; I was concerned all of my little makeup secrets were going to be revealed. And no, I can’t tell you what they are. That’s why they’re secrets. So I asked someone, justifiably, I thought, “What’s this photographer doing in the makeup room?”

  The photographer quietly left the room. Leonard and Freddy waited for him to return but he never came back. Eventually Leonard was told that at my insistence an assistant director had forced the photographer to leave. Leonard was furious. He immediately came to my trailer to confron
t me. “Did you order the photographer out?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” I admitted, explaining, “I didn’t want him there.” Leonard recalls this conversation much better than I do. As he remembers, he told me, “It was approved by Roddenberry. It was approved by the head of the studio. It was approved by publicity.”

  To which I apparently replied, “Well, it wasn’t approved by me!” Why I responded this way I certainly don’t remember. But I’m certain my envy must have had something to do with it.

  “You mean to tell me that I’ve got to get approval from you to have my picture taken?”

  This probably was the moment that impolite language was used. Leonard angrily returned to his own trailer and refused to go to work until Gene Roddenberry arrived and settled this argument. On a TV production schedule this is an expensive crisis. Roddenberry was able to calm the situation down and eventually Leonard and I made peace.

  Generally the bonding that takes place on a set is enormous. A group of disparate people come together for a prolonged period of time, usually working under tremendous time, financial, and career pressures, and become a single unit. Almost a family. And when the production ends you promise each other that you’re going to keep in touch, that your friendship is extremely important and you just can’t wait to see them again. Two weeks later you’re working with your new family on another set.

  But on the Star Trek set Leonard remained aloof. Certainly part of the reason for that was to maintain the integrity of his character. Spock was an outsider and Leonard worried that if he got too friendly with the rest of the cast he might unconsciously close that distance. He also felt very comfortable playing that role. “I was totally at home in that character,” he told me. “I’d felt so alienated as a Jewish kid growing up in an Italian neighborhood in Boston. So I learned how to stay within my own framework. To stay out of harm’s way, out of direct confrontations because generally they didn’t work out well for me. I had a physical fear of being beaten up, or hurt, or emotionally injured in some way. So I learned how to cope with being different, with being the other. And that was the same challenge faced by Spock. I knew that feeling so very well.

  “Playing that character ten hours a day, five days a week, made it very difficult for me to turn it on and turn it off. I just couldn’t step out of the character between takes.”

  The perfect word to describe that is alienation.

  Leonard was extremely protective of Spock. As any actor who has worked in a television series understands, the producers, directors, writers, and members of the crew often change for each episode, only the characters remain consistent. “The actor is the caretaker of the character,” is the way he explained it. “Nobody else can be counted on. You have to be able to say to the writer, ‘You can’t have me say, “Let’s make hay under the Vulcan moon,” because three episodes ago we said that Vulcan has no moon.’ So my energy went into providing that consistency and continuity.”

  And perhaps the other reason that Leonard remained aloof is that he was an alcoholic. Truthfully, I didn’t know it at the time. But certainly I was aware of the fact that he maintained a cool distance from the rest of the cast. As he admits, “I was in bad shape when we were making Star Trek. My marriage had fallen apart and at times I was very despondent. So I would go home every day and drink. On weekends I would tell myself I’ll have a beer at ten o’clock. By two o’clock I was drinking hard liquor and by five o’clock I’d be passed out.

  “As many alcoholics can do, I hid it at work. I never allowed it to affect my work. And as long as I never drank while I was working I had this illusion of control. I lied to myself a lot: I don’t work drunk, I don’t drink at all in connection to my work. I can wait. When I was performing in a play my first drink would be when the curtain came down. But that drink had to be there. When I walked into my dressing room I wanted an ice-cold gin on the rocks waiting for me. When I directed the movie Star Trek III my secretary knew that as soon as I said, ‘Cut. That’s a wrap,’ I wanted a drink. And then I would drink constantly. Once I had that first drink I would not stop drinking until I passed out or fell asleep.

  “I thought I was smart. I thought I was able to hide it successfully. But alcohol is smarter. When I was in need of a drink and it wasn’t there I could get very upset. I did a lot of college lectures, many of them in small towns. When I checked into the motel in the afternoon one of the first things I asked was how late their bar was open. That way I knew what time I had to finish and get back there. Well, in some of these towns if there’s nobody in the bar on a weeknight they’ll tell the bartender to lock up and go home. And every once in a while I’d come back to the hotel and the bar would be locked. I wanted my drink. I’d go to the front desk and say, ‘You told me the bar would be open until ten o’clock. Open the fucking bar!’ Because I’m in trouble was the unspoken subtext. And security would get me a bottle of scotch. When going out I would choose restaurants that I knew had a full bar. I loved going to the theater in London because they allowed you to drink before the show and during intermission.

