To the Stars

by George Takei

  Tatsuya Nakadai was a delightful man. But this actor whom I had admired in so many Japanese films became a problem of some consequence. He had considerable dialogue in English; in fact, he had a major oration scene. The problem was—he didn’t speak a word of it!

  I was the only one with the company who spoke both English and Japanese, so it became part of my duties to help Nakadai-san with his English dialogue. I had dinner with him at night. During the day, on the set between shots, I sat across from him pursing my lips and contorting my tongue, forming sounds apparently unachievable with his Japanese mouth. When he was on, I stood beside the camera, silently but with great exaggeration shaping the words of his dialogue for him. Nakadai-san agonized on camera, and I suffered off. Even on days when I had no scenes, when I could have stayed back in the air-conditioned comfort of the hotel, if Nakadai-san was on, I made the long, bouncy trek out to that scorching location site.

  The tribulations in making Return from the River Kwai were compensated for by the pleasure of working with a company of marvelous actors. Under the most arduous conditions, they were gallant professionals.

  Proper gentleman Edward Fox always maintained his impeccably amiable speech and concern for the well-being of others. “Are you all right?” was his benign greeting for everyone. A determinedly correct gentleman, his shirt never came off as others’ did immediately on the director’s cry of “Cut!” When he had to walk into the sun, he made a parasol of a giant tropical leaf and unflappably went from shade to shade.

  The English seemed to become even more English under duress. Denholm Eliott was polite even in downright pain. During the rehearsal of his death scene in the jungle, while he lay on the ground, an extra dressed as a Japanese guard unknowingly stepped on his hand. He left his foot on Den-holm’s hand, probably thinking it was just some jungle foliage. Denholm, although in excruciating pain, looked up at his unaware tormentor and very politely requested, “I would be ever so grateful if you would take your feet off my hand.” A few years after the release of the film, I read in the obituary section of the newspaper that this sweet gentleman had passed on.

  Robust, blond Australian Nick Tate was pink from the sun, but if the crew needed some extra muscle to help move a piece of equipment, he would plunge into the blazing heat to help out. While this American preferred to confine his assistance to forming English words with Nakadai-san in the relative comfort of the shade, Tim Bottoms was right out there representing the American spirit of lending a helping hand.

  It was a wonderful company of actors, and I almost regretted the completion of filming. Almost . . . but not quite. I wanted to get back to the civilized comforts of home. And I had another exciting script waiting for me.

  * * *

  The American Festival Theater Company had invited me to star in their production of Shimon Wincelberg’s Undertow, to be presented at the celebrated Edinburgh International Arts Festival that summer in Scotland. It was a two-character drama about a Japanese soldier marooned on a Pacific island with an American G.I. near the end of World War II. This seemed to be my year for reliving that bloody conflict.

  The two characters were polar antagonists. One spoke only English, the other only Japanese. One was a callow youth, the other a mature man. And they were soldiers in mortal combat with each other. Yet, by the tragic end of the play, they recognized their mutual interdependence for survival and, ultimately, their humanity. It was crackling good drama with powerful acting challenges.

  The American soldier was played by a gifted young actor, Andy McCutcheon, who, as it turned out, was also a runner. Early every morning, we would leave our elegant Georgian club residence in the historic “New Town” section of Edinburgh, run across the grounds of regal Holyrood Palace, then up the windswept hillside to Arthur’s Seat, so called because the craggy contours of the promontory resembled King Arthur’s saddle.

  We performed Undertow in a restored playhouse in the ancient Netherbow Theater on the Royal Mile in the medieval section of Edinburgh. It was a dream fulfillment for an artist and a glorious holiday combined. To top off an unforgettable summer, the production won the coveted Scotsman Fringe First Award.

