My Time With Shatner

 

That's not click bait. 

Early in my career I had the opportunity to work as studio camera operator on a public television series, and for one episode William Shatner was the guest star.

After I leaving commercial radio in the middle 1970s, I'd managed to transition to television production.  My first gig was on the studio camera crew for a regional PBS education television operation called the Nebraska ETV Network, housed in a  massive and state-of-the art production facility on the east campus of the University of Nebraska.

As a regional feeder hub for national public television, NETV contributed original programming to the Corporation for Public Television and its distribution arm PBS.  A couple years after starting work there, I found myself one of the studio camera operators for a spoken-word poetry series, eventually known as “Anyone for Tennyson?” 

Produced by a New York company called Great Amwell, the executive producers were William Perry and Jane Iredale. These two forged an agreement with NETV brass Jack McBride and Ron Hull and soon our four production studios and post-production facilities became a factory producing three seasons... sixty half-hour, prime time PBS episodes ... covering the works of over three hundred poets.

The production was multi-camera-studio, using three, sometimes four large studio cameras rolled about on wheeled dollies with signals fed into a main control room where the show was switched using a large console with a sea of buttons and fader handles.  Some of these “Tennyson” episodes were shot live-to-tape in front of a studio audience following a couple days of rehearsal.  For other episodes we taped closed-set in smaller chunks, over two or three days, and later edited segments into their finished half-hour format.  Decades later I'd transition into a career as Director of Photography for films and commercials, which was more of the traditional narrative, single-camera "Hollywood type” of production.

Television studio cameras at the time weighed about two-hundred pounds, had small black-and-white video screens on the backside used as viewfinders and came with headsets so the director, housed next door in a control room, could call out shots while watching monitors and giving instructions over intercom without actors... or studio audience... hearing the command chatter.  The cameras themselves were always called out by number... one, two, three, sometimes four... from left to right.  One and Three served as “wing” cameras with the middle camera, always Camera Two, dedicated to covering your guest star. 

Putting poetry on television can be a tricky thing.  A poem is born on the written page, yet it flourishes when read aloud, but only if that performer should be skilled enough. Otherwise it's more painful than a kindergarten dance recital.  Recordings of such mundane verbal expression go back to the earliest wax cylinder recordings of Thomas Edison and his plodding recitation of “Mary Had A Little Lamb.”  Shakespeare's plays also begin as script on a page, but simply putting a camera in front of stage performers can be a bit of a crap shoot.  Without adaptation, using a visual medium to express a written one can result in truly poor television.

To address all this the executive producers decided to cast a dedicated quartet of experienced stage actors for this series.  Cynthia Herman, Jill Tanner and George Backman auditioned successfully, with Paul Hecht rounding out the quartet for season one.  But for season two, his role was played by Norman Snow.  Come season three, the fourth member was one Victor Bevine.
 

So in reality, it became more a Poetry Trio of three featured cast members, with that fourth slot a doomed and dispensable position.  The crew came to think of it in the cursed “Red Shirt” context where some random Starfleet security personnel rarely survived beyond the second act... a minor character, always wearing the red uniform, who'd be killed off before the end... to apply that classic Star Trek series trope. 

Producers also hedged their bets on this poetry series by adding guest stars in every third or fourth episode.  Eventually we saw Cyril Ritchard, Claire Bloom, Richard Kiley, Ruby Dee, Will Geer, Henry Fonda, Valerie Harper, Vincent Price, and during season two, Darrin McGavin, Fred Gwynne, and Captain Kirk himself, William Shatner.  The program theme for Shatner's appearance was “A Poetic Portrait Gallery.”

For this episode I was assigned as operator for Camera Two, the middle camera which would primarily cover our guest star.  This was 1977 and I'd been at the studio three years. Yes, I'd been a fan of the original series “Star Trek” when it first aired from 1966 until 1969.  NBC then cancelled the show after it's third season, a year before my high school graduation.  Now, only eight years later, here I was on the day when William Shatner himself walked into our cavernous Studio One. 

There was really nothing otherwise special about the moment.  The studio worker bees, finishing up some lighting and helping to dress the set, heard the studio's door creak and the show's director Marshall Jamison strolled in, escorting Mr. Shatner for a walk through of the studio set.  For this episode the scenic design was a rather stark, minimalist interpretation of an art gallery, with sections of white gallery wall interrupted by gaps of black studio nothingness. The plan was to change out framed artwork on the wall panels as different poetry themes were addressed by actors.  Numerous potted plants rounded out the “art museum” motif.

