by George Takei
* * *
My three short days filming the pilot episode flew by. The schedule moved at breakneck pace. The pressure was particularly intense because STAR TREK was such an unusual show. Everything was seminal. We were creating a whole new world solely out of the imagination of Gene Roddenberry, filled in with the spontaneous inventions of the actors and technical wizards on the set. God had seven days to create earth. We had eight, not only to create a new galaxy, but to film it as well. And it was done in eight days. But I was done in three.
The only actors I got to really share some time with in those hectic three days were my dressing roommate, Jimmy Doohan, and Lloyd Haynes. We talked about the challenges of a show like STAR TREK. We wondered about the prospects for such a pioneering series. And we all prayed for the possibility of steady employment. We were also treated to an extraordinary human spectacle that we happened upon only by sheer chance.
We were standing around chatting outside our soundstage. Near the entrance to the one next to ours, stood a young Asian man dressed as a chauffeur. He had his cap and jacket off and seemed to be going through a series of muscle-limbering, slow balletic movements. Suddenly, he exploded in a burst of kicks and leaps and twirls that was a symphony of speed. Our chatting ceased. We just stood there, stunned. Then he repeated the ballet. His movements had grace; his body, control and elegance. We were mesmerized. Then the flash detonation of energy and motion astounded us a second time.
Just then, an assistant poked his head out from his soundstage and called, “We’re ready for you on the set now, Bruce.” As we stood open-mouthed, he quietly slipped back in. It had been an amazing demonstration of what incredible feats the human body is capable of. And we had just chanced upon this extraordinary spectacle.
We later learned that the martial artist was a young actor named Bruce Lee and that he was working on a new television series that had just sold called Green Hornet.
* * *
A few months after we had filmed the STAR TREK pilot, I was cast in a terrific role in a prestigious anthology series called Chrysler Theater. My career seemed back on a roll. The episode was titled “Wind Fever,” and I was playing an Oxford-educated, English-accented barrister in a former British colony in tropical southeast Asia. I would be able to use the British accent that I had added to my collection from my Shakespeare Institute summer. But best of all, and most serendipitously, the defendant that my barrister would be representing, a dedicated Dr. Schweitzer-like jungle missionary/doctor accused of malpractice, was to be played by William Shatner. I was delighted. Maybe he might have a bit of news to share about the progress the STAR TREK pilot was making. Perhaps with this production, I would get to know him a bit better. Perhaps “Wind Fever” was the omen that would have us working together for season after season. All sorts of wild fancies ran rampant through my imagination.
“Bill, how’ve you been?” I shouted out as soon as I spotted him on the set. He was dressed in rumpled tropical cotton clothes, and I was resplendent in my full-flowing, black barrister’s gown with a tiny white barrister’s wig perched on my head. He turned smiling as I rushed up to him. “Well, have you heard anything about it yet?” I couldn’t restrain myself. I had dreams about the pilot night after night. They were turning into nightmares. I was hoping he had some good news. At least something to prop up hope.
He took my extended hand, smiling. Bill’s smile was bright and beaming. He took my hand and continued to smile looking into my face. But the look in those smiling eyes was searching, quizzical. Instantly, I sensed it. He didn’t recognize me!
“George Takei,” I prompted. “I did the STAR TREK pilot with you. Sulu!” I blurted.
“Hi, George,” he said without missing a beat. Bill’s voice was soft and exaggeratedly affectionate. His smile remained unchangingly friendly. His eyes melted with fondness. “How are you. It’s so good to be with you again.” He sounded as if we had become the most bosom of buddies during the filming of the pilot. “Let’s get together later. We’ve got to talk. But I want to concentrate on this scene here. Excuse me.” He gave my arm a tight, affectionate squeeze as if to emphasize his sincerity, and then he turned away toward his dressing room.
I stood there puzzled, watching him walk away. His aggressive show of fondness was a bit bewildering. Then it occurred to me. I was wearing the British barrister’s white wig. Maybe he didn’t recognize me underneath it. Could he have been thrown because of the way I was dressed? That must be the reason. So he was overcompensating with excessive friendliness. I decided to be charitable with Bill.