  The amazing devotion of fans kept the STAR TREK presence vibrant even in this far northern Scottish capital. Ena Glogowska and her daughter Anne traveled all the way up from Staffordshire to be in the audience on opening night, returned in the middle of the run, and once again on closing night. Colin and Freda Boydell of Cornwall, near Land’s End in the very southernmost part of the British Isles, took an overnight train all the way up to Edinburgh, attended a matinee, visited me backstage, and then headed straight back to Waverly train station to take another overnighter back home. Their ardent loyalty and amazing support was deeply affecting. STAR TREK friends are a very special breed.

  * * *

  Out of the cool blue Edinburgh sky a bit of American history followed me to Scotland and hit me unexpectedly.

  The publicist for the production of Undertow had been sending me out regularly to do press interviews to publicize the play. So, like a dutiful actor, I strolled into a pub one afternoon to keep another press meeting that had been arranged with a newspaper reporter.

  “So, Mr. Takei,” he greeted me as I settled down into a maroon velvet upholstered banquette with my pint of bitter, “what are you going to do with your twenty thousand dollars?” I was puzzled. What a strange way to begin an interview, I thought.

  “I’m sorry. You must be mistaken,” I corrected. “This play I’m doing is a labor of love. I’m afraid I’m not being paid that much in dollars, but I must say, my artist’s soul is being handsomely compensated with every performance.” I tried to direct the conversation to the content of the play and not the financial arrangements.

  “I can tell you that your pecuniary interest will also be handsomely met,” the reporter answered in his heavy Scottish burr. “Your President just signed the bill paying Japanese Americans imprisoned in those American prison camps redress of twenty thousand dollars. I just got it off the wire.”

  “What! You’re telling me that he finally signed the redress bill?” I was shocked and thrilled. Shocked because I hadn’t expected the bill to be signed by President Ronald Reagan.

  It had been so long since that day I testified before the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians. The Commission had concluded its hearings in 1983 and had recommended to Congress for monetary redress and a formal governmental apology for the internment. Congress in turn had passed bill H.R. 442, so numbered in honor of the most-decorated military unit to emerge from the Second World War, the all-Nisei 442nd Regimental Combat Team. The bill provided for the apology and a token redress of twenty thousand dollars per individual. This monetary redress had been the sticking point with President Reagan. He agreed with the provision for the verbal apology but not the monetary recompense. The President had been stridently resisting signing, but the news from home that the reporter conveyed to me was that President Reagan could no longer resist the conscience of decent Americans and had finally signed. I was elated. At long last, that dark chapter of America’s history was reaching closure. It was August 10, 1988: forty-three years after the end of the war; almost seven years to the day after I had testified to the Congressional Commission; and nine years after my father had passed on. It was a very much belated apology.

  I spent that afternoon explaining to the reporter my history as an American. In describing to him the complicated process of gaining redress within our system, I found myself explaining the workings of our democracy. I told him that our ideal is of a government of the people. People, of course, are often not as ideal as we would like to be; but we keep reaching for that perfect star. I sensed myself echoing, unconsciously, words that Daddy had spoken to me so long ago. I told him that the news from America that he brought was testimony to the vibrance of that ideal. And I said to him that I would be donating my twenty thousand dollars to the place where I thought it truly belonged .
. . to the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles.

  * * *

  I settled myself in my British Airways seat with enough reading material for the eleven-hour flight from London to Los Angeles. I had given myself a week of theater-going in London after the high of the Edinburgh run with Undertow. When I’m not on one side of the footlights, I can usually be found on the other side in the audience. The 747 started to roll out, and as always, I got a bit melancholy leaving London. The British Airways personnel helped prolong the lingering memories.

  After about an hour up in the air, I needed to stretch my legs. As I got up, I happened to glance over to my seatmate, who was quietly reading a book. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman with a fine aquiline nose and a slight fringe of hair around his smooth, clean pate. I thought the profile looked familiar. But the coincidence seemed too bizarre. No, it couldn’t be, I thought, and got up.

