Just a Geek

by Wil Wheaton

  “I’m on my way.”

  I took a deep breath. I will not take a single thing for granted today. Dave Gahan sang, “Never want to come down, never want to put my feet back down on the ground . . .” as I walked out.

  All makeup trailers are essentially the same: as many as five, but usually three chairs face a wall of mirrors. It’s always painfully bright, and though it’s painted white and could feel like an operating room, it’s usually the warmest, most welcoming spot on the entire production. Actors often congregate in the makeup trailer, and there is usually music and coffee, and sometimes, on a Friday afternoon, cocktails.

  It wasn’t the same trailer from the series, but the feeling was the same: the smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air, and jazz music played on the radio. There was Michael Westmore, gluing Worf’s forehead onto Michael Dorn. There was Brent, getting his hands painted gold, and there’s an empty chair waiting for me.

  It was everything I could to do not burst into tears. I was home.

  As I stood in the doorway, Brent said, “Milt! Milt Wheaton!”

  “Is that the Teen Idol?” Michael Dorn said.

  “Yeah, but he’s not a teenager anymore,” said Michael Westmore. “He’s got two kids.”

  “Two kids?!” Michael Dorn said.

  “Stepkids,” I said, as I stepped into the trailer and sat down in the chair.

  That was cool. The Kid has kids. I mean, stepkids.

  June Westmore (yeah, pretty much everyone who does makeup on Star Trek—well, in the whole industry, really—is a Westmore in some capacity) who did my makeup for years on Next Generation, began to turn me back into Wesley Crusher. While she created his flawless skin, I talked with Michael and Brent. Marina briefly came into the trailer, kissed my cheek, and went back out.

  “So how are you doing?” June said.

  Are you kidding me? This is a dream come true. I’m so happy to be back!

  “Are you kidding me? This is a dream come true. I’m so happy to be back!” I said.

  “Everyone’s happy to be back together,” she said.

  Everyone . . . that includes me.

  “Yeah. This rules.”

  She finished my makeup, and I moved down one chair to get my hair done.

  “Do I have to wear Wesley’s helmet hairdo?” I said.

  “I don’t think so,” the hair designer said. “I really like this sort of messy thing you’ve got going on.” She turned to Michael Westmore. “What do you think, Michael?”

  “I think he looks great like that. Just make sure you put sideburns on him.”

  Sideburns?!

  “Oh my god! That’s right! I’m a Starfleet officer now, so I get sideburns!” I said, in spite of myself.

  “Didn’t you wear them before?” he said.

  I shook my head. “I was a teenager, remember? No sideburns.”

  “You sure you’ve never had them?”

  “Yeah. Believe me, that’s something I’d remember.”

  “Well, then I want to put them on you.”

  COOL!

  “Okay.” I waited while he finished turning Michael Dorn into Worf, then sat in his chair.

  We talked about family, kids, and Trek while he put my sideburns on. When they were trimmed into neat little points, he stood back and admired them.

  “Those are some good looking sideburns,” he said.

  I smiled. “Yeah, they really are.”

  There was a knock at the trailer door, and a production assistant poked his head in. “They’re ready for rehearsal,” he said. “There’s a van to take you all across the lot to the stage.”

  When I walked out of the trailer, I saw the entire cast, waiting to go to the set.

  My family.

  I slowly walked over to them. Except for Marina, who would be wearing a wedding gown, everyone was dressed, like me, in half a spacesuit.

  “Hi guys,” I said, when I arrived.

  There were hugs and kisses and more hugs, proclamations about how great I looked, and how good it was to see me.

  This choking back tears thing is getting pretty old.

  “Hey, I’m going to walk to the stage,” Jonathan said. “Anyone want to join me?”

  “Sure,” LeVar and I said.

