by George Takei
He seemed to be enjoying his dual role so much that it was hard to believe he had once so vehemently opposed continuing as Spock.
“Leonard, I sympathized with your insistence on Spock’s being killed off,” I said to him during a break, “but I’ve got to say, that funeral really seems to have revitalized you as an artist.”
Leonard’s response to my casual observation shattered a few myths about him. One of those myths had almost kept him from gaining this director’s chair.
“I wasn’t opposed to Spock’s death,” he stated flatly. “Though I was opposed to an early draft of the script. Harve was the one who first told me about the death; the idea may have come from Nick. But it came early in the plot. I thought that was dramatically wrong. I was definitely opposed to that. But as it was finally written, I thought it was a moving dramatic scene.” So Walter’s gossip network had been off. But as Leonard continued to describe the saga of Spock’s demise, the story became even more intriguing.
The success of STAR TREK II had prompted Paramount to begin exploring the prospect of another sequel. Leonard was insurance essential to the project. When Gary Nardino, the Paramount executive charged with overseeing the work, approached him about returning as Spock, Leonard broached the idea of his directing the next film. This led to a meeting with the president of the studio, Michael Eisner. Leonard again proposed directing the third STAR TREK movie. Eisner was noncommittal. The meeting was followed by a disquieting few weeks of silence. Leonard’s agent called, but the call was not returned. Finally, Leonard himself called.
It seemed Eisner had problems with an actor directing a film in which he didn’t like his own character. Leonard tried to assure him that this was not the case. Eisner countered by asking, “But you yourself insisted on having Spock’s death written into your contract, didn’t you?” Even the president of the studio had bought the myth. Leonard urged him to have the legal department send up a copy of his contract and examine it for such language. The clause was nonexistent. Reassured, Eisner approved Leonard’s directing of STAR TREK III, ensuring the future of the series and the flowering of a great talent resource for STAR TREK.
* * *
Since I wasn’t involved in the shot being filmed, I had gone for a long stroll around the studio lot. I was just getting back to the soundstage when, suddenly, the door burst open with explosive force. Jimmy Doohan came flying out in a wild rage.
“That bastard. He’ll never do that to me again! Never!” He was livid.
“What’s the matter? What happened, Jimmy?” I could almost feel the heat of his fury.
“It’s that bastard,” he sputtered. “I’ll never let him do that to me again! I mean it!” He stormed off toward his dressing room.
I thought I knew then what had happened. I went in to find Bill basking in the center of the set, the object of Leonard’s and the crew’s rapt attention. The camera was directly focused on him, and the script supervisor was reading Jimmy’s off-camera lines. It wasn’t hard to guess what had transpired. Sure enough, I learned that the shot had originally been on Jimmy, but after a whispered conversation from Bill, the camera angle was changed to center right on Captain Kirk. And Scott was now off-camera. I knew so well how Jimmy felt; I knew that rage. Now, it seemed, it was Jimmy’s turn to have his temperature turned up by Bill. At least Bill’s ego was egalitarian in whom it burned. Or, rather, was his self-absorption simply indiscriminate in its voracious appetite for fuel with which to shine brighter? To me, more than ego, it looked like some deep-seated insecurity was driving Bill’s congenital need to be “the star.”
* * *
STAR TREK III: THE SEARCH FOR SPOCK was big. Leonard had delivered an epic film—our biggest in its sweep and grandeur. For the first time we saw the full scope of the Vulcan civilization. The beloved Enterprise, the real star of the series, met its gallant and fiery end. But, fulfilling the title, we found Spock. Our friend, whom we had grieved over in the last film, was supernaturally returned to us. The “family” was again complete. It was a joyous ending, with the enticing promise of more to come.
At the conclusion of filming, we, Leonard’s colleagues of almost two decades, wanted to do something to applaud his accomplishment helming his first film. We decided to host a catered luncheon on the set for him and the crew. This would be a festive way to celebrate the end of production and pay tribute to Leonard. We all agreed to share the costs—Nichelle, De, Jimmy, Walter, and me . . . all except Bill. He demurred, saying he was doing something separately. We all wondered, but decided that’s Bill.
