by George Takei
STAR TREK II: THE WRATH OF KHAN exploded at the box office. It became a megahit. And the mounting revenues dictated our return with another STAR TREK film. It seemed there was to be further continuity to my association with the show.
* * *
That continuity was to surface rather unexpectedly and in a novel form. In April of 1983, I was invited to participate in the welcome-home ceremony for the aircraft carrier Enterprise. It was returning to its home port at the Alameda Naval Air Station in San Francisco Bay after an eight-month tour of duty around the Indian Ocean and the South Pacific. The tie-in between me and this Enterprise was obvious.
I was flown up to stay overnight at the Naval Air Station and, bright and early next morning, taken out by helicopter to board the Enterprise still many miles out at sea. It was awe-inspiring to see the giant floating airport churning its way toward home as we approached it from the air. We landed and immediately I was taken for a tour of the ninety-thousand-ton nuclear-powered vessel. It was huge. The hangar below was as vast as any on land. It carried a crew of five thousand on board.
Of course, my tour ended up on the bridge. From the jaded perspective of an actor used to a starship bridge, this one looked downright antique. Nevertheless, it hummed with the anticipatory activity of a ship nearing home port. I peered out the view window, but all I could see was the swirling mass of early morning fog. Of course, cameramen were waiting. Photos were taken of me at the helm with my twentieth-century counterpart. As we were going through this obligatory ritual, without warning the Golden Gate Bridge emerged out of the fog. It was a spectacularly theatrical moment. The grace and power of the structure loomed out of the mist like silent poetry in steel and vapors. As we slid under the bridge, as if on cue, the fog parted and the City by the Bay, San Francisco, greeted us sparkling and elegant, all alabaster and obsidian in the sun. The Enterprise was almost home.
I was with the bridge crew, a twenty-third-century guest on this Enterprise, looking out the window across the bay toward Alameda Naval Air Station. I could see banners and balloons, a musical band, a crowd of more than two thousand people—wives, children, and friends. It looked like a festive welcome awaiting the Enterprise. We were just outside the breakwater, about three quarters of a mile from the pier, when we felt a slow, ugly, upward swell like the sickening surge of nausea. We seemed to stay poised and unsure at this crest for the longest time, and then, slowly, lazily, the ship listed over to one side. The giant aircraft carrier was stuck in the mud in the middle of San Francisco Bay. With a sizeable crowd and the bay area media waiting to greet us, the Enterprise was aground for all to witness.
I was shephered down to the captain’s quarters with the other guests to wait out the rescue effort. Navy and civilian tugs were sent out to bump and pull at the beached behemoth. But to no avail. It would not budge. Navy public relations officers came aboard and explained to us that we had unfortunately entered the Golden Gate at low tide, and compounding the problem, the bay bottom had been built up with sand, silt, and other materials from the heavy runoff of the past winter’s unusually heavy rainfall. We waited and worried, but the vessel could not be moved. The bar was opened, and drinks were served. We waited for over five hours before the tide came in again and we were able to move. When we finally inched into the pier at Alameda Naval Air Station, all the bay area media was gathered in ravenous frenzy.
I came down the gangway well briefed on the reason for this embarrassing accident by the Navy public relations people and ready to face the press. Immediately, I was surrounded by a pack of shouting and pushing journalists. I responded to them with facts, data, and background—just as I had been advised. I think I even handled it with aplomb. That is, until one reporter asked me a fatal question. He yelled out, “What did you do during the time you were waiting to be loosened?” Wit lubricated with a wee dram of the libation from Scotland can be a disastrous combination. Despite all the substantive information I had given the press, the only response of mine that they ran with was my smart-aleck answer to the last question.
“We spent the time sipping a new drink we invented. We call it ‘Enterprise on the rocks.’ ” That embarrassing comment was played ad infinitum on radio and still haunts me on the most unexpected occasions.
* * *
There was another kind of continuity running through my life. Distant echoes from forty years ago gradually began to sound with clarity. At first faint, the sounds became stronger and more insistent with the passage of time.