  Everyone else piled into the van, and the three of us made small talk as we walked across Paramount’s back lot. As we passed Stages 8 and 9, I snuck sideways glances at the guys, but I couldn’t tell if they experienced any of the nostalgia I felt. We went past this place called The Mill that made all the spaceship hulls and oddly shaped landscape features that Star Trek always needed to custom order from the studio, and we walked past Stage 16, which stood in for just about every planet we ever visited. It was hot in the summer, cold in the winter, and always filled with a haze of mineral oil-based atmospheric smoke, so we all used to half-jokingly call it “Planet Hell.”

  “Good thing we’re not on Planet Hell,” I said.

  “We’ll be there in a few weeks,” Jonathan said.

  “I can’t say I’m sorry I won’t be joining you,” I said. I wish that were true.

  We all laughed. God, it felt good to be there with them.

  We were filming on the “television” side of the lot, on a stage that we never used during the series. Actually, I think Solid Gold may have been filmed on that stage at one time, but don’t quote me on that.

  Yet another assistant director (how many of them do they need on this picture?) met us at the stage door.

  “We’re still waiting on Stuart [The Director], so you guys can grab a coffee or something from craft services if you like. It should only be a minute.”

  “Cool. I think I’ll get a soda,” I said.

  I really just wanted to take in the stage on my own. I’ve always loved the “magic” of making movies, and I still get a kick out of walking past hanging backdrops that look like cityscapes and climbing over fake rocks. On my way to craft services, which is just a fancy name for “the snack table,” I passed a bunch of director’s chairs—one for each cast member—near a huge bank of monitors. I looked for my name, but didn’t see it.

  I guess I’m “Guest Cast” today. Oh well, you can’t win them all.

  I reached into a cooler, and pulled out a soda. When I stood back up, Rick Berman was standing in front of me.

  “Hi, Wil,” he said.

  “Hi, Rick.”

  “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

  Oh shit.

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  He took a few steps away from me and indicated that I should follow. He stopped behind one of those backdrops and waited.

  “Wil,” he said, “I hear that you think I hate you.”

  My heart pounded so violently in my chest, I thought I was going to fall over and die right there. There were bright flashes of light at the edges of my vision, and everything I heard took on this strange, metallic echo.

  “Uhh . . .”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “Wil, I have never hated you.”

  So that whole ignoring me twice at major Star Trek events was . . . tough love?

  “Really?” I said.

  “Really,” he said. “I am so happy that you’re here, because this movie is all about family, and you are a big part of our family.”

  Okay. For today, I’m going to believe that.

  “Thank you, Rick. I don’t even know how to tell you how happy I am to be here.”

  “I think you just did,” he said with a smile. “Have fun today.”

  From across the stage, the First Assistant Director called out, “We are ready for a first team rehearsal!”

  Production assistants, DGA trainees and other assistant directors talked into their walkies: “First Team . . . Ready . . . To the set . . . I have Patrick and Jonathan . . . Stuart is here . . .”

  “I have Wil Wheaton,” said a voice behind me. “They’re ready for you, Wil.”

  “I better get to the set, before the executive producer fi
nds out I’m goofing off back here,” I said to Rick.

  “Good idea,” he said.

  I walked into the set, a ball of nervous excitement. I identified who the First AD was and introduced myself to him. He was polite, but disinterested. I found the director and introduced myself to him. He was also disinterested, but not polite about it at all. The entire time I worked on the movie, the only unpleasant experiences I had were the result of this guy, who was really kind of a dick.

  We blocked the first scene, where Picard delivers a toast to Riker and Troi, Data does a song and dance, and the entire crew of the Enterprise celebrates their wedding.

  I was pretty much reeling from my strange-yet-positive encounter with Rick, and my unexpected-yet-negative one with the director, so I don’t recall much from that rehearsal, other than someone suggesting that I be seated at the head table on a stage with the rest of the cast, rather than down at a table on the floor.[7]

  We rehearsed a few times, while the director worked out a few technical details. When he was satisfied, the first assistant director told us they needed about 30 minutes to get the shot set up.

  “First Team is released to makeup and wardrobe,” he said into his walkie.

