To the Stars

by George Takei

  I didn’t consider Harve to be my boss. He was an employee of Paramount. But neither did I consider Paramount my boss. I worked on STAR TREK for those that kept it so popular. I felt that my real bosses were the STAR TREK fans. I decided to report to them, my de facto bosses, about this Starfleet Academy proposal of Harve’s. They would be the ultimate judges.

  Starting with the first weekend of 1990, I did twelve STAR TREK conventions consecutively. Every weekend, for three months straight, I was out to some convention in some city near or far, reporting to my “bosses” on what their hireling was proposing for their STAR TREK. There were gasps when I first broke the news. Word travels fast in fandom, and very quickly, most Trekkers seemed to know. There were loud “boos” of disapproval by the February conventions.

  A short time later I received a call.

  “This is Harve,” the voice at the other end of the line said. He didn’t have to tell me. I recognized his voice immediately. But this time it sounded unusually grave. “I know what you’re up to, George. That’s a dangerous game you’re playing. I’m telling you for your own good.”

  “You tell me, Harve,” I responded. “Am I not telling them the truth? Isn’t what I’m saying at the conventions what you’re really doing?”

  “George!” He cut in sharply. “That’s a stupid thing you’re doing, and I’d advise you to stop!” I could sense the controlled intensity in his voice.

  “I’ll stop, Harve, if it’s not true. You tell me, is it not true?”

  “I’m telling you, George, and I’m telling you so you understand, that’s a dangerous thing you’re doing.” And with that ominous warning, he hung up.

  It was a strange feeling to be on the receiving end of a phone call like that. The next few weeks were eerie. The very absence of anything happening seemed fraught with portent. Whenever the phone rang with another invitation to a convention, it made me think twice. But I kept doing them. I knew that what I was reporting was true.

  “Guess what?” Thank God for Walter! He contributed to my anxiety, but he also had a way of allaying it with new information. I hoped it would be positive news. “Harve’s out! Paramount killed the Starfleet Academy idea. Harve is out of his office and off the lot.” The power of the fans had struck again!

  28

  Captain Sulu at Last!

  THERE WERE NO RUMORS, NO advance information, nothing. The script for STAR TREK VI: THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY was delivered, and there it was. Right on the first page, as bold as day, from the very first scene it read “Captain Sulu is drinking a cup of tea.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I had been promoting the idea for so long, so persistently and so fruitlessly, that the campaign had now become an automatic reflex with me. Deep down inside, I was close to being resigned to never seeing Sulu’s promotion. I was turning cynical. I read the scene over. Bill was nowhere in it. Good.

  As I read on, a tiny electric prickle of excitement was touched off in me. This was a gripping plot! The more I read, the more the prickle increased. The action was driving, relentless, galvanic. Now, the electricity was surging uncontrollably through me. Sulu was an impressive captain! Even when he wasn’t in the scene, I was aware of his presence. Captain Sulu was speeding to the rescue of a battered and beleaguered Starship Enterprise.

  “Fly her apart then,” he ordered, to spur on a terrorized helmsman of his ship, the Excelsior. “Target that explosion and fire!” he commanded, blasting away the maleficent Klingon general into the dark void of space. “Nice to see you in action one more time, Captain Kirk,” he said with tenderness to his old leader at the end of battle. Captain Sulu was intrepid, valiant, a man of grace. He was a classic hero. This was really Captain Sulu, at last!

  I had to go out for a run. The excitement in me was about to burst. I couldn’t contain myself. I started jogging, but my feet seemed self-propelled. They were springing, scooting, shooting off on their own. This wasn’t a run. It was more like a mad sprint. I’m sure my neighbors wondered what hysteria drove me to dash down my usual route like a man possessed. I ran until I was completely exhausted, completely spent. But I felt great. At long last—Captain Sulu!

  * * *

  STAR TREK VI began with new Paramount studio chief Frank Mancuso’s desire to do “one more STAR TREK movie.” He asked Leonard over for lunch and proposed the project. Leonard suggested a story idea and Nick Meyer as director. Mancuso agreed, and Leonard was off to Provincetown, Massachusetts, where Nick was vacationing. Over long walks on the beach, they discussed the project. Together, they crafted a story that was ripped from the headlines of the day’s newspapers.