The director and Shatner spoke quietly during their look-see, Marshall explaining and Shatner nodding. Of course the crew took notice, our quick glances sizing up our guest for the week.  Marshall Jamison was a towering man, perhaps six-three or six-four, a veteran of both Broadway and the Golden Age of live network television, having directed "U.S. Steel Hour" and "That Was The Week That Was".  Beside him, Shatner seemed diminutive, smaller in person than a die-hard Trekker might expect.  I immediately considered Quartet member George Backman, quite lanky and tall. Such height discrepancies were bound to create interesting staging and blocking challenges for Jamison (one trick he would use that week was to keep Backman seated whenever sharing a scene with Shatner).

There is an unspoken etiquette that one learns on a studio set, namely that name actors and stars are to be respected.  They aren't there because they're looking to make friends... there because it is a job, one for which they've gained some mastery of the skill sets.  As with many occupations, a level of attention and concentration is required when you work, lest you screw things up. The better actors can make it look all so easy and natural, but do not mistake easy for easy-going or accessible.  Although our director and the executive producers were invited to call him “Bill,” for myself I was only comfortable addressing him as “Mr. Shatner” and then only when necessary.  Forty years later, as I'm writing this, I will reference him by last name for literary convenience.

Appearing on “Anyone For Tennyson?” was perhaps not the shiniest career point for Shatner. Coming eight years after the “Star Trek” cancellation, but a full five years before his ABC series “T. J. Hooker” in 1982, his defining role as Captain Kirk now seemed to haunt the man, always following behind him like some shadowy pup, no matter what career turn he took or what audition he entered.  Our first day, when one of the studio engineers within earshot happened to let the phrase “beam me up” slip out, a noticeable chill flashed through the set.  The studio crew quickly picked up that any mention of the expression “Captain James T.” would be off limits.  Shatner himself would later refer to these years as “that period” when role offers were few and he'd been attending sci-fi and Trek fan conventions, along with roles in "Big Bad Mama", "Kingdom of the Spiders" and "Horror at 37,000 Feet".  Not to mention occasional celebrity spots on daytime TV game show "$10,000 Pyramid".  Things would however start looking up; just two years after this Tennyson gig Shatner returned to his original role for Paramount's big screen reboot "Star Trek: The Motion Picture", released in 1979.

The centerpiece of this particular “Anyone For Tennyson?” episode was selections from the 1915 “Spoon River Anthology” by Edgar Lee Masters.  It's a collection of free verse short poems comprising fictional epitaphs of departed town residents as imagined by Masters.  Each of the cast would have turns at the more famous short verses, staged with a few simple set elements for mood...  a gnarled tree branch here, or a stylized tombstone there.  Lighting cues helped establish some visual tone for each.

It may not be widely known, but when first starting out, Shatner had been a member of the Canadian National Repertory Theatre in Ottawa where he trained as a classical Shakespearean actor.  The words of Shakespeare and performance of poetry are both about cadence, beat, and timing.  Although teleprompters grace every camera, they're only a crutch just showing the words of the script.  Nothing about pacing, pausing, phrasing.  One simply can't mark-up the teleprompter script to show those nuances.  It takes preparation and practice.  Shatner arrived on our set prepared. 

From what I remember, recording stopped more often for technical gaffes and sound problems than for any performance issues. With only three members of the Quartet working on this episode, not four... it was almost as if Mr. Shatner's presence was the only additional factor needed to fully round out this ensemble. Cast members Cynthia, Jill and George seemed just a bit more “on” working with an important guest star.  Same could be said for the studio camera crew, too. 

With multiple live cameras, this type of television production isn't just about pointing your camera at the right actor.  Operators are, by necessity, an extension of the director because the director is locked up in another room watching camera feeds on video monitors.  In the studio, you must be aware of what all the cameras are covering all the time.  If the director calls for three different closeups, all three cameras have to quickly match up framing or the cutting looks sloppy.  Today, robotics can fill this point-and-focus role, but back then the director depended on each camera operator to give creative input.  For myself, every angle counted. You made choices about framing, or adding subtle dolly movement during a scene, or even what lens height to pick. And that's the one that would get me into trouble.

During rehearsal for his “Deacon Taylor” recitation, concerning a prominent church member secretly fighting alcoholism, I'd framed a low angle up on Shatner as The Deacon.  In the biz we call this a “power angle” and it seemed to help define the perspective of a congregation member looking up to Deacon Taylor in a pulpit.  At one point there was a line in the shooting script where this character reaches out to grab a wine bottle placed prominently in the frame, a hand prop difficult to see from a higher camera angle.