  I was camera-ready except for the top part of my spacesuit. I wouldn’t put that on until right before we rolled, anyway, so I spent my 30 minutes walking around the stage. It was quite a difference from when I was a teenager: when we’d break during series production, I’d race back to my dressing room as fast as I could, so I could paint miniatures, or talk on the phone, or do any of the countless other things I felt like I was missing out on because I was working . . . but that was then and this was now.

  I will not take a single moment for granted today.

  I decided to have a look at the other side of the set. On my way, a young, good-looking guy stopped me.

  “Wil Wheaton?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a real pleasure to meet you!” He extended his hand. “I’m John Logan, and I wrote the script.”

  “Wow! The pleasure is mine, man!” I shook his hand. “I think this is the best Trek movie since Wrath of Khan, and certainly the best TNG movie.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Gosh, thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”

  “Oh yeah. And thank you for working me into the story.”

  “I am so happy that I could do it! I just wish it could have happened months ago, so I could give you more to do.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that . . . why is Wesley back in Starfleet?”

  “Well, I couldn’t get into specifics without writing a three-page scene, so I figured if I had Picard say, ‘Hello, Wesley. It’s good to see you back in uniform,’ we could leave it up to the audience, you know? Maybe he’s back in uniform because he’s back from the Academy, or maybe because he’s not being a Traveller anymore.”

  “The fans are going to ask me, you know,” I said.

  He laughed. “Believe me, I know. If this does well, and they let me write a sequel, I’ll do my best to get more Wesley in it.”

  Okay. I’ll let myself believe that for today, also.

  “Cool! Can he get the girl, too?”

  “I’ll have to check Ashley Judd’s availability.”

  We both cracked up pretty hard.

  “I have to go talk to Brent,” he said. “It’s really nice to meet you, though, and I’ll see you around the set today.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  Wow. He’s as excited to be here as I am. That’s cool.

  I walked around the stage a little more and ran into Whoopi Goldberg, who was there to reprise the role of Guinan, the Ten Forward bartender. She greeted me with a huge smile and a long hug.

  “You are lookin’ good, Wheaton,” she said.

  “You too, Shuttlehead.”

  Whoopi always thought the hats they put her in looked like shuttlecraft, and she called herself “Shuttlehead.” I guess the name stuck, because we were still laughing about it 10 years later.

  Before we could catch up, a production assistant tapped me on the shoulder.

  “We’re about two minutes away,” he said. “Would you get into the rest of your wardrobe?”

  “Sure.” I said.

  Wardrobe was set up in an alcove I hadn’t noticed, off to one side of the stage. We had a lot of background actors in various Starfleet and civilian uniforms, so the room was buzzing with people when I walked in.

  From behind a rack of costumes, I heard a very familiar voice. “Teen Idol!”

  It was Mandy, who was my costumer when I worked on the series.

  “Oh my god, Mandy! It’s so great to see you!”

  I will spare you, my faithful reader, the contents of yet another conversation wherein I am told how grown-up I look, I remind the teller that I’ve also aged over the past 15 years, and I do my best to keep my emotions under control.

  “Are you ready to put the spacesuit back on?” she said.

  Am I ready. Heh. I guess you could say that.

  “Yes. Yes I am.” I took off my fleece jacket, and Mandy pushed the tunic over my outstretched arms. I turned around, she zipped up the back, and fastened two hooks at the neck. She spun me around to face her, and made sure everything was in its right place.

  “Looks good,” she said. “God, it’s so strange to see you in this uniform.”

  “You’re telling me!” I said.

  “First Team to the set!” the First AD announced.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  I walked into the set and did my best to play it cool while the rest of the cast walked in. Everyone was so happy to be there, almost like it was a real wedding. I found out later that some of the actors had been up in the desert for some location filming, but this was the first day the entire cast was together since the start of production, which explained the celebratory mood and festive atmosphere that permeated the entire place.