  The Berlin Wall, a barrier of ideology as well as of geography, had come tumbling down. An explosive failure at the Soviet nuclear plant of Chernobyl had precipitated a cataclysmic disaster as well as the crumbling of what President Reagan had referred to as “the Evil Empire.” The old world order was breaking down into chaos and uncertainty, into an “undiscovered country”—aha, there was tenacious Nick with his Shakespearean title again. No new authority existed to replace the old. The vile smell of bigotry issued up from the most unexpected sources, and nefarious alliances formed. From events as immediate as the six o’clock news and as eternal as the War of the Roses, Nick and Leonard wrought a rip-snorting space opera.

  Ralph Winter was the producer of STAR TREK VI. He had been with us since STAR TREK III as associate producer and then as executive producer in both STAR TREK IV and V. The title “executive producer,” although impressive, is actually below the producer and is sometimes derisively referred to as the producer’s nephew. But with Ralph, the title more than fully represented the scope of his work. He was the executive charged with the building, scheduling, shooting, and coordinating of the entire production—all, save the script. Harve Bennett, the producer, who was also a master writer, had been responsible for the dramaturgy.

  With STAR TREK VI, Harve was now out of the picture, and Ralph was the producer. Harve, who felt he had mentored Ralph, wanted him to resign and leave Paramount with him. But when Ralph stepped up to the producer’s position instead, Harve complained bitterly about his lack of “loyalty.” Ralph, however, felt that his first loyalty had to be providing for his wife and young children. As it turned out, we were also the beneficiaries of that familial loyalty.

  With this film, I had done practically no campaigning for Sulu’s captaincy. Yet, here it was, triumphantly shining off the pages of this script.

  Even Sulu’s first name was revealed for the first time to a film audience. “Hikaru” was a name that Gene Roddenberry had come across in the classic Japanese novel by Lady Murasaki, The Tales of Genji, about an epic war between two adversary clans. One of the heroes was a poet/warrior prince named Hikaru, who ultimately brings about a lasting peace. Gene was taken by this character and decided to give his name to Sulu. So now, Sulu acquired both a first name and a captaincy in one great, wonderful swoop.

  I couldn’t help musing on how Sulu’s promotion had come about. Through the years, Leonard knew of my lobbying on the set, with the producers and with the fans. But I suspected that it was really due to that long-ago meeting with Nick when he first came on board as director of STAR TREK II. There, in Harve’s office, I had vigorously advocated for Sulu as well as for the ideal of vertical mobility in Starfleet. The seeds that had been planted so regularly, for so long, so persistently, had finally germinated with the combination of Leonard and Nick.

  Sulu’s promotion to a command seat had resonances larger than just in my character’s development. For me, it showed STAR TREK again echoing society’s tribulations and fictionally leading the way. Capable Asian Americans, indeed minorities and women in general, whether in the halls of academia, the corporate corridors of power, or professional passageways to success, were discovering that the stairway to advancement went only so high, when an invisible barrier, a “glass ceiling,” seemed to prevent any further upward mobility. They were amply qualified in every other r
espect, save their minority group status. I had been battling that barrier in fact and in fiction. With STAR TREK VI: THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY, fiction again pointed the way to the goal for our own contemporary society. With Starfleet, there was no “glass ceiling.” Sulu’s breakthrough to his captaincy dynamically portrayed a virile meritocracy.

  * * *

  Everybody wanted to be in STAR TREK. With the first film, Gene Roddenberry had put out an invitation to fans to fill a hundred positions as extras. We discovered that neither distance nor the brevity of their appearance on film deterred aspirants who wanted to wear the Starfleet uniform. Scores of fans flew in from all corners of America to be seen for a brief moment in the motion picture.

