The View from the Bridge (33 page)

I knew how ridiculous our budget was when I shot a scene in which Scotty breaks through a door to reach the assassin before he can squeeze off a second round. When I asked for another take I was told there would be a twenty-five minute caesura. The reason: the effects department had to rebuild the one door we had.

Later, when he realized that the film was going to be something more than merely the sixth installment in a spent franchise, Goldwyn said, “We should have given you enough money to do it properly.” He was referring to the mundane office furniture chairs so in evidence in our peace conference finale. It did occur to me that it would one day be fun to make a film like this when I wasn't relief pitching.

The last scene was a touchy affair because it was not merely the end of the picture (which, like Spock's death in
Star Trek II
, had tactfully been scheduled at the conclusion of shooting), but because it was also the end of
Star Trek
for the original cast. Whatever ambivalent feelings the actors had about this lifelong, enforced association now manifested themselves as that association neared its end. They were edgy, irritable, suddenly dissatisfied with lines of dialogue, bits of business, reluctant to do this or that, caviling over the ninth particle of a hair. The result was a scene that started well but whose focus and shape were dissipated beneath a welter of last-minute, ad lib adjustments and alterations. As a result, I felt the movie lacked the satisfying climactic feel of Spock's death and funeral in
The Wrath of Khan
.

Star Trek
audiences were suitably moved nonetheless—in this respect and given that it was the final film with the original cast, the material was essentially bulletproof. Someone had the idea that the cast should literally “sign off” with their handwritten signatures on appearing (in contractual order) on the screen. I thought the notion hokey but felt that in light of my disappointment with the final scene, I might have need of hokey and so lodged no objection.

And, bringing the series up to date with political correctness, Kirk's sign-off was now amended to: “to boldly go where no man—where no ONE—has gone before . . .”

After we wrapped the last scene, a party was held on the soundstage, something between a funeral and a wake, with no one quite sure how he felt or exactly what had happened. There was sentiment and sorrow, tears of happiness and of grief, a sense of confusion overall. Only time would distill the significance of this journey's end, and that significance would vary for each of the participants, who would now be facing life without
Star Trek
, though it could be argued they had already done so. After all, when the television series had been canceled, these same actors had gone almost ten years without playing their roles and with no expectation of ever revisiting them. As Spock says in the last film, “I've been dead before.”

And now I was back in the cutting room, where strange things happened. For starters Paramount decided that they didn't have the money to let me finish the film in London, the result of which was that I was separated from my family, who returned to England following the shoot, leaving me to live by my lonesome in a hotel, flying home periodically to see them.

The real shocker, however, turned out to be a genuine coup d'état in the Soviet Union, which we learned had occurred while we were in the midst of assembling our version of the coup in the cutting room. Mikhail Gorbachev had been overthrown, disappeared, and had very possibly been assassinated—just as in our film. There was a flurry of bewildered phone calls among the filmmakers (“Can you believe this?”) followed by excited calls from the studio, Goldwyn wanting to know how soon we could get the movie in theaters. This last was an absurd consideration, as not only was my cut incomplete but most of the FX shots had yet to be delivered from ILM. To give him credit, Goldwyn knew this perfectly well but he had to ask. . . . In the stupefaction and glee of our film's prediction coming true, the fate of poor Gorbachev and of Russia generally, was, I blush to say, of only theoretical concern.
Was it good or bad for the film?
(To our credit, we were genuinely relieved when we finally learned Gorbachev was unharmed.)

It was certainly strange to contemplate. Denny and I had tried to imagine our own brave new world in the absence of the Soviet Union. We had created Gorkon and then, in effect, extrapolating from what we read in the newspapers or saw on television, imagined his likely fate. And then it had seemingly come to pass.

Of the movers behind the coup I shall have more to say presently.

Nimoy saw my first cut and was pleased. We continued working and showed it to him again, substantially improved. But this time his reaction was oddly subdued, which was puzzling. I had known Nimoy for several years and several films by this point, but knowing someone long is not the same as knowing him deep. I couldn't quite figure (and never did) what was really going on. I was certainly unaware of the rage he had apparently been stockpiling.

