To the Stars
Page 37
During our location filming of STAR TREK IV: THE VOYAGE HOME, the thousands of tourists in town had another special attraction—us. Wherever we went, the STAR TREK company filming on location was a crowd-gathering magnet. On one location site, however, I was the one treated to a very special attraction.
We were filming in front of an historic saloon, the longest continually operating drinking establishment in San Francisco. Sited near the bottom of a precipitous hill on Grant Avenue, the saloon was a gaudily painted relic of the city’s honky-tonk Victorian era. Scotty, McCoy, and Sulu had just been transported to twentieth-century San Francisco. Everything was exotic to them, especially in this most singular of twentieth-century cities. Everything was a discovery. They were awed by the living antiquity that surrounded them.
As we started walking down the street, I decided to peer in the glass front of the saloon. To Sulu, this was a fascinating curiosity. I had been told that the crowd of people inside were not hired extras but genuine regulars of the place. We were not to react to them, or they might try to claim payment as extras. By the window, at the near end of the long bar, sat a blowzy, voluptuously buxom blonde. During rehearsals, each time I cupped my hands around my eyes to peer in the glass front, the woman would try to get a reaction out of me by smiling boozily and giving me a cute little wave or blowing me a seductive kiss. I ignored all her attempts at rousing a reaction from me. After all, I take great pride in my professionalism.
Soon we were ready for the take. This was it. Bells sounded, whistles shrilled for quiet, and we were ready to begin. Leonard called out, “Action!” and the three of us started walking down the hill. Jimmy was smiling away at the children playing on the street; De gawked at the strange twentieth-century buildings, and when we came to the saloon, I cupped my hands to look in as we had rehearsed. The friendly blonde was still there, determined to provoke a response out of me this time. Reaching down, she grabbed the bottom of her disheveled blouse and hefted it right over her face! I stared in startled amazement, smack dab at two spectacularly fleshly, pink-tipped monuments. They reminded me of the tourist brochures’ praise of the great Twin Peaks of San Francisco. My boozy blonde succeeded. I burst out in peals of uncontrollable laughter.
“Cut! Cut!” yelled an outraged Leonard. “George, that shot was working great. Why did you do that? You ruined it!”
With tears rolling down my cheeks, I pointed into the saloon and barely choked out, “That blonde flashed me! I just got flashed by a blonde with two big bazookas!”
Assistants stormed into the turmoil in the chaotic saloon, but the woman had somehow slipped out the back way. To this day, I’m not sure if Leonard believed me. But it really happened. Would I jeopardize my professional reputation on such a fantastic story? Could I, in my wildest hallucinations, make up two such gigantic reasons to ruin Leonard’s scene?
* * *
The scene with my great-great-grandfather was coming up. From hundreds of cute little Asian boys who had been interviewed, video tested, and screened by Leonard, a button-eyed six-year-old Japanese boy had been selected. I was told that his video test was wonderful. And when I met him the morning of the shot, on Columbus Avenue, I found him adorable. But he also seemed shy. Perhaps he was self-conscious because this was our first meeting, I thought. I decided to spend all my off-camera time with him until the shot came up later in the day.
I played games with him; I shared a donut with him; I let him wear my leather cape. I explained the details of moviemaking to him. By the time we had lunch together, he was calling me “Uncle Sulu.”
Throughout, his mother hovered solicitously over us. When I was called before the cameras, I noticed that she immediately had the script out and was running lines with him.
By the time we came to my great-great-grandfather’s scene in midafternoon, I was worried. The child was beginning to be a bit pouty. He didn’t want to wear my cape anymore. He didn’t want any orange juice anymore. And he didn’t want to be in the bright lights in front of the camera. No way.
Leonard, still wearing Spock’s white robe while he directed, hunkered down to the little boy and enticed and cajoled. To the crowd of onlookers, it was the most incongruous sight. Grave, serious Mr. Spock crouched down in front of a little boy, smiling at him, sweet-talking him, almost pleading with him.
“Isn’t it fun to playact with all these people looking at you?” The boy just pursed his lips and shook his head.