Japanese Americans too young to have comprehended the experience of the internment camps, and those born after all the camps were closed down, were entering into the mainstream of American life. With the dawning understanding of the ordeal our parents and grandparents endured, our sense of anger increased. The silence of the older generation was the mute stillness of the violated. But we were not going to be victims. We were American citizens. The barbed wire that had encircled our internment experience was not just a violation of the dignity of our parents but an outrage to our American ideals as well. A movement arose to press the government to formally acknowledge that ugly blemish on American history and to recompense the victims for the wrong that had been done. It was in the best tradition of our country—citizens petitioning their government for redress of wrongs.
The movement began at the grass-roots level. Information was disseminated. Funds and support were gathered. The national civil rights organization Japanese American Citizens League joined in. As the movement grew, the campaign was spearheaded by Japanese American congressmen, the personifications of our maturity in the political process. The two U.S. Senators from Hawaii, Daniel Inouye and Spark Matsunaga, Hawaii Representative Patsy Takemoto Mink, and California Representatives Norman Mineta and Robert Matsui built the legislative support in the halls of Congress. In 1980, Congress created the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians to investigate the records, hold hearings, and to make recommendations.
On August 5, 1981, I testified at a hearing before that Commission. As I sat in the large hearing room waiting my turn, I looked around me. Seated in a row, high on a dais, was the august body of commissioners. Surrounding them with a glare brighter than any studio kleig lamps was a blazing bank of media lights. Below the dais was a long table lined with microphones for those testifying. The people shuffled to the table in groups of five. Many were elderly now and leaned on canes or were assisted down the aisle. When they began speaking, their voices were thin and parched. Some spoke with the distinct chop and breaks of the old provinces of Japan. Others sounded as if they came from Kansas.
As they spoke, I listened to the tremulous memories that hadn’t been given voice in decades. I heard the dust of the desert in dried-up voices that couldn’t forget. I heard the fatigue from swamp humidity in the slow, stumbling recollections too long kept mute. But I also heard the resilience in voices battered by the cold, gritty winds of the high plains, still remembering the sting of that experience. I heard voices that had been silent for four decades, remembering lives spent behind barbed wire in Wyoming, Utah, Idaho, Arizona, California, and Arkansas. For the first time I was listening to the background of my life. The voices of the injured, after forty years, were being heard at last, not only by Japanese Americans like me, but now by a Congressional Commission.
Then another group of elderly people replaced the speakers. They, too, had snowy hair and shuffled unsteadily. But these speakers were Caucasians. And when they spoke, they talked of Pearl Harbor and their brothers and husbands killed by the Japanese in the Pacific war.
My blood started to boil as they testified. They still didn’t understand! We were Americans. We fought and died alongside those very same brothers and husbands they remembered.
“Wartime necessity,” they insisted. “Questions of loyalty,” they claimed. But America was at war with Germany and Italy as well. Did these people not know that German Americans and Italian Americans were not interned? The hearings of the C
ongressional Commission also brought out these other elderly people who could not forget. They, too, were a part of the context of my background.
When I gave my testimony, I must confess, my blood was churning from the preceding testimonies. I was moved by the painfully given statements of the elderly internees. I was hot from the reminder of the mentality that had interned us in those camps. My testimony was that of an American who grew up with a unique background and a certain context to my citizenship. And because of that, I grew up with an understanding of the fragility of our democracy. I grew up mindful of democracy’s total dependence on its ideals for survival. But those ideals, however shining, however noble, are only as good, as true, and as real as the people who participate in the process. And so I testified and contributed my childhood remembrances for the records of the Congressional Commission on the Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians.
* * *
Another personal tragedy severed a longstanding friendship and professional partnership. My agent, Fred Ishimoto, died after a brief illness. Ours was more than a business association, for Fred was a confidant and trusted advisor. He represented me through the rebuffs and the accolades, through lean times and fat. We were connected by shared tribulations, common history, and mutual aspirations. And now Fred, too, was gone. One by one, my sources of strength were passing on.