He asked me if he could fiddle with the last reel, and I didn't see why not (he was, after all, the executive producer), so he took it home and sat down with an editor before giving it back a day or so later. He had improved the reel and in doing so had sparked more ideas for Ron and me, so we went to work and built on the structure introduced by Nimoy.

When we showed him our efforts, he exploded and screamed bloody murder. By what right had I altered his cut? I was in complete shock.
His
cut? At no time had Nimoy suggested that what he had given back to me was sacrosanct
. By what right?
I was the director as well as the cowriter. What more right was I supposed to need? I became equally enraged and remembered shouting back at him (this was, I recollect, over the phone), “I am not your secretary! I am not a stenographer!” Or words to that effect.

Eventually we cooled off, but from then on I kept myself at an emotional remove.

Scott Farrar's effects shots dribbled in from ILM, and Gorkon's floating blood was every bit as spectacular as I'd imagined. We also had a character who “morphed” (then a new term, which I infer was short for “metamor phosed”), again thanks to the brave new world of CGI, and there was a lively scene in which Kirk battled a version of himself. Shooting “effects” scenes is usually tedious beyond belief, but the results are eye-popping when all the pieces come together. Kirk fighting himself was enormous fun to watch, especially the quips he tossed in both directions. “I can't believe I kissed you!” “ must've been your lifelong ambition.” And so forth. (There is a whole geekian subliterature of snappy dialogue during fight scenes and duels. Check out the exchanges between Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone in
The Adventures of Robin Hood;
also in the clinches between Ronald Colman and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., in
The Prisoner of Zenda.
)

The studio's notes were, as I recall, minimal. They were still involved with palace putsches: David Kirkpatrick was out, and Brandon Tartikoff, the
wunderkind
from NBC, was in.

We recorded the music with Eidelman conducting a large ensemble and chorus (Was this the first musical setting of “To be or not to be”? Not if you include the 1868
Hamlet
of Ambrose Thomas, but it it may safely be said it was the first setting of the words in Klingon) on a scoring stage at 20th Century Fox, where it quickly became apparent that something remarkable was taking place. Visitors to the session as well as those connected with the film came into the booth and listened with mounting excitement to what everyone recognized was a great score and one that would define and elevate the film. Once again I got a particular charge out of the presence of my sister, Constance, in the violin section.

At the end of the shoot it is customary to offer the director some souvenir of the experience. I was given the heavy, iron steering wheel from the Klingon Bird of Prey (always useful) but, asked if there was anything I might prefer, I asked for one of the attractive blankets from the
Enterprise
's crew's quarters. The prop man said fine but regretfully informed me that the colorful
Enterprise
logo was merely a temporary stencil. I was disappointed to learn this and began turning over the blanket idea in my mind, finally calling up Paramount merchandising.

“If I suggest something for you guys to sell and you go for it, what do I get out of it?” I asked the lady. She asked what I thought I should get.

“Ten percent?”

She said yes so quickly I knew at once I should have asked for more. I then proceeded to describe my idea. “What are the two problems with most souvenirs?” I began. “The first is that they are cheaply made items that will gather dust on a bookshelf or go into a garage sale within two years. The second drawback is that they tend to have no organic relationship to their actual subject. I used the example of a
Star Trek
mouse pad. “On the other hand,” I continued triumphantly, “wouldn't you sleep better knowing you were underneath the same blankets that covered the crew of the greatest starship of all?” I then went on to detail the blankets. She listened in unenthusiastic silence. The blanket, I was given to understand, would be a headache to create and sell for more money than they believed fans would be willing to pay.

Nonetheless, in the grip of my own enthusiasm, I pushed for the product that was finally authorized
on the condition that I sign a certificate of authenticity to accompany each blanket.

