Metamorphosis

For three years, twelve hours a day, five days a week, approximately ten months of each year, I functioned as an extraterrestrial.

Many people have had some experience with role playing. Some people have had more experience than I; some people have played a particular role longer than I. But given my intense commitment to the identification with this role, and given the unique nature of this extraterrestrial, there may be some value in reassembling the experience.

Six years after having completed the role, I am still affected by the character of Spock, the Vulcan First Officer and Science Officer of the Starship Enterprise. Of course, the role changed my career. Or rather, gave me one. It made me wealthy by most standards and opened up vast opportunities. It also affected me very deeply and personally, socially, psychologically, emotionally. To this day I sense Vulcan speech patterns, Vulcan social attitudes and even Vulcan patterns of logic and emotional suppression in my behavior.

What started out as a welcome job to a hungry actor, has become a constant and ongoing influence in my thinking and lifestyle.

In 1965, Gene Roddenberry was producing a TV series for NEC titled The Lieutenant. It starred Gary Lockwood and had to do with his adventures as a Marine Corps officer. My agent at that time, Alex Brewis, had submitted me for a guest starring role.

The feeling of the director and the casting people, was that I was not suitable for the role. The character was a very garrulous individual who was a Hollywood motion picture star wanting to make a movie about the Marine Corps.

Prior to that time, the major roles that I had had were rather internal whereas this one called for a very outgoing externalized performance. To my agent's credit, he persisted and Marc Daniels, the director of the episode, agreed to interview me and let me read a scene for him. In a very brief meeting which lasted no longer than ten minutes I read for Marc, and he agreed that I could do the role, and I was hired. That same director, Marc Daniels, was to become a very good friend and a director of a large number of our Star Trek episodes.

When the episode was finished, Gene Roddenberry commented to my agent that he was writing a script for a science fiction TV series and he had a role that he wanted me to play. My agent reported this to me but I didn't pay much attention, assuming it would be some time before the script reached the production stage and it was silly to raise my hopes.

However, several months later Gene did call and a meeting was arranged. At that first meeting it was my assumption that I was being interviewed for the role. Gene's conversation threw me off balance because he seemed to be selling me on the idea of working in his series. He took the trouble to walk me through the prop department and the scenic design shop to show me the nature of the work that was being done for the series. Above all he seemed to be trying to impress upon me the fact that this series was being very carefully prepared and that it would be indeed something special to television.

I was so excited at the prospect of getting a steady job on a television series that I tried very hard to keep my mouth shut. I felt that the more I talked the more chance there was of talking myself out of what could be steady work. I left Gene's office very excited and expected negotiations to begin. Several days passed during which I wondered if perhaps I had said something wrong in my meeting with Gene. Then the phone call came and my agent informed me that we had run into a slight catch. Gene wanted to see some film of other performances that I had done "in order to know how to best write the role for me."

This sounded like a very nice way of checking further into my acting capabilities to determine whether or not in fact I was to be given the role.

We agreed to show a film which was a performance that I had done on a Dr. Kildare episode, a couple of years previous. This particular film was chosen because it was quite the opposite of the boisterous character that I had played on The Lieutenant show. Gene saw the film and then negotiations did indeed move ahead. He later told me that he was extremely impressed with the Kildare performance and that he had actually seen it when it was first televised. He flattered me by telling me that he was not aware that the actor in that case and the actor in his show were one and the same. The range of performance was so different.

So in fact the die was cast and I was to become Mr. Spock, son of Sarek, the Vulcan, and Amanda, the Earth scientist, in the science fiction adventure series called Star Trek.

Roddenberry and I had numerous meetings to discuss the nature of the character and his background. The Vulcans had been a violent and emotional people, which almost led to their destruction. They made a decision. Thenceforth emotion was to be foreign to the Vulcan nature. Logic would rule. Vulcans would be distinguished in appearance by their skin color, hair style and pointed ears, a race concerned with dignity and progress, incorporating the culture and ritual of the past with the best of what the future could offer. In Spock there would be a special mixture of tensions. The logic and emotional suppression of the Vulcan people through the father, Sarek, pitted against the emotional and humanistic traits inherited from the human mother, Amanda.

These were rich beginnings for a TV character and especially challenging for an actor whose idols were Lon Chancy and Paul Muni, both great character actors of the past, but I had mixed feelings about it. At this point my career wasn't exactly what one would call extraordinary, but I was making a living as an actor and as a teacher. Most important, I took a great pride in my reputation as a solid character actor. I had reached the point where I was able to be somewhat selective about the roles I played, accepting only those which I thought had merit and offered opportunities to play dimensional people. As yet, I had not read a Star Trek script. I was very much concerned about the possibility of getting involved in what might turn out to be a "mickey mouse" character. I felt it could be a ludicrous adventure, possibly leading to embarrassment for myself and the other people involved.