  We all took our seats at the head table, and the background actors assembled around the rest of the set. Then Marina walked in, dressed in a beautiful wedding gown. I’m not sure if it was truly spontaneous, but everyone broke into applause as she walked across the dance floor and took her seat.

  “Oh, you all just stop it!” she said, but I could tell that she enjoyed it. Hell, I think we all enjoyed it.

  When we got down to filming, it was exactly like I remembered, minus the stupid teenage angst. There was laughter, and teasing, and a genuine affection among the cast members. I had no dialogue, so I spent the next few hours simply reacting to the scene: I laughed when Brent was funny, I sighed when Marina was beautiful, and I was quietly impressed when Patrick spoke. I’m sure I managed to get some acting in there, too. The scene was very complicated, so the day moved quite slowly, and we didn’t finish it until our dinner break.

  After dinner, I was off-camera for a few hours, but I stayed on the stage the entire time, sitting in the “Guest Cast” chair next to Rick Berman, watching the scene unfold on the bank of monitors.

  “This is so cool,” I said.

  Rick just nodded his head.

  I wonder if he realizes how important this is—not just to me, but to the fans, too? I wonder if anyone on this stage cares about this like I do?

  Finally, long after midnight, it was time to shoot my scene. All the other actors were sent home, except for Patrick and Gates. I remembered how much I hated it when my scene would be the last of the day and recalled all the times I completely phoned it in for those shots.

  Not tonight. I will not take a single thing for granted today.

  The word had come down from the studio that they were “Pulling the Plug” at 1:30. “Pulling the Plug” means that production comes to a halt at a certain time, no matter what we’re doing. It’s pretty serious stuff—I’ve been on sets where the director has kept the camera rolling between takes, to prevent the studio from stopping the scene before he gets what he wants.

  Suddenly, I had to stop drinking in the joy of e
ach moment and focus on my job as an actor. I quickly ran over the scene in my head, and practiced hitting my mark a few times.

  When the camera rolled, Wesley Crusher sprung to life: his unabashed enthusiasm for complex warp field dynamics and a double-refracting warp core matrix with twin intermix chambers combined with my overwhelming joy at being back in uniform. We smiled his goofy smile. I’m not sure where I ended, and he began, when we said, “Thank you, sir. It’s great to be back.”

  “CUT!” the director shouted from monitor land.

  I looked up. Did I do something wrong? Apparently not. It was something with the camera. We reset and did take two.

  “Hello, Wesley, it’s—”

  “CUT!”

  Another camera problem. This time it was severe enough to bring the director out from behind the monitors. He had several . . . words . . . for the camera crew, and we went again, but cut before any of us had a chance to speak.

  It went on like this for several takes. This is the reality of filmmaking. This is the job. Remember this? You’re a professional actor, on a movie set. Star Trek isn’t real, you geek.

  Eventually, the blocking, the acting, and the camera work all came together.

  “Cut! Print!”

  The First AD called out, “Okay, everyone, that is a wrap! Take your turnarounds, and we’ll see you all tomorrow! Thank you for a great day!”

  This is the way Wesley Crusher ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

  I walked back to my trailer across the empty and silent Paramount lot, taking care to avoid the street in front of Stages 8 and 9. I changed out of my costume and hung it up.[8] I signed out with the DGA trainee, and listened to Only A Lad on the way home.

  The house was asleep when I walked in, and even after the 18-hour day, adrenaline flowed through me like a magnesium fire. I grabbed a Guinness (hey, I earned it) and did some quick blogging.

  06 DECEMBER 2001

  A Sort of Homecoming

  It’s 1:15 in the morning. The crew is tired. I am tired. Most of the cast has been released, and it’s only me, Patrick, and Gates left, along with about 30 background actors. It’s the last shot of the night, and we’re finally doing my scene.

  We block it, rehearse it once, and then we shoot it. It’s a pretty complicated shot, camera-wise, and I can tell that the director is getting frustrated with the constant re-takes, and we all know that the studio will not let us go past 1:30, so there’s a touch of urgency in the air.