This time it was my turn not to hesitate: “Fine.” It took months and many phone calls—and many signatures—to nudge the blankets into being but they were splendid when finished and Paramount brought them to a
Star Trek
convention where the entire lot sold out before the convention even opened. One would have thought this was sufficient inducement to produce more blankets but Paramount merchandising evidently still thought they were more trouble than they were worth. And I got tired of signing my name—though I did enjoy telling my wife that if we ever fell on hard times, all we had to do was buy several hundred blankets and bank those 10 percent royalties. She'd looked at me strangely when I offered this logic.

When the mix was complete, the finished movie was screened for Gene Roddenberry, who was by now very ill. Word came back that he liked the film, which was a load off my mind. I was still feeling guilty about my behavior when we'd met before shooting began. Three days after viewing the movie, Roddenberry died, a loss that sent shock waves through the studio. It was a foregone decision that the film be dedicated to him. (Later an entire new building on the lot was named for him.) I wanted the wording of our dedication to be simple—
For Gene Roddenberry
—but Brandon Tartikoff had other ideas. Various longer, more flowery versions were considered (“For Gene Roddenberry and his enduring vision”) but I argued strenuously against them, insisting that less was more. I felt the sentiment required no embellishment and I was irked that Tartikoff, who hadn't been around for any of the film's making (or involved with any of the previous
Star Trek
s, for that matter) should take it upon himself to decide
corporately
how the dedication should read. Tartikoff, who loved the movie and was nothing if not good-humored, allowed himself to be persuaded to employ the simpler wording.

(Tragically, Tartikoff and his daughter, Calla Lianne, were severely injured in a car accident less than a year later. And if that wasn't bad enough, Tartikoff succumbed to Hodgkin's disease in August of 1997 at the age of forty-eight.)

There followed the usual credit arbitration, during which Nimoy was understandably outraged to learn that the original screenwriters were to share story credit without him or, for that matter, Denny and me. It certainly struck me as absurd; I still had vivid memories of taking one of these gentlemen through the story scene by scene in London (“the boys are having a little trouble getting started”) while he dutifully copied all I told him on a legal pad. The story had definitely originated with Nimoy; the problem from the Guild's point of view was that he had not literally
written
any of it down. There was no paperwork—only what “the boys” had transcribed from conversations between Nimoy and them and, later, between one of them and me. Nimoy cut through this Gordian knot by threatening to sue the WGA. The credits were duly altered to reflect his prime contribution; Denny and I received screenwriting credit.

During the postproduction period I was informed by Art Cohen and Barry London, heads of PR and marketing, that they would like to meet regarding the title of the movie. It was déjà vu all over again. After we'd sat down and sipped our coffees, they told me they felt that
The Undiscovered Country
as a title was “soft.”

But I was in a different position now than I'd been in ten years earlier, when no one except my assistant, Janna Wong, had even troubled to inform me that my title was being discarded.

“Listen,” I responded, “you've exhausted all the superlatives. We've had the ‘final,' the ‘last,' the ‘ultimate'—no one is paying any attention. Put aside for the moment the fact that no one cares what the subtitle of a
Star Trek
movie is, you might do well to throw people a curveball this time, something oblique like, well . . . ‘The Undiscovered Country.' ” I put up my hands before they could respond and went on amicably: “However, let me make this easy for you. If anyone comes up with a better title, I will be happy to relinquish mine.”

In the good old days of real studios (before they became subsidiaries of conglomerates and bean counters) titles were often decided via a contest. The secretary who named the movie got a bonus. Nowadays the matter is turned over to a computer, which will take a word and do mechanical riffs on it. Take, for example, the word,
escape
. The computer will spew forth, ESCAPE TO THE FUTURE, ESCAPE FROM TOMORROW, ESCAPE TO YESTERDAY, BIG ESCAPE, GREAT ESCAPE, etc. Or try the word
bridge
and you will get BRIDGE TO THE FUTURE, BRIDGE ACROSS TOMORROW, BRIDGE FROM THE PAST, and so forth, before proceeding to the next word. Love? Hate? Death? Balloons?