Up Till Now

by William Shatner

  Denny Crane. Denny Crane!

  After the successful introduction of Denny Crane on The Practice, ABC bought David E. Kelley’s spin-off, Boston Legal. My reluctance to commit to the series had changed so drastically that rather than being reticent, I was very upset when I was offered a 7/13 contract, meaning they would only guarantee that I would appear in a minimum of seven of the first thirteen episodes rather than an all-shows-produced deal. That didn’t seem right. I was Denn...William Shatner. Emmy Award–winning William Shatner.

  Denny Crane is a brilliant, outrageous, unpredictable, funny, sexist—”A hundred women there and you didn’t invite me? That’s two hundred breasts and you kept them all to yourself”—courageous, occasionally looney character. Creating Denny Crane was a collaboration between the producers, the writers, and me. He is an extraordinarily complex character, capable of moving almost instantly from serious drama to the comedy of the absurd, without ever acknowledging to the audience which aspect of that is real. When he confides to Alan Shore, “I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of...I think I have mad penis,” it has to be said with such honesty, such fear, that the audience will wonder how much he believes that and how much he is playing with Shore. Is he truly crazy, with moments of laserlike insight or is he absolutely brilliant, using absurdity to control his terrain? It took us several shows to clearly define the character as indefinable.

  Denny Crane was described as a man whose great financial success as a litigator is visible. He wears only expensive suits, he’s always perfectly dressed, smokes the best cigars, and drinks the best scotch—and knows the difference. Apparently in early meetings

  F. Lee Bailey’s name was mentioned. The sets were designed before the first script was written, which was somewhat unusual. Basically, it takes place in the plush offices of a respected Boston law firm, one of those places where the carpet is so thick the only sound you hear is the perfect-tone chime of an arriving elevator. In one show, for example, Denny Crane admits, “I’m so far up the ass of big business that I view the world as one great colon.”

  The most difficult aspect for Kelley was finding just the right balance between drama and humor in the scripts. So after we shot the pilot David E. Kelley decided it wasn’t substantial enough and rewrote it. He asked one of the producers, “What if we made it One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest set in a law firm?” The second version of the pilot was much funnier than the initial script. Then he wrote another version which was extremely serious and tended to minimize the relationship between Denny Crane and Alan Shore. The draft was, it was finally agreed, a very good episode of The Practice and would disappoint those people expecting it to be a truly new show. Then he rewrote it again and that was the version we finally shot.

  That balance between drama and comedy was extremely difficult to find and it took some poking around to get there. We struggled with it for several shows. As brilliantly as the shows were written, there was a lot about Denny Crane that wasn’t on the page. In one of our very first scenes, for example, Alan Shore asks Denny Crane, “What are you, homosexual?” The way it was written I didn’t respond. I had to say something. Why are you asking? Nice of you to care. So’s your old man. Anything, but I had to respond. Yet there was nothing written to indicate Denny Crane’s reaction. And I had to stop and think about it. How would this character react? He’s a tough guy, a former military officer, always calling people “soldier” and fixing their ties, and sexual harassment be damned—he’s never afraid to tell a woman how sexy she looks. And what he would like to do about it. I was left completely on my own to develop this character, which is right because that’s why they hired me. So my first reaction to it was to laugh. Denny Crane a homosexual? Now that’s funny, soldier. I had no idea how to play it. I didn’t know how to deal with it and that kind of scared me. Do you like this guy or not like him? Is he sardonic or not sardonic? I needed an emotion to color my words and I didn’t know it yet, I didn’t know Denny Crane well enough to know how he would react. But I learned. As Denny Crane went through a variety of sometimes very unusual experiences, from being caught in a passionate embrace with a blow-up doll made up to resemble his partner, played by Candice Bergen, to falling in love with the midget daughter of a former girlfriend, I learned who he is. Denny Crane was once a great lawyer and at times is still at the top of that game. He is a great reader of human nature, which gives him a great advantage. And he reads people with the skill of a great poker player.