El Cholo Mexican Restaurant, one of the oldest established in Los Angeles, catered the luncheon. We invited everybody to our tribute to Leonard, including Gary Nardino, the executive overseeing the production. He was a hefty man who obviously enjoyed food and people. Gary was table-hopping with a smile that shone with satisfaction both with the Mexican dishes and the way the filming had gone. He came up to Bill. Assuming that he was one of the hosts of this party for Leonard, he said graciously, “Lovely lunch, Bill. Thank you.” Bill smiled back amiably and answered, “You’re welcome.” And he kept on smiling.
* * *
Nineteen eighty-four was a halcyon year in Los Angeles. It was the year of the XXIII Olympic Games, and the city was radiant. The futuristic new Tom Bradley International Airport Terminal opened its welcoming doors to the world; commissioned murals of athletes on freeway walls dashed, leaped, swam, and vaulted in competition with the speeding traffic; pastel banners flapped in the breeze, heralding the games. Even the much maligned Los Angeles air celebrated by purifying itself for the occasion into startlingly crystalline clear atmosphere. It was a glorious time in Los Angeles.
The journey of the Olympic flame from Athens to Los Angeles was the prelude to the commencement of the games. The flame was carried by runners across the country to it final destination, the great torch above the turnstiles of the Los Angeles Coliseum. For a contribution of one thousand dollars, a runner would be granted the privilege of carrying the flame for one kilometer on its route. It would be a lifetime experience to carry the Olympic flame to the games in my hometown. I wanted to do it.
I happened to mention this wish to Harve Bennett. He knew I was a runner and immediately his mind started to turn. What makes Harve such a good producer and showman is his flair for taking a simple idea and transforming it into something fabulous. He called me a few days later with the gift of a lifetime.
“George, how would you like to carry the Olympic flame?” Of course I would; he knew that. “How would you like to carry it in five cities?”
“I’d like to do it five times as much. I’d be ten times happier. I’d be fifty times more ecstatic. Why do you ask me this?”
“Well, get ready to do it. I just got Paramount to agree to buy you five kilometers in five different cities in the United States.” I was speechless. Harve did something that few people have done—he literally had me at a loss for words.
Harve was an inspired producer. STAR TREK III: THE SEARCH FOR SPOCK was about to open. Having me run in five different cities would generate publicity for the film worth many times more than the five-thousand-dollar contribution to the Olympics by Paramount. And he would have a euphorically happy actor.
To my disappointment, the rules of the Los Angeles Olympics Committee allowed one person to run no more than one kilometer; they wanted to spread out the number of opportunities. I suggested to Harve that, if I couldn’t run the other four kilometers, we might offer these opportunities to STAR TREK fans who were runners. I had run with many of them on my convention rounds. Harve loved the idea, so I chose fans in Washington, D.C., St. Louis, Chicago, and Denver. Of course, I kept Los Angeles for myself.
Mine was a dream route for an Angeleno. I received the flame at the Old Plaza, the birthplace of Los Angeles. This venerable district is a State Historic Park, and I had been serving as the chairman of the board of the conservation organization charged with the historic area, the El Pueblo Pa
rk Association. My course ran down the namesake Los Angeles Street, over the Hollywood Freeway, and past City Hall, where Mayor Bradley waved from its steps. Finally, I passed the flame on to the next runner at the gateway to Little Tokyo, my ethnic community.
It was only a short run, but that one kilometer was rich with symbolism. It spanned the history of my city, encompassed the ethnic diversity of my hometown, and reflected my political involvements. And I was running with a flame that had been carried all the way across the country by representatives of the spectacular diversity of America; from youth to age, powerful to poor, handicapped to athlete, now that flame had been passed to me. It filled my enraptured heart with a thousand emotions as I ran past the cheering crowds. I will never forget that Olympic flame relay of 1984.