“Well then, I’ll have most of them go away. Would you like to see me chase them away?” Still, he silently shook his head. Every question Leonard asked was answered with a pout and a silent shaking of the head. What really hurt was when Leonard asked him, “But you want to playact with your ‘Uncle Sulu,’ don’t you?” He shook his head mutely. No matter what we did or what we offered, the boy’s petulant shaking of his head was the only answer we got. He had decided—absolutely—that he wasn’t going to playact.
As we pleaded, implored, and groveled before the stubbornly pouting child, the sun continued its implacable journey across the San Francisco sky. The shadows from the office towers started to lengthen. The streets started to darken. And as the sun slowly slipped behind Nob Hill, my heart sank with it. A scene with such charm, such warmhearted affection—so much of Sulu went down with that sunset.
* * *
From San Francisco, we moved to Monterey for the aquarium scenes. Nichelle, Walter, Jimmy, De, and I were finished before Bill and Leonard, so we got on an earlier plane back to Los Angeles. The flight connected through San Francisco, and as usual with that airport, there was a problem. The airline claimed that it would be fixed quickly and requested that the passengers stay on board. But the “short” wait began to drag. Nichelle, my seatmate on the flight, was becoming impatient.
“George, this is getting ridiculous. Why don’t we get off and grab a drink?”
“But, Nichelle, they’ve asked that we stay on,” I reminded her.
“Darling,” she breathed huskily, leaning over and bringing a limp hand up to her throat, “I’m dehydrating. I’ve got to have a drink. Please come with me.” I was too old to pout and shake my head, so I got up to accompany her out.
As Nichelle was gathering her fox stole around her, Jimmy, from his seat behind us, scolded, “They said they’d be ready to leave soon, you know.” Nichelle just gave him a cool glance over her shoulder and flounced off. I shrugged my shoulders and followed her out. I could hear Jimmy behind me grousing to Walter, “That Nichelle—she’s going to expect all of us to wait for her, you know. I know that woman. I know her all too well!”
It was great to get off and stretch the legs a bit. There was a convenient cocktail lounge nearby, so we ensconced ourselves in a capacious banquette and ordered our drinks. I chug-a-lugged my beer, but Nichelle was taking dainty little sips of her gin and tonic as if this were a relaxed layover.
“Nichelle, I think we should start thinking about getting back,” I hinted.
“You’re done with your beer already?” she gasped. “You must have been thirsty. You need another one.” And she raised her arm jangling with bracelets to get the attention of the waiter. “Oh, waiter, waiter!”
“No, no, no, Nichelle. We haven’t got the time. We really should be going back.”
“Another beer,” she said to the waiter, pointing at me. “And another one of these.” She held up her glass of gin and tonic. She was unyielding.
When I finally got Nichelle to leave, I must confess, I wasn’t feeling the urgency to get back too keenly myself. We were strolling leisurely back to our gate. Nichelle was on my arm. When we had passed the row of food vendors and the glass wall gave us a clear view of the runway, she languidly observed, “Look, doesn’t that look just like our plane rolling back from the gate?”
“You know,” I responded idly, “it’s rolling back from the same area as our gate, too.”
“Isn’t that funny?” Nichelle giggled.
“Oh my God!” I shouted. “That
is our plane rolling away!” I dashed for our gate like a madman, leaving Nichelle tottering down the corridor after me. But it was to no avail. The door was closed. The jet way had been drawn back, and the plane was rolling down the runway with purposeful momentum. We were left behind. I threw up my hands in angry frustration.
But Nichelle is another kind of determined lady. She trotted up to the counter and appealed to the ticket agent, “Oh, this is horrible! You must stop that plane. My luggage and my friends are leaving without me.” But when he hesitated, her tone began to change from beseeching to something quite different. “That’s the STAR TREK company on that plane!” she declared. “You’ve got to turn it around this minute!” He balked timidly. Then an amazing performance ensued. The fox stole Nichelle was wearing suddenly sprang to life. It leaped. It snapped. It pounced and flailed. That roused animal lashed out at the poor, cowed ticket agent like an angry bullwhip. It fumed and fulminated. But alas, all the huffing and puffing by that irate fur piece couldn’t bring that plane back to our gate.