  Christian Slater, a fine actor and a popular star, was no different. He campaigned ardently to be in STAR TREK VI. Any role, any size. He wanted to be in STAR TREK. It also helped for him to have a mother who was a casting director. Ultimately, Christian was cast in a small role as an apprehensive young ensign who has to wake Captain Sulu in the middle of the night.

  On the set of the U.S.S. Excelsior, wearing the uniform he had wanted to wear for so long, Christian was like an excited STAR TREK fan. “My heart’s pumping like a bunny rabbit.” He grinned. To me, he looked more like a frolicsome puppy dog. He bounded about the set, his body wiggling with joy; if he had had a tail, I’m sure it would have been wagging deliriously. Christian Slater was an endearing young fan who happened to be a celebrated star.

  * * *

  There was only one thing I missed as Captain Sulu of the Excelsior. None of the “gang” from the Enterprise were with me. I yearned for their set-side company. I missed the gossip, the gripes, and the good-natured camaraderie. All my scenes were on the Excelsior—except for one, the Camp Khitomer sequence. That was my only scene together with everybody, and I looked forward to the four days of location shooting of the peace conference at Camp Khitomer.

  This was an elaborate sequence on location in suburban Simi Valley with about a hundred extras, many in complicated alien makeup and costume. The massiveness of the production added to the festive air of my reunion with my friends. It was good to be working with them again.

  Jimmy was showing me the plans for the new home he and his wife, Wende, were building in the Pacific northwest.

  “This is where the breezeway is going to be, right here. See?” Jimmy was proudly pointing. Nichelle came out of her trailer with a sketch of a costume for her upcoming one-woman cabaret performance.

  “Let me show you the dresses I’ve had designed for me,” she gushed excitedly. “This one is really spectacular.”

  “Will you wait a minute, Nichelle!” bellowed Jimmy. “Can’t you see I’m showing George these plans?”

  “Oh, Jimmy, you can be so impatient,” Nichelle snapped back sassily. “You’ve been showing your old plans all week long.”

  “Well, George hasn’t seen them yet. Do you mind?”

  Jimmy and Nichelle fussed and bickered with each other like an old married couple.

  Walter was busy with writing projects on all front burners. We all had projects going immediately after this gig. We were all busy, busy, busy. I loved the gregarious showing off of my fellow actors. All, except De, the self-proclaimed “laziest actor in town.” He was enjoying the quiet life with his dear wife, Carolyn.

  Then, the glum reminder of the other part of doing STAR TREK hit me. With the colossal spectacle of a hundred extras in alien dress standing around, the production was brought to an expensive and stubborn halt. Bill would not play a scene the way Nick was directing it. Chancellor Azetbur’s reaction was the focal point of the scene. Nick had blocked the choreography of actors and camera angles with that in mind. Bill thought differently, and he was determined to have his way—his way or the scene would not be shot. We stood around and waited, as the weary extras hunkered down trying not to soil their exotic outfits, technicians rolled their eyes in bored impatience, and the budget people wrung their hands in dismay. Bill was totally oblivious. His driving determination seemed to blind him to everything around him.

  Despite my irritation, I again only felt sadness for him. Bill had changed over the years. He had hurt people and seemed ignorant of the pain he had inflicted. He had denigrated his colleagues and blithely giggled about it. He had taken without feeling. And in so doing, he had diminished himself. Where he could have gained from the relationship of decades, he had only developed a protective thick skin; where he might have profited from the company of talented and engaging people that surrounded him over the years, instead he had become the isolated “star,” unable even to sense the mockery he had become to all those around him. Bill had changed. The vibrant young actor radiating star energy whom I met back in 1965 had reduced himself to the sad, stubborn, oblivious butt of derisive jokes.

  But Bill provided the only rough texture to a rare and perhaps never-to-be-recaptured tapestry of experiences. I savored all of my time filming my favorite STAR TREK movie.

  LIVE LONG AND PROSPER

  29

  Gene

  THE PHONE RANG. IT WAS Nichelle. She was sobbing hysterically.

  “Oh, Gene . . . George, oh, Gene . . .” She was overcome with emotion. Her speech convulsed with weeping. I couldn’t make out her words, but I thought I knew what had happened.