* * *
I had been working with the Rapid Transit District for over a decade. We had secured the funding base and the alignment of the route. We had hired the construction firms, the engineers for the system, and the architects for the stations. We had even made provisions for works of art in the stations. Not only would the artworks enliven the stations, but their style and flavor would reflect the character of the neighborhoods in which they were located. We wanted the communities above to feel a proprietorship over the stations, to consider these public facilities as extensions of their neighborhoods. At long last, construction was ready to begin.
As eagerly anticipated as the commencement of this major public works project was, there was for me a troubling flip side. Now the streets would be torn up. There would be detours. Noise, dirt, and commotion would be thrown up into the air. The short-term disruption would be significant. But this was another price that had to be paid for a massive public infrastructure improvement.
I knew, though, that public patience would take only so much. There would be confusion, protests, and demonstrations with irate fists raised. The blame inevitably would be placed on the politicians and public officials—in other words, on people like me.
But I was still an actor. My career rested on public acceptance or, at least, a modicum of public support. I thought the better part of prudence and career conservation meant I should tie a bow on my eleven years on the board of the RTD. The vital work of the transit district would continue but it would have to carry on with other people to meet new challenges. Regretfully, but with a feeling of accomplishment, and not without some sense of relief, I handed in my resignation to Mayor Bradley. I brought to a close my hectic but very exciting tenure of service with the Southern California Rapid Transit District.
* * *
It was a wonderful accolade for a respected colleague. Leonard was receiving a singular Hollywood tribute—a star on the Walk of Fame. It was a fitting honor for a multitalented artist who had distinguished himself as an inventive actor and as a fine film director as well. Fans thronged Hollywood Boulevard. Officials of the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce were there to preside over the ceremonials. And we all gathered to praise and applaud Leonard: Gene and Majel, De, Nichelle, Jimmy, Walter, and me. But . . . where was Bill?
Eight months later, Gene was also honored with his star. Indeed, 1985 was a bumper year for stars on Hollywood Boulevard for members of the STAR TREK family. But in his usual pioneering way, Gene was boldly going where no one had gone before. Although there was a galaxy of stars on the Walk of Fame, he was the first writer—a breakthrough distinction. When the star-shaped covering was flung off at high noon to reveal a terrazzo star with the name “Gene Roddenberry” embedded in it, all of us from the STAR TREK cast were there to celebrate this happy occasion . . . all except one. Where was Bill? Again, he was absent. He only sent a message congratulating the man who had helped make him a star.
25
Trek Wars
I HAD BEEN PLAYING SULU now for almost two decades. Throughout the television series and the big-screen adventures, I had been struggling persistently to enhance the size and quality of my character. I wanted to give him more dimension, to flesh out his character, to make him a more active participant in the plot. I had lobbied, prodded, campaigned, and cajoled—all without notable success.
“George, in this town, what gets respect is money. Pure and simple, money is muscle.” Steve Stevens was laying out for me the power mechanics of Hollywood. “Go for the money. You’re valuable to them. Use that as leverage to get the money, and then they’ll start giving some weight to your campaign for Sulu.”
I knew I was worth more to STAR TREK than what I was currently being paid. Paramount was raking in a bonanza from all the many forms of STAR TREK: The television series was still running all over the world generating revenues for the studio exchequer; the first two feature films were providing a bounty; and now STAR TREK III: THE SEARCH FOR SPOCK had opened as an enormous popular hit, and it seemed to me that the associated merchandising was generating good earnings.
Bill and Leonard were receiving huge seven-figure pieces of the action. They were worth it. But I was being paid only a modest five-figure amount. I thought I was worth more.
“Sure you are, George. You’ve been doing more to promote the show and enhance its worth than the two of them put together.” Steve had a point.
“That’s true. I think I’ve done more conventions than anybody except maybe Jimmy,” I agreed. “But we’ve got an option clause from the last contract, don’t we?”