Fortunately, there are hourly flights between San Francisco and Los Angeles. We got back to LAX an hour after the others. But our friends, who had been away from home for weeks, had all gone on.
As Nichelle and I retrieved our bags at luggage claim, I heard her muttering to herself, “It’s that Jimmy. I know he’s the one that egged the pilot on. That Jimmy is the most impatient man in the world.”
I looked at her feisty fox stole. It lay quiet and limp on her shoulders now, completely exhausted from its ordeal at the San Francisco airport. Poor thing. It had a traumatizing flight.
* * *
STAR TREK had blessed me with friends and fans all over the world. Their love and support had opened unimagined doors for me, and their generosity had bestowed upon me a bounty of gifts. One of the most appreciated is also one I can share with so many people every day. It is my own star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. I was joining Gene, Leonard, and Bill.
Karen Lewis, a charming Australian fan who had organized a convention in Sydney, was the one who initiated it. The campaign to get a star for me on the Hollywood Walk of Fame began with her in Australia, then was picked up by my fan club president in Staffordshire, England, Ena Glogowska, and finally coordinated by a dynamo of a woman, Lynn Choy Uyeda, in Los Angeles.
On the morning of October 30, 1986, a month before the opening of STAR TREK IV: THE VOYAGE HOME, Hollywood Boulevard was cordoned off for the unveiling ceremony. A red carpet had been laid out, a speaker’s stage and podium set up, and a Japanese Taiko Drum group was beating out a heart-throbbing rhythm. Friends and fans were gathered on the boulevard. Karen Lewis led a group from Australia. Flying in from England were Ena Glogowska, Janice Hawkins and Amy Stevenson. STAR TREK fans from throughout the world and the Little Tokyo community were out in force. Lynn Choy Uyeda had organized the festive event and was hustling about, taking care of last-minute details.
Nichelle rode up in the limo with me and my mother. Gene was there to greet me in a giant bear hug. Harve was there, beaming. Leonard, De, Walter, and Jimmy were all there to share my happy day with me. When somebody from the crowd yelled out, “Where’s Bill?” I could only shout back the obvious answer, “He’s not here.” He had been invited.
Hollywood City Councilman Michael Woo and my own City Councilman Nate Holden read proclamations. Mayor Tom Bradley declared the day “George Takei Day” in Los Angeles.
In my speech, I observed that Hollywood does everything uniquely—even its style of recognizing people. “In most other communities, the honoree’s name is carved in stone and put up high for all to see. Only in this town do we put the honoree’s name in a star and then embed it right down in the sidewalk so the whole world can walk all over your good name. To begin that parade trampling over my name, I would like the person who helped me with my first step to take the first step—my mother.” And with that, the familiar star-shaped cover over the terrazzo square was removed, and a star with the name George Takei was revealed. Mine was just one square away from the one that read Gene Roddenberry. Leonard’s was on the corner of the same block. We were still together.
My mother stepped off the red carpet and placed her foot squarely on her son’s star on Hollywood Boulevard. Afterward we celebrated with a big luncheon banquet at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel that embraced the infinite diversity of our world. It was a heady afternoon.
A month later, STAR TREK IV: THE VOYAGE HOME opened to rave reviews and astounding box office success. Leonard had racked up a gigantic triumph. And STAR TREK V was inevitable.
* * *
There were disquieting rumors circulating. STAR TREK was going to be revived on television again—but this time, with different people. The scuttlebutt was that it was to be on the Enterprise but with, of all preposterous things, another generation of Starfleet officers.
“That’s crazy,” huffed Jimmy. “What makes STAR TREK is people. It’s the chemistry between people. It’s us! If they do this ‘next generation’ nonsense, they’ll kill it! That’s it! They’ll kill it!”
“Guess what?” Walter’s voice was charged with the buzz of news still hot from the source. “They’ve cast the new captain! It’s a bald-headed English guy! Can you believe it? But then, I guess that’s nothing new. We’ve had bald-headed captains before.”
To be completely candid, we were miffed. We resented—at the very least—not being asked to do the television revival of the show in which we took a great deal of proprietary pride. We felt STAR TREK was ours, and without our unique alchemy, any reincarnation would be doomed. STAR TREK was and will forever be us! Hubris was soon to be transformed into delighted humility.