  When I came back to my seat, I sneaked a good look at the man seated next to me. It really was a remarkable resemblance, I thought. But I sat down and buried myself again in the London Times that I had been reading. I tried to read, but my curiosity nagged at me silently. I surreptitiously rolled my eyes toward him for another confirmation of my suspicion. It was truly uncanny. Then I noticed that he was reading Dickens.

  I reached over and gently placed my hand on his arm. I started to ask, “Excuse me, but aren’t you . . .” The man turned to me, startled by the unexpected intrusion. Then I saw the flash of recognition in his eyes.

  “Why, aren’t you . . . ,” he blurted out. And I knew with certainty that he was who I thought he was—Patrick Stewart, the new captain of another generation of STAR TREK.

  “Why aren’t you . . . George . . . Sulu!” he stammered.

  “George Takei,” I corrected. “Pleasure to meet you, Patrick.”

  This was our first meeting—some thirty-five thousand feet up in the air, somewhere over the North Atlantic.

  “What an extraordinary coincidence,” remarked Patrick.

  I, who had been doing STAR TREK now for over two decades, suspected that perhaps this was not such a fluke. I said to him, “Let me tell you, Patrick, we have fans in the most unexpected places. I have a pretty strong hunch that there is a Trekker with British Airways someplace who had access to the passenger manifest and very thoughtfully made these seating assignments for us.”

  Patrick Stewart was a charming man and a pleasant seatmate. He told me he was returning to Los Angeles to begin the second season of The Next Generation television series. I was returning for the beginning of negotiations for the next film. We chatted amiably about generalities.

  I avoided, however, the subject of The Next Generation series. I saw no need to make Patrick feel uncomfortable. “Our” generation had, at first, been miffed by the notion of another generation supplanting us. But, despite our resentment, our intense curiosity compelled us to keep an eye on these trespassers. And what we saw the first season had actually given us some unexpected secret pleasures. Not because we thought the shows were good—quite to the contrary—we felt an evil gratification because their opening shows were so disappointing, delightfully disappointing. Their third aired show particularly filled me with glee. It was called “Naked Now,” and its very title betrayed its naked imitation of us. The show was an exact redo of one of our most successful episodes and my favorite, “The Naked Time.” The contrast was cruelly obvious. “Naked Now” was so unoriginal, such a faltering paraphrasing, it was like children putting on their parents’ clothes and trying to be grownups. This pale carbon copy was supposed to carry on the legacy? Their future looked bleak indeed.

  As I continued to watch the series, something else about The Next Generation troubled me. There was a very conspicuous void. Our Enterprise was a good metaphor for the diversity of starship Earth. Our crew personified the pluralism of the people of this planet. The bridge of their Enterprise, however, may now have had a Klingon on board as a symbol of galactic coexistence, but at least a third of the population of our world and certainly of the twenty-fourth century was absent. There were no Asians on their bridge. There were occasional background people or guest visitors, but—even less than aliens—there was no continuing Asian presence with this STAR TREK. I mentioned this to Gene Roddenberry one night at a party at his home.

  “Gene, I don’t see any Asians in the finite diversity of the Next Generation. How come?”

  “You know, you’re right about that. We’ll work on it,” he said.

  Perhaps this conversation was what gave birth to the charming combination of the names Keiko with O’Brien. But, as charming as she was, she still seemed a combination of the traditional Asian scientist and the traditional Asian wife. And the bridge still had a conspicuous void in the world of their brave new future.

  All this I didn’t discuss with Patrick as we flew westward toward our differing missions. The helmsman of the twenty-third-century Starship Enterprise sharing a flight with the new captain of the twenty-fourth-century Enterprise, both returning to Hollywood for different chronicles of the same enterprise—STAR TREK.

  27

  Trek Wars, the Sequel

  “GUESS WHAT?” I HAD NEVER heard Walter’s voice so heavy with foreboding. “Bill is going to be directing STAR TREK V!”