I was informed by an assistant that Keye Luke, my old Rodan dubbing colleague, was also in the cast. It was getting to be like “old home week.” But when I saw him, I was struck by how much he had aged. His face had become a network of fine wrinkles. His once-robust voice sounded dry and reedy. And he moved slowly with the help of a cane. Initially, I thought it was a character prop. But he told me he had had foot surgery and that he was incorporating necessity into his character. He was playing an elderly town patriarch. I realized that almost a decade had passed since we had worked together on Rodan.
All my scenes in “Wind Fever” were with Bill and another guest star, John Cassavetes. It was exciting working with two cracking-good actors. Cassavetes smoldered with concentrated heat as my opposing counsel. Bill was crafting a fascinating portrait of an idealist with a dark underside. It was wonderful and intensely engaging to be working with such actors. And as before, in between shots, Bill broke the tension with his jokey banter and lighthearted pranks. His silly giggles were bubbling up constantly.
But I was mystified. I wanted to talk about the pilot we had made. I thought Bill would be eager to discuss STAR TREK, too. But he seemed almost disengaged from it. He had indicated earlier to me that he wanted to talk about it later. I waited. But later never came. My work on “Wind Fever” was soon finished. But Bill never talked about a show that was keeping me, at least, sitting on needles of anxiety. I found out nothing about the progress of STAR TREK from Bill. Perhaps he was superstitious, I thought. Or perhaps he didn’t know anything either. He never said.
It wasn’t until January of 1966 that the phone call from Fred came. “NBC picked up STAR TREK,” he shouted into the receiver. “We’re a go!” The long suspense was over, and the fun was about to begin. Or so I thought.
15
The Launching
THE ROOM WAS UNCOMFORTABLY PACKED. Extra chairs were crammed in. Some people had to stand against the walls. Why couldn’t they have gotten a larger conference room? Perhaps this was Desilu’s largest, I guessed.
But the crush only seemed to intensify the excitement. The electricity in the air was palpable as actors nervously leafed through scripts, black-suited people smiled tensely, and assistants hovered about offering pencils and cups of coffee. I waved to Jimmy Doohan across the table, and he responded with a firm thumbs-up. Leonard was concentrating on his script, scribbling notes in the margin. Bill was engaged in an animated conversation with an associate producer. I looked around and wondered why Paul Fix and Lloyd Haynes were missing. They were supposed to be regulars also. An anticipatory hubbub filled the room.
Only Gene Roddenberry seemed to be fully savoring the moment. As I watched him sitting like a genial lord at the head of a long banqueting table, I sensed in that big, all-embracing grin of his the history that had preceded this day. How sweet this moment must taste for him. The journey to bring STAR TREK to this point had been arduous. There was the failure of the first pilot and the year-long struggle to get the second one made, then the long, anxious struggle for a decision from the NBC powers-that-be.
Now, at long last, here we were, gathered for the launching of the series itself and the first reading with the entire cast. Our audience was the studio executives and the heads of departments. With a modest clearing of his throat, Gene began.
“Well, folks, we’re starting an adventure today. Let’s have fun along the way.” And with that, he
began introducing the members of the cast: First Bill Shatner and Leonard Nimoy. Then he called out the name DeForest Kelley. He would be playing the ship’s doctor, now renamed Dr. Leonard McCoy. So that’s why Paul Fix was absent, I realized.
Gene introduced Majel Barret as Nurse Chapel. Then he announced that a change had been made with Sulu, the biophysicist. Gene had already told me of this, but nevertheless I couldn’t help suppressing a small prick of anxiety. Sulu, he announced, had been moved up to the bridge as the helmsman, but he would still be played by me. I knew I really needn’t have worried, but it was a relief nevertheless to have this change out and official. The network people, Gene stated, had expressed interest in making Sulu more regularly visible, so the decision was made to give him the helm position on the bridge.