I discussed the problems with Vie Morrow, an actor whose talent and judgment I respected. Vie and I went through the pros and cons of the situation and even at one point touched on the possibility of devising a make-up that would be so complete that Leonard Nimoy would be totally unrecognizable. In this way I could do the job, earn the money and avoid the dangers of being connected with a ludicrous character.

Of course, it didn't work out that way and I am very happy with the way the matter resolved itself. But, to this day, I still think it might have been fun to have played that character totally hidden and be totally mysterious and unavailable in my private life. It could have been the put-on of the century. Just imagine the headlines in the newspapers and magazines:

ACTUAL ALIEN AGREES TO APPEAR IN SCIENCE FICTION TV SERIES.

In any case, I finally decided to plunge in and make a commitment. Gene Roddenberry and I shook hands on our deal with mutual good faith and excitement. We were giving birth to an extraterrestrial.

The first physical labor pains took place in a make-up room at the Desilu Studios in Hollywood. I sat down in front of a mirror, and Lee Greenway, a durable make-up man and old acquaintance from Kid Monk Baroni, started to experiment with an admittedly crude application of the first pair of pointed ears. They were "built-up" with layers of paper tissue and liquid latex, never expected to be acceptable but only to give an indication of what the effect might be. Well, it was as bizarre as the result of a child playing with her mother's make-up. It was gruesome, ludicrous and very depressing. Roddenberry and Herb Solow, head of television production at the studio, asked my permission to run some video tape on me, to be studied in the projection room. I agreed and was led onto the stage of I Love Lucy. Fortunately the audience had not arrived for the day's taping. But the crew, 15 or 20 craftsmen, was asked to light me and run some footage.

The results were painful. Had the make-up been complete, the wardrobe present, the character fully realized, it would have been difficult. Under the circumstances, dressed in very casual street clothes with a crude pair of pointed ears, in the context of the I Love Lucy set, it was, to say the least, painful. And yet, here it was, the beginning of the public exposure of the extraterrestrial.

I found myself taking mental notes. Storing away emo­tional memories which might someday be useful in the role. Those feelings of being alien, almost to the point of being ridiculous. Knowing that each of these people would be composing clever lines of dialogue to exchange after I had gone. These were the real seeds from which the emotional structure of Spock would grow.

I was moving into the world of an extraterrestrial. Already I could feel myself building defenses, attempting to elevate my thinking above and beyond a concern for the opinion of mere humans. I was of another realm and they could think what they would.

Several weeks later, I would have a similar experience during the first day of shooting on the pilot film. Fully wardrobed in the uniform prescribed by Starfleet, and in full make-up, I stepped onto the sound stage at the studio for the first time. This time, at least in a physical sense, the character was complete.

My agent was there to greet me. With him was a lovely female client. Her reaction was startling. She was open and obvious in her interest, and gave me my first exposure to the generous and gratifying female reaction which was to come, synthesized in Dr. Isaac Asimov's later description of Spock as "a security blanket with sexual overtones."

I should pause at this point and give some credit where it is due. Between the time that Lee Greenway first applied that crude pair of ears and the time we were ready to actually start shooting the pilot, we walked some dangerous paths. Making a proper appliance like a pair of ears that is believable is a very sophisticated and special task. The studio, Desilu at that time, had contracted with a special effects company who were to design and build most of the special gear for creatures on various planets, such as the strange and grotesque heads and foam latex suits and so forth—the type of thing that was seen in the show called "Arena" where Bill Shatner fought a creature called a Gorn. They were asked, among other things, to prepare my ears for the pilot.

There is a vast difference between the type of work they were to do, which would completely cover a man's head or body, and the very delicate appliance work that was necessary for the ears. They went through the necessary procedures much as any make-up or appliance artist would do. A plaster cast was made of the particular feature, in this case my own ears, then a "positive" reproduction was made by pouring a hardening solution into that cast, so that when it was removed they had, in effect, a perfect replica of my own ears. Then an artist built up the tips of the top edge of the ear with putty which became, in effect, the "appliance," which eventually was used. This putty tip then was cast in plaster to make a mold. Eventually foam rubber of a very delicate nature was poured into that mold and what emerged was a pair of foam rubber tips to be applied to my ears.