  Each decision we made further defined the character. In the first episode an old friend sadly told Denny Crane that his wife was having an affair and he was asking Denny to investigate. “I want you to find out what’s going on,” he said.

  As it turned out Denny Crane knew exactly what was going on— because he was the one with whom she was having the affair. When this friend found out he pulled a gun on Denny Crane and threatened to kill him. Rather than pleading for his life, or warning the man of the consequences, Denny Crane became the aggressor. “Go ahead, pull the trigger. Because that’s the way Denny Crane should go out. It’ll be front-page news in The New York Times.” Great writing, strong character definition—but my question was, how do I play it? I knew what Kirk would do, and Hooker. I wanted to walk around my desk and confront this man; I wanted to be bold, get up right in his face. I wanted to show him that a mere gun doesn’t scare Denny Crane. That seemed the right response to me. But our director, Bill D’Elia, strongly believed Denny Crane would sit behind his desk defiantly and say quietly and resolutely, “Go ahead and pull the trigger . . .”

  We argued about it. Voices got raised. We stood toe-to-toe. Mano a mano. Actor-to-director. The creative process at work. Loudly. He followed me back to my dressing room, both of us defending a position that we knew might not even be the best answer. Finally I agreed to do it his way. It worked, and further colored the character.

  Although certainly it didn’t work as well as walking around the desk and confronting him.

  Scene by scene Denny Crane was shaped. David E. Kelley’s writing fed my performance which further fed the writing which enhanced my performance which was reflected in the writing... Everything I’d learned in my career went into his creation, so when I read a line the underlying emotion had to come from the life I’d invented for him, rather than from my own life. When Denny Crane is asked by Alan Shore if he’s lonely, for example, I could say no and mean it or I could say no and mean, yes, I am desperately lonely. But in order to do that I had to say it with the conviction of an arrogant lawyer whose attitude is, I can convince a jury that anything I say is true. An actor’s choice is to say the lines as he or she thinks they should be said, or say them through the filter of their character’s life. And the more I learned about Denny Crane the more he was able to speak for himself. Although, truthfully, Liz believes that sometimes I experiment with Denny Crane at home. And as he is a broad exaggeration of what I am, and she knows me so well, it’s difficult for her to separate Shatner from Crane.

  But there was one thing that I insisted Denny Crane was not— Captain James T. Kirk. In one of our first scripts I had a line in which I insisted members of the firm call me “Captain.” I told D’Elia, “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to say this line. I don’t want to be called Captain.”

  D’Elia agreed. “I bet I know why.” I smiled and nodded, and then he asked, “Okay, so how about Commander?”

  Admittedly, by the end of our second season I was feeling so comfortable in Denny Crane’s expensive suits that while talking to my partners I did describe myself as “the captain of the ship.” And in another episode Alan Shore did refer to sealice as “cling-ons,” to which I responded, somewhat startled, “Did you say ‘Klingons’?”

  I think what surprised everyone was the intensity of the relationship that developed between Denny Crane and Alan Shore. Their friendship has been called the best love affair on television. Certainly there has never been a stronger bond between two men portrayed on a series. David E. Kel
ley had planned for them to be law partners, close friends, and confidants, but what developed organically from these two characters has far transcended those original intentions. What has become a hallmark of Boston Legal is the final scene, in which Denny Crane and Alan Shore relax on the balcony outside Denny Crane’s office, overlooking Boston, smoking their cigars, often sipping an aged scotch, and talking honestly and intimately in a way very few television characters have ever related to each other. At the conclusion of an episode in which the two of them had engaged in a charity wrestling match, for example, Alan Shore says, “You cheated.”

  “I did not.” And after a thoughtful pause Denny Crane remembered, “Y’know...the first time I had sex with Shirley...it went exactly like that. I flipped her on her back and sat on her head.”

  Alan took a long drag on his cigar. “I hope it was better for her than it was for me.”

  “Better for me. It also lasted about four seconds.”