24
Don’t Call Me Tiny
I HAD TO FIND A new agent, but I didn’t know how. I had been with Fred for almost twenty-five years. Ours had been a professional marriage, and now I was like a widower. I called around various agencies and made appointments, interviewing a number of agents. Blind dating again. They all were interested, but their interest, I suspected, was because of STAR TREK, because Sulu had made me an easily salable commodity to Paramount. My interest, however, was in expanding my career as an actor. Yes, I wanted to do the next STAR TREK film. But I also wanted to practice my craft, which meant extending my reach beyond Sulu. I wanted an agent who could recognize that and was willing to seek out those opportunities for me aggressively.
One afternoon, I bumped into Jimmy Doohan on the Paramount lot. We stood chatting for a while, and then he suggested we go across the street to Oblath’s for a beer. Over a mug of cold draft, I told Jimmy of my frustrating search. He understood my difficulty right away.
“I know just the person,” he declared. “I have a great agent. He’s been fantastic for me. You should talk to him.”
On Jimmy’s recommendation, I decided to meet his agent, Steve Stevens. His office was in the Valley, way out in North Hollywood, on the second floor of a rustic, timbered building. I stamped up the well-worn stairs, opened the wooden door, and met a man who couldn’t have been more different from Fred than night is from day.
Where Fred was big and heavy, the man half hidden behind a huge cluttered desk was small and compact. Where Fred was low-keyed and conservatively dressed, the man who got up and came around the desk to greet me was a staccato-talking, gesticulating, rugged-looking cowboy. On the back of his chair perched a huge ten-gallon hat, and on the knotty pine walls were rodeo posters and autographed photos of cowboy actors like Chuck Connors, Slim Pickins, and Dale Robertson. He wore a western-style shirt with dark piping and a giant silver belt buckle atop tight, well-washed jeans. On his feet were a pair of elaborately tooled cowboy boots.
“Hi, I’m Steve. I know who you are.” He welcomed me with an extended hand. “Sit yourself down right there.” He pointed to a serape-covered couch. I felt like I was auditioning for a rodeo.
But when we sat down and started talking, I knew that Jimmy was right. Here was a man who connected with our situation. Immediately, he understood my frustration with the limited scope of Sulu’s role in STAR TREK, having been an actor himself.
Steve began sketching out some strategies. During the negotiations with Paramount, we could leverage their need of Sulu for opportunities in Paramount films. With different production companies, we could parlay my popularity as Sulu into other rules.
Steve was bursting with ideas and game plans. I realized that this man whom Jimmy had recommended to me was a savvy and artful career planner unexpectedly masqerading as a cowboy. I knew I had found my agent. I decided to go with a buckaroo deal maker to represent me.
* * *
Steve half delivered with his first deal. The contract he negotiated for STAR TREK III included an option for STAR TREK IV. It assured work continuity, but it was still confined to Sulu. I didn’t yet have that reach beyond Sulu that I so hungered for as an actor. But I heard about an intriguing arrangement being crafted by Leonard that I thought could be instructive.
Paramount recognized that Spock was vital to the continued success of STAR TREK. He was the insurance that guaranteed the colossal box office receipts, and they wanted him desperately. Leonard was in a powerful bargaining position, so he leveraged for an interesting gain and reached for another challenge as an artist. In order to return as Spock, Leonard got Paramount to agree to hire him to direct STAR TREK III. Leonard was as creative a manager of his career as he was inventive as an actor.
Colleagues like Leonard continued to spur me on my own campaign for Sulu. I again began bombarding Harve with ideas for Sulu in the new film. How about a fencing duel in a gravityless environment? Wouldn’t that be exciting? And so uniquely Sulu? How about another go at the captaincy—this time granted by an admiral or somebody like that from Starfleet Command? Harve was graciously receptive to the suggestions but remained enigmatically noncommittal.
One day, he called to give me tantalizing hints about the new script. I could hear the enthusiasm in his voice.