The control room signed off on my composition and we began prepping for a run through for lines. In my viewfinder I saw Shatner frowning just a bit, holding his pose, staring right through my lens directly to me. Slowly, subtly, he motioned with his hand, a gentle little “up up up” lift with his palm.  Something's off.  I step out from behind my camera: 

    “Something?” I ask. 

    “Up,” he motions, as if to say “bring the lens up.”

Strange, I think to myself.  But I comply, unlock the pedestal column and bring it up a couple inches but Shatner quickly waives off my attempt at correction.

    “Not enough, higher” he gestures.

I try another lift but my once dramatic power angle is diluted to the point of ineffectiveness and my efforts at supporting the context of the frame disintegrate like an Enterprise crew member caught in some faulty transporter beam. Quietly, I step forward beside my lens and gently ask why this low angle is discomforting. 

Shatner pauses.  He looks me in the eye.  Quick glance left and right, sees no one else watching. Then he raises his hand but this time with eyes locked to mine and his fingers up, he taps the underside of his own chin, a mime to silently suggest:

    “This.  Double chin.”

He pats the underside of his jaw again for emphasis.  His message is:

    “Help me out a bit here.”

Ah, vanity. And my lesson learned.  Always make the star feel good, at least about himself.  To be honest, with the strong dramatic studio lighting the whole staging was so shadowed that I hadn't seen the cause of his concern, unfounded or not, but it was a bother and distraction that he didn't need. I nodded in reply.

My solution was to pull back, moving the lens away and compensating for the wider frame by zooming tighter and using a longer focal length.  The result was additional distance from the lens which seemed to appease Shatner because now the upward angle appeared less severe.  The director, watching my camera feed in the control room, either didn't see or didn't mind the adjustment.  We rehearsed once and shot the scene.

As I write this little anecdote about William Shatner after four long decades, I'm struck by how clear the moment remains.  It's one small career lesson that helped form my larger philosophy as a cameraman and director of photography.  Because for each of us, there will be tiny details that matter. Within all the various filmmaking crafts including acting, those details will be different but the weight of their importance remains. Here was a man, an actor, someone I'd watched on a national television series not that many years before, trying now to get me to give just a little.  As though somehow that Kirk from my high school youth was now negotiating with me for a small cosmetic consideration, made necessary by the unfortunate natural conspiracy of time and dermal elasticity and gamma rays and the relentless tug of gravity. 

In that television studio, at that moment, I had a chance to help an actor's performance just a bit rather than be another hindrance upon it.  And for Mr. Shatner, it was...

Face... the primal frontier.

Transitions

Hopefully, this blog is therapeutic for me.  This time around, kind reader, forget any observations on media or reading war stories about the film and television business. And it’s less of a blog and more a full chapter.

I preface this because Shubert, a rescue cat who for thirteen years was a part of our lives and our home, has moved on to his next and greater journey. These things happen and it was not unexpected.  Last autumn he was diagnosed with a condition called Protein-Losing Enteropathy (PLE) which has no cure. The most cruel aspect of PLE is that it destroys the body’s ability to absorb protein and nutrients. Rather than sustaining the body, they instead get eliminated, as if waste.  He ate and ate... all high quality, fresh protein yet lost pound after pound. It took about four months to go from sleek and svelte to boney and emaciated. In the end, he resembled a large walking zombie cat.  He’d lost half his body weight despite daily feedings every two to three hours, dropping from 13 to barely 6 pounds in just a few months.

In 2004, we picked him out as a very young kitten on a planned visit to Angels With Paws, an organization that retrieves stray and feral felines and makes them available for adoption.  This particular young fur ball was part of a litter reportedly recovered from a cardboard box in a Denver alley after their mother disappeared for reasons unknown. The meet and greet facility at Angels With Paws had several fully glassed enclosures, “get acquainted” rooms with soft, cushioned benches that allowed a more open “out of box” interaction with the many adoption candidates.  Two stood out to Lynne and myself, both domestic short hair tabby kittens, nearly identical and probably litter mates.  Rambunctious, hyperactive, kitty ADHD tendencies with climbing and leaping all over the space.  Both displaying a “no fear of strangers, let’s play!” spirit.  Difficult, tough yet wonderful choice, we finally selected the scamp with the more dramatic coat markings, strong stripes and dots resembling a wild savanna cat. The full series of shots and neutering, pay the adoption fee, and our wild child came home with us.

He was not our first cat, as Lynne brought with her Sushi, a Russian Blue, when she moved to Colorado. On my side, as a young boy there was a cranky older cat I called Smokey.  For no other reason than consonantal alliteration, we wanted a monicker to continue the “S word” naming tradition. Since our young one came from an Denver alley, and I had a professional background in live theatre, I hit upon “Shubert” after the famous “Shubert Alley” historic narrow alley in the heart of New York City’s old  Broadway theater district. The name stuck immediately. Some years later came a third and final arrival, who we christened “Salomon,” but that’s another tale.