  On the balcony at the end of another episode, in which Alan had defended a man who had been charged with allowing his terminally ill wife to die so he might be with his lover, Alan quotes a witness who testified, “Families often act to end their own suffering.” Then he wonders, “Is that what happened with your father?”

  I rolled Denny Crane’s cigar in his fingers and remembered his father, and possibly my own, although Denny Crane’s had suffered from dementia and had lost his awareness. “He wasn’t exactly in pain. His appetite was good. In fact he was actually smiling more in the end than he...On the day, the day we told the doctor to up the drip, he was blissful. We put him out of our misery. And I often wondered, did that life belong to the man with the brain of a two-year-old? Or to the life of the man who preceded it? It certain...it didn’t belong to me...”

  “How’d you get the doctor to do it?” “Denny Crane. I was still the real thing then.” “Denny, I’m gonna say this right now and then I’m going to memorialize it in my living will. If I ever end up with the mind of a two-year-old...”

  “I’ll have Bev sit on you...My day is coming, Alan. We both know that.”

  “It’s a long ways off. And in the meantime, live big, my friend. Live big.”

  The always-humorous, usually poignant, amazingly popular, reflective balcony scenes were created by accident. David E. Kelley’s first script ended with Alan Shore on the balcony with his then-girlfriend, Sally Heath. On our balcony with a woman! That cad! But after several rewrites a romantic ending just didn’t work anymore, so instead Alan Shore ended up there with Denny Crane. It was not intended to be the kicker for each episode; in fact several of the initial shows didn’t end that way. But the feedback was enormous; people, men mostly, responded to their friendship. I’ve had to play some very difficult scenes on Boston Legal—believe me, it’s not easy to look good dressed as a pink flamingo, but one of the most intense balcony scenes ended a show in which Denny Crane had caught Alan being friendly with another man. Denny Crane was piqued, he was terribly jealous. It was a very fragile moment, I had to express the emotions of a woman who had caught the man she loved cheating on her—but in a very nonsexual way. If I went too far it became broad comedy; if I was too intense it became anger rather than hurt. When people talk to me about Boston Legal, this is the show they often cite. More than any other moment, this is the balcony scene that most accurately describes their relationship. “I don’t know whether you know this,” Denny Crane admits to Alan Shore, “but not many men take the time, every day, to have a cigar, a glass of scotch, to talk to their best friend. That’s not something most men have.”

  “No, it isn’t.” “What I give to you, what I share, I do with no one else. I like to think that what you give to me you do with nobody else. Now that may sound silly to you. But here’s what I think is silly, the idea that jealousy or fidelity is reserved for romance. I always suspected there was a connection between you and that man. That you got something you didn’t get from me.”

  “I probably do. But gosh, what I get from you, Denny. People walk around today calling everyone their best friend. The term doesn’t have any real meaning anymore. Mere acquaintances are lavished with hugs and kisses upon a second or at most third meeting, birthday cards get passed around offices so everybody can scribble a snippet of sentimentality for a colleague they barely met, and everyone just loves everyone. As a result when you tell someone you love them today, it isn’t heard much. I love you, Denny, you are my best friend. I can’t imagine going through life without you as my best friend. I’m not going to kiss you, however.”

  The relationship between Denny Crane and Alan Shore never could have worked if James Spader and I hadn’t become friends. I mean, him I don’t love. But certainly I like him and respect him greatly. I remember the day we met, I extended my hand. “Hi. Bill Shatner.”

  We shook. “James Spader.”

  I asked, “Is it James or can I call you Jimmy?”

  And he replied firmly, “No. It’s James.”

  My kind of guy. “Well, in that case,” I told him, “perhaps I should be called William.”

  Among the many things I enjoy about ...James, is that he makes me appear much closer to normal than might otherwise be true. Like me, he’s a sensualist; especially about food and drink and other people. He’s self-taught and extremely knowledgeable about a great range of subjects. On the set we have great rapport—and of course I enjoy teasing him. And perhaps he’ll tell you what I tease him about in his autobiography.