  I called Ralph Winter in his office at Paramount Studios and learned from him of Gene’s death. It was October 24, 1991. Gene passed on in the year of the twenty-fifth anniversary of his creation, STAR TREK.

  * * *

  Death is painful. The loss of a dear friend is always anguishing. But when the passing is that of a great man who gave so much to so many, made such a giant contribution to our world, and who also shared his life with you as a friend, the sense of loss is immense.

  Gene was my boss, my mentor, my ally, my buddy. He was a life guide who opened so many doors to such uncountable life experiences for me. He was a gentle philosopher who, in more ways than I can know, shaped my life—a man whose mind inspired me as much as his heart had been generous to me. He was a pal whose happy chortle made me happy too. The anguish in the loss was overwhelming. My grief was unbearable.

  That weekend, however, I had on my calendar a STAR TREK Convention scheduled in Oklahoma City. I called Adam Malin of Creation Conventions to cancel my attendance. I didn’t think I could do it. Adam understood and sympathized. However, he encouraged me not to cancel.

  “There are a lot of people grieving Gene Roddenberry’s passing all over America, George,” he said gently. “Some of them are in Oklahoma. You could comfort them by sharing your personal remembrances of Gene with them. If you cancel, that only intensifies their sense of loss. If you go, you could help allay their pain. Please consider this.”

  I decided not to cancel. I flew out to Oklahoma City that weekend. I decided to make this gathering of STAR TREK fans my memorial to Gene.

  I opened the convention by sharing my good memories of the man I first met back in 1965. I was a young actor hopeful of being cast in a continuing role in a series. I had mistakenly called him “Mr. Rosenbury” then. I told them about the fun we had together—of my attempts to get him to jog with me, of the laughs we shared at the parties he threw, of the help he gave me when I ran for public office. I explained to them how much his ideas and his philosophy had shaped mine. I told them I missed him very much but that he had left us a great, wondrous legacy. Then I invited the fans gathered there to share their thoughts on Gene.

  They came up, one by one. A young man in a wheelchair spoke of the inspiration he had gotten from STAR TREK to venture into computer programming. A mixed couple, black and white, said they got their strength from the world of STAR TREK. A young woman physically abused by a violent father found her courage to act through STAR TREK. Another young man aspired to become an astrophysicist. One after another, they came up as personifications of Gene’s humanity and strength.

  As I listened, with each new testimony I sensed Gene there with
us. Gene was gone, but he was still very much alive in these people. They were a part of Gene’s living legacy. Such diversity in such combinations, such strength and such glowing optimism . . . way out in Oklahoma City. I stayed listening to them until early evening. I was glad I hadn’t canceled that convention.

  I donated the appearance fee from that convention to charity in Gene’s memory.

  * * *

  The memorial service for Gene was held at Forest Lawn in Hollywood on November first. There was a great outpouring of people who had been affected by Gene. There even were a few in Starfleet uniforms. Patrick Stewart spoke eloquently and movingly. Whoopi Goldberg was earthy and touching. Nichelle sang sublimely. Everyone touched by Gene was there.

  We were there to pay our respects. We wanted to be there to share our grief. We were there because we had been privileged to know a very special man. We were there because we loved him.

  Gene was a man of ideas and of ideals. In a cynical time, when idealism tends to be derided as something spurious, as bogus morality, Gene embraced a shiningly optimistic, determinedly affirmative vision of the human future. Our human past may not have been all good, and neither had the history of his creation, STAR TREK. But he had the boldness of spirit to go into a medium—television—famous for mediocrity and uplift it and succeed, against all odds, with idealism. Then in a medium of hard numbers—Hollywood feature films—where dollar figures and ticket sales were the driving forces, Gene succeeded again with those same luminous ideals. He reached masses of people with the notion that a combination of imperfect people, in an imperfect world, reaching to the stars together, can prevail. He believed that every human being, imperfect creatures though we may be, each possessed something unique that, in combination with the uniquenesses of others, can create miraculous results. Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, he called it. Sheer idealism! Gene made that ideal an incandescent living force in our times.