I soon came to realize Shubert’s personality and psych makeup was absolutely identical to mine. Sure, most pet owners “get to know” their companion’s wants and can eventually predict responses.  But for me this was deeper and different. I’d never before shared such a complete karma connection with another species.  We’d look at each other and just “know.”  The same exact likes...  the need for an anchoring place, paleo diet, warm quiet spots on sunny days, fascination with motion graphics on the cable news weather channels.  Shared similar dark sides... obsessive yet precisely structured grooming process, aversion to any change in routine, full avoidance of all conflict unless cornered, reluctant bravado regarding things that go bump in the night and, as Lynne would recognize in both of us, a poorly masked facade regarding comfortably accepting affection.

Shubert and I both could go obsessive-compulsive on the details of project or task.  When “in the zone” we both were capable of obsessing for hours and hours to make every little thing “just so.” Shubert had this favorite kitty toy when he was younger, something called a “rattle mouse” that made a strong clicky-clacky sound when tossed about. This cat loved his rattle mouse... he was obsessed with it.  When I’d leave in the morning for work he’d be chasing it around the front room.  That evening when I got back home, I’d still hear him down on the lower level.  Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

And as I do, he had the tendency to take leaps of faith based solely on what worked before, rather than seeing any fresh or dangerous differences surrounding a new jump.

I remember one summer evening when the builders were nearly done with the two-story workspace we were adding to the back of our house.  The upstairs loft was already framed and walled, with a large rough-opening for an arch window that was scheduled for installation the next morning.  Facing out to the west, Lynne and I sat on the loft’s subfloor, looking out at the twilight through the open second-story bay and discussing some construction details.  Suddenly there was a scrambling sound and a thump and there was Shubert in open window frame.  Down below he’d heard us talking and leapt 15 feet vertically, up the exterior stucco wall, to join us.  Back to my “leap of faith” comment... several days later Shubert came into the house, one of his front canines knocked loose and hanging by the root.  We later found a small blood smear on the outside of that same second story window, by now unfortunately for him fully glazed and sealed.

Over the years, Lynne and I went through a full declension of the name "Shubert":  Affectionate variations included Shubie, The Shub, Shubster, Booster, and sometimes just plain Boo.  At times he was even the “Hoover” due to his instinctual imperative to clean up every last bit from food bowls for all three of our cats, leaving no leftovers.  That applied to our own human plates and tableware, when we allowed it.  I share his trait to a fault, having been brought up around a midwest family farm with their “waste not, want not” culture.

And if he could, Shubie would have read food labels, as do I.  The more the stuff was processed, the further filled with all the toxic additives and stabilizers and thickeners the food science industry could foster, the greater his refusal to even taste, let alone consume. Near the end, the vet prescribed some very expensive and specially formulated medicinal wet cat food in tiny cans at five bucks a pop. Shubert wouldn’t go near the stuff.  He’d see the can being opened and leave the kitchen entirely.  The label of ingredients was so long and the ingredients so complicated to pronounce, the can required the addition of a small paper “open here” label stuck to the side to finish out the chemical list.

But chop some fresh tilapia or crumble some raw ground beef in his dish, and he’d suck down three, sometimes four helpings. Yet another similarity for us both... he derived such great life pleasure in a wonderful meal. For all the good it did, because of his terminal PLE... remember?  Yeah, I know that animal experts advise going “full raw” may not be healthy for any domestic pet, but in his case, what more harm could be done?

Thirteen years as a lifespan is a conundrum of time. Cats often live longer than that.  And yet, while going back through the hard drive with all our images of Shubie, I’d forgotten what a long and glorious and complex life those fulfilling baker-dozen years were for both him and for us.  Lynne and I will now confess that we lied to adoption agencies and even to the vet about one thing... because we gave Shubert free access to the whole outdoor world through his unlocked kitty door. He could live as his wild ancestors had, running and hiding and stalking and hunting. Which he did, and although he successfully mastered catch-and-carry back home, he never really learned kill-and-consume.  So Lynne and I spent endless nights over countless years cajoling and capturing victims of Shubert’s trophy presentations, using boxes and bags and rubber gloves in all corners of our house to return to the outdoors all manner of mice and mole, rat and vole and bunny and bat. Yes, we even had to deal with a live bat, on the wing inside our home.