26
River Kwai to Edinburgh
WHAT I HAD BEEN STRIVING for so tenaciously was beginning to happen. STAR TREK was opening up other acting opportunities for me. But the inquiry I got in the spring of 1986 was not from another Hollywood producer. This one was from London. It was for an international film!
Kurt Unger, a German-born Israeli based in London, was interested in me for his film Return from the River Kwai. It was an epic project based on the chronicles of the evacuation of the Japanese army from Thailand near the end of World War II. Of course, the classic film by David Lean, The Bridge on the River Kwai, had given this project its commercial viability; but this new film dramatized events occurring after those depicted in Lean’s Academy Award-winning film. This was the story of the retreat of the Japanese from southeast Asia.
Unger had contacted me for the role of the commandant of the prisoner of war camp at River Kwai. It was a juicy opportunity. He told me, however, that he was gathering an international cast of players and was seeking actors from Britain, the U.S., and Japan. That statement gave me some concern. In Japan, there were many fine actors: the great Toshiro Mifune, Tatsuya Nakadai, Rentaro Mikuni, Tsutomu Yamazaki, and a whole galaxy of others. But he claimed he was interested in me, a Japanese American actor, for the top Japanese role in the film. I should have been more circumspect, but my curiosity didn’t stop me from venturing a bold question, “Why me, an American?”
“Well, for one thing,” he answered in his heavy German accent, “you speak English. No problem there. But I also need an actor who has popular box-office appeal internationally. You’re about the only Japanese actor who has that. I’ll stay in touch with your agent.”
I realized that what this candid London producer had told me carried more than a grain of flattering truth. The great Japanese actors were not known outside the circle of art house film buffs. It was true that I had done a musical play in England the year before as the Genie in Aladdin. But I knew that even the Genie casting was possible because of the wild popularity of STAR TREK in England. The show that so many of my colleagues were fearful would imprison them in their characters was unquestionably opening the doors of opportunity for me to these international projects. The worldwide popularity of STAR TREK was expanding my own professional world.
Retu
rn from the River Kwai, however, took almost as long as World War II took to get started. It was to be filmed on location in the Philippines. Problem after incredible problem emerged. To start things off, a government fell. The “people power” revolution against corrupt dictator Ferdinand Marcos erupted and prevented the commencement of production. The victory of the people and emergence of Corazon Aquino, popular widow of the opposition leader, as President brought an unstable peace. Then the construction of the sets began in earnest. But just as the sets were completed, a cataclysmic tropical hurricane struck the Philippines and completely demolished the sets. Undismayed, the crew reconstructed them. Finally, there followed almost monthly coup attempts on the new President’s life.
Through revolution, hurricane, coups, and a myriad other daunting disasters, producer Unger steadfastly forged on. I knew that a producer had to have a multitude of skills. But following Kurt Unger through his trials, I realized that there was a vital core requisite. He had to have the tenacity of a bulldog. Kurt lost major actors because of the delay. His financing was regularly placed in jeopardy. His insurance problems turned monstrous. Yet, Kurt doggedly pushed on.
I stuck with him, and in March of 1988, two years after I was first contacted, I flew into Manila’s Benigno Aquino Airport. At long last, filming on Return from the River Kwai was about to begin.
From Britain, Kurt cast Edward Fox and Denholm Eliott. From Australia, Nick Tate. From America, Timothy Bottoms, Christopher Penn, and me. And from Japan, the excellent actor in so many Akira Kurosawa films, Tatsuya Nakadai. It was an impressive cast.
But our problems were far from over. The blazing heat of the Philippines was withering. We had to be on guard constantly against sunstroke and dehydration. There was a boy assigned to each of us, carrying bottles of water.
Then we couldn’t find enough skinny Caucasian men in Manila to be extras in my prison camp; we needed hundreds. By a stroke of luck, a good friend from Los Angeles flew in to visit me. He was a godsend. Brad Altman, a financial journalist, was a running mate. I had trained for marathons with him. And he had the rail-thin physique of an outstanding runner. Brad was quickly recruited and transformed from a friend into one of my emaciated and much-abused prison camp inmates.