  “Oh my God,” I intoned. “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t think Jimmy will do it. For all the money in the world, he won’t work with Bill as the director.”

  “What’re you going to do?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m willing to keep an open mind . . . but they’ll really have to pay me for it.”

  We all feared the prospect of working with Bill as director. It was difficult enough to act with him, but just the thought of having him so totally in control of our artistic lives as director was utterly dispiriting. We would probably be reduced to even less significance in his version.

  I fantasized the opening scene with all of us at our usual stations on the bridge. The Enterprise moves through a rare energy field and suddenly we all start popping out. The mysterious power of the energy field has made us vanish—all of us, that is, except Bill. Then, astoundingly, figures start to pop back into position! Something amazing is happening. At the stations where we had been—helm, navigation, communication, even down in engineering—the figures that are popping back all look like Bill!

  “Warp three, Mr. Sulu,” commands Captain Kirk, and a figure that looks just like Bill acknowledges, “Aye, sir, warp three.”

  Kirk calls down to engineering, “We need more power, Scotty!”

  And Bill’s voice doing a Scottish accent responds from the intercom, “Ah canna do it, sir.”

  Kirk calls out, “Communications,” and another figure that looks like Bill with a gizmo in his ear swings around in his seat and answers, “Hailing frequencies open, Captain.”

  Every one of the characters are played by Bill! He would be in seventh heaven directing this STAR TREK. It would be the worst, most horrific nightmare for us! And after all our struggles, over all these years, were we going to be brought down this low? Do we want to do STAR TREK that badly?

  Apparently, Jimmy got all the money in the world he needed to work with Bill, because he signed on to do STAR TREK V. Walter signed also. Nichelle did as well. As did De and Leonard. I was the only one who hadn’t signed.

  I had decided that I would do it in order to work with my friends and colleagues again—but only if Paramount matched the fee I had been paid for Return from the River Kwai. Kurt Unger had remunerated me commensurate to how he valued me as, to use his phrase, “an actor who has box office appeal internationally.” Steve, my agent, and I had agreed that a price level had been set by Kurt, and we should have Paramount meet it. And thus began the sequel to my Trek wars from the last film.

  A good sequel should have all of the familiar elements of the preceding hit with just enough new twists and turns to surprise and shock anew. In that sense, the negotiations
for STAR TREK V, and then STAR TREK VI, were crackling good sequels.

  * * *

  Steve Stevens made our proposal to Paramount. Match the figure I had earned from Return from the River Kwai. Steve advised the studio of our position, and we waited. There was dead silence from the studio. We waited longer. We didn’t hear from them for weeks. I had just about resigned myself to not doing STAR TREK V, when Harve called. His voice was cordial—even affectionate.

  “George, my dear. I’d love to have lunch with you at Le St. Germain next week. I have some thoughts I’d like to share with you. Can we get together?” I responded as charmingly as I could. I knew how to play the game also.

  “Of course, Harve. I’d love to. But Wednesday is the only lunch I have open on my calendar next week. Is that okay with you?” It was. Actually, I was free any day that week.

  Le St. Germain was one of the most sophisticated—and expensive—French restaurants in Los Angeles. It was on trendy Melrose Avenue not too far from Paramount. When I walked into the posh foyer of the restaurant on the appointed Wednesday afternoon, Harve was already there sitting at the bar.

  “There’s my darling,” he called out, getting up. “I have a table waiting for us.” We were escorted to a sunny, bricked patio, luxuriant with fresh-blooming greenery. The air seemed scented with perfume.

  “George, I’m very concerned,” he said to me after our Evian water had been poured. “I want you with us on STAR TREK. It won’t be the same without Sulu on board. Can’t we work it out?”

  “I feel the same way, Harve. My heart is with all my friends. They’re all doing the film, and here I am. It breaks my heart that Paramount doesn’t value me as my last producer did. It’s simply a matter of maintaining what I’ve already achieved. You understand that, don’t you?” Harve’s face turned grave.