The first pair was delivered to the studio and Fred Phillips, who was in charge of the make-up department for the series, applied them and they looked pretty bad. We showed them to Gene Roddenberry and others involved, and they too agreed that another effort should be made. This same company then proceeded to try again on two or three occasions and the results were simply not right. Fred explained to me that these people were not specialists in this particular field. The problem was that the studio, having contracted with them to do all of the special effect work in this area, wanted these people to deliver the appliances. To go to another source would mean an additional cost which the studio was anxious to avoid.

Time was running out. Within a few days we would begin to shoot the series, and the ears were simply not right. It was at this point that I went to Gene Roddenberry and told him that we had a serious problem. The eyebrows, by this time, were taking shape, the haircut was evolving, the skin tone had been arrived at, and I felt that perhaps we had best avoid the ears since we were running into so much trouble.

It's somewhat legendary now that Gene did in fact insist that we should continue to try to solve the "ear problem." In this conversation he told me that he felt that it was vital to maintain one's own original ideas rather than see them washed away in compromise because of temporary difficulties. He also promised me that we would do thirteen episodes with these ears and that if I wasn't happy he would write a script where Mr. Spock got an "ear job."

About three days before the pilot was to be shot, Fred Phillips had reached the point of desperation. He took it upon himself without consulting the studio to take me to the lab of a specialist in delicate appliance work. The procedure started all over again. The plaster cast, the mold, the designing of the tips, the casting, etc., and within about thirty-six hours a pair of ears arrived which were to Fred's satisfaction. These then were the ears which were first used for the original Star Trek pilot. To this day, I am most grateful to Fred Phillips for knowing the difference between what was wrong and what was right and having the guts to do something about it. Had he not made that decision the Spock character could have been a comic disaster from the start.

So it began. I went to work and played the scenes. Said the lines. Groping and learning to walk, talk, function as an alien. Putting out the sounds and motions and watching, recording the feedback of my fellow actors, crew personnel and visitors. It was difficult for a long time. The total understanding of the character would only be found in the total context. This rigid pointed-eared creature was only a visual gimmick until perceived as a part of a whole: the particular story we were filming, the ship, the crew, the antagonists, the entire buildup of another world, another time. Taken alone, in bits and pieces, out of context, it was still dangerously close to a joke.

Nevertheless, I began to feel more comfortable. I could understand my place, my function in the stories, my relationship to the other characters. A sense of dignity began to evolve. I took a pride in being different and unique.

Above all, I began to study human behavior from an alien point of view. I began to enjoy the Vulcan position. "These humans are interesting, at times a sad lot, at times foolish, but interesting and worthy of study."

The scripts, particularly the character of Dr. McCoy, the humanist, offered opportunities to deal with the human need to see everything and others only in relation to themselves. "Anybody who isn't like us is strange. Anybody who doesn't want to be like us is a fool."

I was becoming alienated, and didn't realize it. My attitude toward the humans around me became quite paternal. In some respects I assumed the position of teacher, or role model. My hope was that we could reduce inefficiency and silly emotionalism if I set examples through my higher standards of discipline and precision.

"Nature abhors a vacuum." I showed little or no emotional response, so my co-workers and associates projected responses for me. For example, this quote from a co-worker passed along to me by a friend at the studio: "I see (in Nimoy) a growing image of a shrewd, ambition-dominated man, probing, waiting with emotions and feelings masked, ready to leap at the right moment and send others broken and reeling. ..."

At the onset, the actor felt protective of the character, much as a parent tries to protect a developing child. Certainly my ego was involved and was bruised. But it seemed important to help the character to come to life. When he did, he protected the actor. He became an ever-present friend who could be called upon as an ally in adverse circumstances. Nimoy could submerge himself and let the formidable Spock take over.

Eventually, the show went on the air (September 8, 1966). The reaction was immediate and multiplied at an astounding rate. The magic of Spock became quickly apparent. I was mobbed at personal appearances and security measures were necessary to get me into and out of crowded situations. Security and privacy suddenly became important words to me and to my family. The mail and phone calls and in general the intense activity that I suddenly experienced made it obvious that we were involved in something that was "happening." Before too long even NBC became actively involved in the "Spock phenomenon."

I discovered later through Gene Roddenberry and Herb Solow that NBC had been very negative about the character and in fact wanted the character removed from the series before the shooting started. Where they had originally felt that "no one would want to identify with the Spock character," they now decided that everyone was identifying. Therefore, they wanted Spock much more actively involved in the stories that would be shot in the future.

Since the whole thing started I had felt a wide range of emotional reaction to my identification with Spock. The range has included at various times a total embracing of the character and a total rejection of the character.

Spock was quickly becoming a pop culture hero. I didn't set out to be a pop culture hero. The simple truth is that I set out to be a craftsmanlike actor, a professional and possibly some day even an artist.

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 859