  “This went on for many years, the entire time I believed I was in control. I can handle this. If necessary for professional reasons I could go a week without a drink. But eventually I started waking up in the morning thinking, why do I want to live today? And that’s when I first became concerned.

  “I married my wife, Susan, in 1989. I was still drinking, but I was deliriously happy with her. And one day I was talking to her about how different my life was with her and how happy I felt, and she asked me, ‘Then why do you drink so much?’

  “And I thought, you know, she’s right. I don’t have to do this anymore. So she called a friend and within hours, on a Sunday night, someone was here from Alcoholics Anonymous. I remember he said to me, ‘You cannot drink a little.’ We talked for two hours and the next night I went to my first AA meeting, which was a thrill. I haven’t had a drink since we had that conversation that night.”

  Years later Leonard’s alcoholism, about which I knew nothing while we were making Star Trek, would come to play a central role in my life. And it would bond us together in a way that I never could have imagined—particularly when he was getting all that attention. Not that I minded the character with the weird ears taking the attention away from the noble Captain Kirk, of course.

  Wooden? I barely even remember sitting at the kitchen table on a rainy morning, eating three slightly undercooked eggs over easy, reading that review while Gloria, who was dressed in a pale green cotton top, got the girls ready for school. As a professional actor, those things don’t bother me. And that particular review has continued to not bother me for more than four decades.

  A series begins to work when the personalities of the characters, and the relationships between those characters, become clearly defined to the viewers. So you don’t need an explanation about the meaning of each line or gesture. Leonard always pointed to the end of an episode entitled “The Devil in the Dark” as the moment that perfectly captured the relationship between Kirk and Spock. After we’d successfully saved a creature named the Horta, who seemed to be attracted to Spock, I told him that he was becoming more human all the time. He considered that, then responded, “Captain, there’s no reason for me to stand here and be insulted.” Then walked off the bridge of the Enterprise.

  Certainly no television show in history has been so thoroughly chronicled and analyzed as Star Trek. There are people, Trekkies, who can quote entire shows, entire seasons, people who know these characters better than their own families. University courses have been taught about the show. Books have been written about the philosophy and ethics of our plots. But when we were making the show all we were concerned about was being renewed for the next season. Another season meant twenty-six weeks of regular paychecks. Our ratings were never tremendous, but our audience was extremely loyal. I think we realized the show was successful when key phrases we used began seeping into the general culture. I’d walk through an airport
and people would recognize me and say, “Beam me up, Scotty,” or “Live long and prosper.” On other shows comedians were promising to “Boldly go where no man has gone before,” and traveling at “warp speed,” and issuing their own “prime directives,” while kids were talking about our futuristic props; our gunlike phasers— which could be put on stun rather than simply killing our enemies, and flip-up communicators which looked precisely like the flip-phones that would be invented almost four decades later, as if they were real.

  The general consensus among respected philosophers is that Star Trek was successful and has endured because our stories focused on universal themes—which of necessity took place elsewhere in the universe because they were about subjects that couldn’t easily be tackled by traditional programming. Gene Roddenberry once said that the real mission of the Enterprise was to search for intelligent life on the other side of the television set. While the grand theme of our five-year mission was always good versus evil, we also did stories about racism, sexism, authoritarianism, class warfare, imperialism, human and parahuman and alien rights, and the insanity of war. Nichelle Nichols and I shared the first interracial kiss on American television—which several Southern stations refused to broadcast— although we were compelled to kiss by space aliens controlling our minds. Which was certainly one of the most creative excuses to kiss a beautiful woman I’d ever heard.

  Before our first show was broadcast the cast met with the media. When Leonard was asked about the character of Spock, he responded that we were doing something very different than the typical science-fiction story. “This is an intelligent character, a scientist, a being with great dignity.” As the same reporters watched the next day, we filmed a scene in which Spock was lying in a bed in sick bay, green blood dripping from his head. I rushed in and asked urgently, “What happened, Spock?” to which he replied, “Captain, the monster attacked me!”

  Gene Roddenberry never referred to himself as Star Trek’s producer, rather he was...the creator. And ironically it was Gene who brought Leonard and me closer together. Roddenberry was a quirky guy whose greatest invention was the character of Spock. After the first thirteen episodes writer/producer Gene Coon was brought in and Roddenberry became the executive producer, meaning he was more of a supervisor than working on the show day-to-day. After that his primary job seemed to be exploiting Star Trek in every possible way.