“That’s just to tie you up for the next picture. But there’s no fairness in that money. There’s no equity with your worth. Test them, George. Test them, and see how much they value you.”
The more I listened to Steve, the more my blood began to stir. I had single-mindedly tried to improve the content of my role with little to show for it. Perhaps now my tactics should change to improve the size of my remuneration. Maybe then I would be more effective with my first goal. I made my decision.
“All right, Steve. Let’s go for the money. With STAR TREK IV, let’s go for the dollars.”
* * *
“George, I can’t believe this is you.” It was Harve calling. “We’ve always had such a good relationship. I can’t believe that this is really you trying to hold us up. Please talk to your agent.”
“Harve, I’m not trying to hold anybody up. I think what I’m asking is only fair. I’m asking the studio to pay me my fair worth. If it doesn’t think I’m worth it, I’m prepared to pass.” I remained firm.
When I reported to Steve on the conversation with Harve, he was outraged.
“He called you at home during negotiations!” he stormed. “That is the most unethical thing I’ve ever heard. No producer should be talking to the actor and trying to circumvent the agent! I don’t want you to let him do that again. Hang up on him!” Now I had my agent angry with me.
I soon learned, however, that Steve’s anger and Harve’s charm were one and the same. They were tools in the game of Hollywood negotiations. Harve next switched from charm to threats. My phone rang. I picked it up, and it was Harve’s voice again. I knew what Steve had told me, but I couldn’t just hang up on him.
“Harve, I really shouldn’t be talking to you during this time of negotiations. I’d appreciate it if you would talk with my agent.”
“I just want you to know, George, that there are legal ramifications to all this.” Harve’s voice was stern and darkly edged. “A career can be ended with a lawsuit. I’m just warning you as a friend.”
I thanked him for the warning and hung up. I wondered if friendship was also only a tool in this business.
If the phone calls I received were ominous, Steve, who had been battling on the front lines, was on the receiving end of an intense barrage of the most sinister anonymous telephone calls. His phone at home would ring in the middle of the night. The voice on the other end would convey brief, cryptic insinuations and then hang up. One of those messages, Steve remembers, was “A smoking gun can shoot both ways.” His poor wife was reduced to a traumatized wreck. It was a negotiation of incredible stress and anxiety for Steve and for his fa
mily. But he hung tough, and ultimately we prevailed. We got our contract, and my pay was increased to six figures. I wondered if, now, I could better Sulu’s role.
* * *
“George, my dear, I’m glad we were able to resolve it.” Harve was again a transformed person. We were still “friends.” “I knew we couldn’t take off without Sulu on board,” he gushed. I picked up my cue.
“Thanks, Harve. Now, about Sulu . . .” And I resumed my old lobbying campaign.
STAR TREK IV: THE VOYAGE HOME was to be a time-travel story. Leonard had initiated the idea with Harve while he was filming a television version of Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises in France. We were flung back in time to present-day San Francisco. This was a wonderful opportunity to do something with Sulu’s heritage, I thought. San Francisco was my father’s old hometown and one of my favorite cities. I started throwing ideas at Harve. How about making San Francisco Sulu’s birthplace? How about uncovering some artifact from his family’s history? What about Sulu fending off muggers with his fencing foil? I inundated Harve with ideas. Walter Koenig joined in and contributed some possible ideas for Sulu. In fact, it was he who suggested Sulu’s discovering a family connection with some chance encounter on the streets of San Francisco.
A couple of them took. San Francisco became Sulu’s place of birth. And Harve took Walter’s idea and wrote in a delightful scene where Sulu happens across a little Asian boy and discovers to his delighted amazement that he is his great-great-grandfather as a child. It was a terrific scene. I couldn’t wait to get up to the City by the Bay to begin filming.
* * *
San Francisco is storied in song and romance as the place where people leave their hearts. But when clinging to a cable car for dear life in that jammed traffic, I worried if other parts of the anatomy, like arms and legs, might not get left behind as well.