Jimmy Doohan, Gene said, would remain the good engineer Scott. Then he introduced the woman sitting at the far end of the table, whom I had recognized and wondered about. He called out the name Nichelle Nichols and announced that she would be playing the communications officer, now named Uhura. So that’s why Lloyd wasn’t here, I thought. Later, I learned that Nichelle had been cast because Lloyd had landed the lead role in a new series, Room 222, and had asked to be released from his STAR TREK contract. Such are the quirks of fate and the capricious ways of Hollywood—had it not been for Lloyd’s good fortune, the Enterprise might not have been graced by the beautiful Uhura’s opening of hailing frequencies and raising Sulu’s heartbeat. Finally, Grace Lee Whitney, a vivacious blond, was introduced as the yeoman, Janice Rand. With a grand flourish of his arm, he said, “And there we have the complete STAR TREK family.” There was the patter of polite, ritual applause.
The department heads were then introduced. There were so many names to remember that, rather than try to memorize them all and get frustrated, I decided to concentrate only on those I would be working with immediately. Fred Phillips in makeup. Bill Theiss in costumes. And associate producer Bob Justman.
Then Gene introduced the person whose name I knew I had better memorize. “This is the man who will be our big chief at the studio and our link with the network, the exec in charge of productions, Herb Solow.” There was vigorous applause with a touch of sycophantic fervor. One of the black suits rose up. He was a slight man, but when he began to talk, I knew immediately why he occupied his office. His speech combined enthusiasm with charm, a call to arms with optimism. He talked of the fresh and challenging project we had in front of us. He described the arid landscape of television today and the bold pioneering we as a team were about to begin. And he promised the solid support of Desilu Studios behind the project. It was a rousing, spirit-raising speech. He lit all our engines, and we began rumbling for the blast-off.
To push that button, Gene introduced Joe Sargent, the director of the first episode to be filmed, “The Corbomite Maneuver.” Here was another good omen, I thought, for I had studied under Joe when he was teaching at the Desilu Workshop a few years back. My former acting coach would be directing me on the initial episode of my maiden journey into the wild unknowns of series television.
I could now confidently—and boldly—go where I had never gone before . . . my very first television series. I was in the care of many good hands. Joe was guiding us. Gene’s vision primed and energized us. And we were fueled by the executive in charge, Herb Solow’s promise of full backing by Desilu. It was a terrific beginning on a beautiful spring morning.
* * *
The months that followed were the most hectic, exhausting, and exhilarating work experience I had ever known. Each new episode was another fresh challenge. I hadn’t been a science fiction devotee—although I had read and loved some of the works of Ray Bradbury—so the genre was an eye-opening and mind-expanding discovery. For the glimmering new world we were creating using the stark metaphors of science fiction, we received scripts that were powerful human dramas of prejudice and nobility, of war and the struggle for peace. Interspersed with these were tales of imaginative whimsy that revealed new character relationships.
As an actor, I felt for the first time the sense of being a member of a lively repertory company. Periodically the science fiction genre would allow us, while still in the body and mind of the character we portrayed, to go outside the bounds of those established Starfleet officers. We got the opportunity, rare in television, to “stretch” our thespian muscles.
I even got to stretch my running muscles as well. True to his promise, Herb Solow ensured that we had the budget to shoot some episodes on outdoor locations. So whenever we shot out at the craggy moonscape of Vasquez Rocks or a wild animal compound called Africa U.S.A., I took along my running shoes to use during the “off times” on location.
Whether on location or back on the soundstage, Leonard’s presence on the set always brought another dimension to the work. He was creating a truly original character. There was no precedent for Spock. Leonard’s imagination, talent, and strength of will were the only resources available to him. And from them, he created a magnetic, riveting, and original character. From the time that I first saw Leonard on the set of the pilot film, his commitment to the challenge was total. His complete dedication to building his character impressed everyone, and he enriched and elevated the work atmosphere on the set.