“George, the script will be on its way to you soon. But I just wanted to call to tell you that there is a scene in it that you’re going to love. I can’t wait to hear from you after you’ve read it.”
I was in suspense. When the script arrived, before reading it in orderly fashion from the first page I flipped through to those pages indicating Sulu’s dialogue and marked them with a red pencil. But once again, there wasn’t much of a speaking part. I noticed, however, that I seemed to be in the script throughout. Then I began reading only those scenes that I had marked, and I came to the scene where Sulu confronts a tall, burly guard and eliminates him with a single, superhuman judo throw. It was awesomely heroic. But something else jumped out at me. There was a confounding reference made to Sulu. Immediately, I got on the phone. Harve was waiting for my call.
“Well, George, isn’t it charming? Don’t you love it?” His voice sparkled, eager with anticipation.
“Well, that scene where Sulu throws the guard—it does give me something active to do, but there’s a serious problem with it.”
“Oh? A problem? I thought you’d love that scene.” He sounded puzzled.
“It’s a strong scene, but there’s one big mistake in it. The gaffe is in the reference to Sulu as ‘Tiny.’ Harve, he’s not tiny. We’ve got to cut that.” I was firm and emphatic.
“But, George,” he protested after a bewildered moment, “that guard Sulu throws is a huge giant of a man. From the guard’s vantage point, Sulu is small.” Then he quickly corrected himself. “I mean, Sulu seems smaller.” But I was adamant.
“Harve, that may be. But Sulu is a hero in the eyes of our fans. We can’t shatter that by derisively inferring that he is small. We just can’t do that.”
“George, I’m totally thrown. That’s a delightful scene. And it plays wonderfully because of the stark contrast between the two. It’s not a disparagement of Sulu at all. In fact, it makes him that much more admirably heroic.”
“Harve, I respect your pride of authorship. I truly do. But I have to ask you to trust me. I go out to the conventions. I know the fans. We can’t do this to them. They look up to Sulu as a hero. We absolutely must cut that reference to Sulu as ‘Tiny.’ Please trust me on this.”
Back and forth we went. We agreed that the scene played well. We saw eye to eye on the size contrast. T
he only sticking point was that contemptible epithet “Tiny.” We just couldn’t convince each other. We finally agreed on a compromise. We would film that scene as written and make a judgment after seeing how it played on the screen. I hated the prospect of having to humiliate Harve in this way. But it seemed the only way to resolve the dilemma.
Months later, however, when we sat in the screening room at Paramount and saw the scene played, no one was humiliated. I may have been a bit sheepish, but that was more than smothered by my absolutely amazed discovery that, without that snipe from the overgrown lug, the scene would not have played even half as heroically for Sulu. My back smarted from all the congratulatory slaps I received. And Harve was gracious enough simply to smile magnanimously, never mentioning our telephone compromise.
* * *
Leonard’s work as director was impressive—sure, disciplined, and indefatigable. He was acting, as well, albeit in an abridged role, so the energy demands on him for his two functions were killing. Where he found the strength to wake up in the middle of the night for his predawn makeup calls, remain so vital and creative on the set during the day, and still be able to do his homework after leaving late at night was an amazement to me. But he was always prepared and thoroughly organized. Uncannily like Spock.
But he was the polar opposite of Spock in the infectious joy he brought to his directing duties. I never saw Leonard smiling and laughing more. The work seemed to energize him. He used his relationship with each actor, built up over the years, as a special directorial asset. He communicated in a time-saving shorthand that comes only with years of professional rapport.
When I began one rehearsal by rushing onto the bridge, flinging off my leather cape with the flourish of a musketeer, he merely said quizzically, “George?” and subtly raised one eyebrow. That was all he needed to do. In the next one, I walked in briskly, slipped off my cape, and smartly slid into my seat at the console. Leonard smiled and nodded. On second thought, perhaps there was something Spockian about his directorial style after all. Minimal energy expended; maximum result gained.