  James is a very precise person. When planning a vacation in Europe, for example, he’ll book a reservation in a restaurant weeks in advance and actually decide what he will order. Unlike me, who simply goes into a restaurant when I’m hungry and eats... something.

  But as far as I’m concerned it’s the very best something anybody has ever had at any time. Really, you have to try this something, I promise you you’ve never tasted something like it before. You have to try it, you must.

  He’s a wonderful actor, an award-winning television and movie star known for the quirky parts he has played. What makes our onscreen relationship work so well is that the way we approach a script reflects the way we experience life. James’s desire is to set his performance, usually at home. By the time we start rehearsing he has already decided how he wants to read a line and what he wants to do physically. If he sets a move he doesn’t want to vary it: this is where I’m going to stand, this is where I’m going to be looking, this is how I’m going to read that line. And I’m going to do it that way every time.

  Or so I thought. But one day James and I sat down—although not on the famous office balcony where we conclude each show—and discussed the technique of acting. It was fascinating for me to see how we both got to the same moment. “I meticulously prepare the text,” James explained. “I go over and over and over it for hours at a time. I don’t have to think about the words at all.

  “Therefore, when I get to the set, because I’m so familiar with the character, I’m ready for anything my character might want to do. Anything.”

  What James was saying, or perhaps what I heard him say, is that he spends a tremendous amount of time preparing to be spontaneous. That preparation allows him to inhabit the character. But the character is on his own.

  I like to ad-lib. Not with the words—especially not with the words on Boston Legal because of the quality of our writers. Generally there is nothing an actor can do that will benefit those words, except say them exactly as they are written. I have noticed that when I do change a word or two it does make a difference; the lines are so beautifully crafted that if I say “we” instead of “I” I might change the rhythm. Maybe the joke is not quite as sharp or the timing is slightly off, so I learn the exact words and I say them exactly as they have been written. So my improvisation is in the emotion; in the way I recite the lines. Once I have the lines down I’ll experiment with variations. That’s the way I examine a role, I hear all the possibilities and within each one a slightly different meaning. For
me, that’s the fun of acting. The words aren’t ad-libbed, the intent is. The way a person says something that reveals not only the true meaning of their words, but the essence of their character.

  For example, on the page the words “Don’t do this to me, Bill” are cold. But to hear Nerine begging me not to leave, “Don’t do this to me, Bill” as she exposed her very soul to me, has a hugely different meaning.

  James and I also approach our roles with very different energy. He is low energy, he takes his time to ponder each word, and he’s very slow to respond. Me? High energy. Bust it out there.

  Somehow it works. At the end of our first season James received the first of the two Emmys he would win as the Outstanding Lead Actor in a Series—the second and third Emmys of his career—while I would win my second Emmy.

  There is at least one other very important thing I like about James—in some ways he reminds me of Leonard. We had a scene in which James was in a conversation with several other people. The action of the scene required me to go to one of those people and lean over. It occurred to me that while leaning over I could stick my ass in James’s face. The value of all my experience is that I recognize an opportunity to stick...to provide a prop for a fellow actor. I thought I was giving to James perhaps the single greatest straight line one actor can bestow on another: I was presenting him with the butt of the joke. There were many options; he could play it broadly for laughs, “Ah, I see there is a full moon on the horizon.” Or he could be acerbic, “Congratulations, Denny, you’ve finally gotten a bigger part.” He could be angry, “Denny, do you know you’re a bigger lawyer than you’ve ever been?” Or he could wax philosophical, “There is nothing like a man’s posterior in close proximity to make you consider your own mortality.” Instead, he chose to tell me, “You can’t do that.”

  I was offended by his attitude, but I said nothing because I had instigated it and didn’t want to cause a problem. Instead I just stayed away from him for the rest of the morning. I was eating lunch in my dressing room when James knocked on the door, “Can I come in?” En-terrrr! “You’re offended, aren’t you? Let’s talk about it.”