* * *
The doorbell buzzed stridently. It was almost nine o’clock at night, but the sound was not unexpected. I had been anxiously waiting for the delivery of the script that associate producer/writer John Black had told me about. Two weeks ago, he had dropped by the set during the filming of “Mudd’s Women.” That episode, about a cargo of scantily clad beautiful women, seemed to attract an unusual number of casual visitors from the front office claiming to be “keeping an eye on the frontline action.” Seated set-side next to me, John let slip a tantalizing bit of information on an upcoming script he was writing.
“How are you at fencing, George?” he asked me as he eyed a former Playboy centerfold rehearsing her scene. He should have known better than to ask an actor a question like that and expect a pure answer. When it comes to something that might possibly enhance a role, we actors will automatically claim to be expert at anything—and then go out and try to become one.
“How did you know that’s one of my favorite sports?” I responded. “Why?”
“Just asking. How are you at samurai swordsmanship?” he continued.
“Of course I’m good at it. I grew up watching samurai movies. Why?” I persisted.
“I’m working on a script right now where you get infected by a virus that tears down all your inhibitions and you go berserkers with a sword. I’m trying to decide which way to go.”
This was mouth-watering. After so many episodes of being adhered to the helm console announcing the warp velocity, this sounded absolutely delicious.
“By all means, it should be fencing,” I recommended. “Samurai sword fighting is too obvious. It’s too ethnically consistent. Sulu is a multi-interested twenty-third-century man, and his sense of heritage should be much broader than just ethnic. His sense of his culture should be of the greater human heritage. I’m a twentieth-century Japanese American, and although I saw samurai movies as a kid, I actually grew up with more swashbucklers and westerns. I think it’d be more interesting to see a fencing foil in Sulu’s hand.”
“Sold,” John responded, and we sealed it with a handshake. He got up with a final gaze at the action on the set and left the stage with a direction in mind for his script.
It was this script that I had been eagerly awaiting when the doorbell sounded. I flung open the door, and the messenger from the studio stood there smiling.
“Your script for the next show, Mr. Takei,” he announced as he handed me the familiar gray envelope with the Desilu logo.
“Thanks. How come it’s so late?” I asked. Actually, it wasn’t unusually late. The scripts were customarily distributed at night, but my eager anticipation for this one just made this delivery seem late.
“Well, they we
re working on this final draft all day. I ran it over hot off the press,” he explained.
I tore open the envelope and pulled out a script titled “Naked Time.” I started reading immediately. When I finally put it down, I was still in the grip of a powerful story. John Black had written a drivingly tense drama. The virus that placed the U.S.S. Enterprise in jeopardy also revealed new aspects of all of the principal characters: Kirk’s desperate fight to save his ship, his captaincy, and his soul; Spock’s dual ancestry waging a galvanic internal battle; the coolly dependable Christine Chapel revealing her hidden passion for Spock; and best of all, Sulu’s liberation from the helm console as a romantic swashbuckler. Freed of his shackles to the console, he was as dashing as Errol Flynn.
We were still filming the episode “Man Trap,” but I couldn’t get my mind off this next script. I wasn’t on the call sheet for next day’s filming, so I had scheduled another workout at Falcon Studio on Hollywood Boulevard for the fencing lessons I’d begun the first weekend after my set-side conversation with John Black. I went to sleep that night counting thrusts and parries.
Mr. Faulkner, my fencing instructor at Falcon Studio, was a man in his late sixties, but he was still in great shape. His navy blue polo shirt couldn’t hide his strong, brawny shoulders and hard pectorals. During the workout, I was drenched in perspiration and huffing and puffing, but he continued demonstrating a flurry of acrobatic thrusts.
“Can we take a short breather?” I pleaded. With ill-disguised amusement, he agreed.
“Fencing a little tough on a runner?” he teased.
“Errol Flynn made it look so easy and fun,” I gasped. “I used to pretend I was Robin Hood after seeing him and Basil Rathbone sword fight in that movie. But I never realized it required all these new muscles.”
“Flynn was good. A real fencer,” Mr. Faulkner stated with authority. “But Rathbone was a wild man. Flynn didn’t trust him one bit.”