How Boo snagged that flying mammal and got it in through the kitty door, we’ll never know.  Eventually I trapped the thing under a large soft towel when it landed on one of our venetian blinds, carefully carried it out into the neighborhood night, and with a one grand toss launched it high in the evening air where it caught the breeze and took a long, climbing path upward, crossing beneath the beam shining from a city street light and off into the dark sky, like some bizarre cross between “Lassie Go Home” and Bela Lugosi’s “Dracula.”  When there were no live trophy kills to present us, Shubert brought home “found” objects. Seriously. He dragged home items such as used band-aids. Empty cigarette packs. Nerf darts. Even a single, worn out gardener’s glove.  Once on July 5th, several spent cardboard firework casings. He was both Hunter and Gatherer.

In the end, this disease became too much. It’s strange to watch a living thing slowly disappear, ounce by ounce.  Shubert’s insides were being destroyed by his sickness. The day before the end, he would no longer eat, only sit and stare at his bowl that once brought him so much comfort and pleasure. His kitty soul torn, perhaps, between the desire to sustain and all those ugly internal signals that when he ate... something, somehow, was terribly, terribly wrong. Several nights of losing bodily control, bringing spills and stains and uncleanliness that at one time would have been utterly abhorrent to such a meticulously clean creature, but was now uncontrollable and unavoidable. And it was oh, so difficult. God, it was awful. I called the vet’s office and made the final appointment.

The last evening with us, his eyes reflected more exhaustion rather than curiosity.  He spent the evening in our TV room, on my lap asleep on his favorite blanket, kitten-curled and paw on nose, as Lynne and I streamed reruns of “Battlestar Galactica.” Before bed, I talked to Shubert and tried to convince him that it was time, that letting go during the night was perfectly all right. But true to form... and once again reflecting my own traits back to me... Shubert strolled away in the middle of our conversation, still listening, but knowing full well that “it just wasn’t going to happen that way dude, because it's gotta be my idea, not yours.”

I didn’t sleep the entire night, although mental exhaustion took over sometime before Lynne got out of bed to make morning coffee.  Nearly an hour later she shook me awake, asking gently if it was denial or exhaustion keeping me from getting up. The previous day’s snow storm had cleared, the sun out and sky brilliant blue.  A good day to... well, you know.  I got dressed, we tried to have coffee as usual. Shubert would not eat, although he drank a bit of milk from a saucer.  Lynne and I decided the short trip to the procedure would not require the zippered pet carrier that Shubert so despised.  He was so weak, down to six pounds.  I’d be able to wrap him securely in his favorite woven blanket and keep him under control with me in the passenger’s seat while she drove.  Shubert always hated being in a car.  But this time was different.

For the first time in his life he wasn’t sealed up blind, traveling in that carrier, instead up in my arms he could see where he was actually going.  And what a vision!  Always attracted by instinct to any quick motion, now he witnessed trees and leaves and houses and homes all flying past, each bit of movement triggering that feline track-and-follow instinct. But so much to see!  His body untensed and with eyes wide as saucers, his little ADHD brain awash in image and motion, I watched his glances dart from sight to sight, trying to take it all in. Here, in this moment, with his face poking out the top of the blanket wrapping, he was so close I caught a whiffs of kitty breath. I peered deep and once more we connected and I knew exactly his thoughts. His soul was on a contact high, drugged by the glorious display of light and color and motion whizzing past. Too much!  He never squirmed for the rest of the once-dreaded automobile trip. Shubert’s last car ride was a wondrous make-good for every miserable thing on four wheels he’d ever endured.

At the vet’s, Lynne and I waited with Shubert in their quiet room while preparation happened elsewhere.  On the countertop sat a mid-sized aquarium with blue rock gravel and green plants and a single Black Molly fish swimming lazily.

Shubert had never before in all his thirteen years seen an aquarium.

His eyes caught the flick of fin and tail, and he jumped down from my lap, crossed the room and stretched full length up the lower cupboard, straining and reaching.  He was too weak to jump, though once that hop would have been kitten’s play.  Lynne walked over and gently lifted, placing him on the countertop next to the tank.  Shubert stared transfixed.  He patted at the glass with paw.  One last time, his feral hunter instinct swelled inside and his eyes widen.  He paced back and forth, checking the tank for any access. The aquarium's filter pump made a dull vibrating sound, exactly like our cat’s trickle drinking fountain at home. He could hear the gurgling. He could see the prey slowly drifting and mocking and daring him to strike.

Then he nosed near the top of the tank.  There was no lid!  His head shot forward, his mouth open.

And he drank.  He lapped water from the tank.  The fish drifted safely away.  As a stickler for the rules, without thinking I blurted, “don’t let him do that, he shouldn’t drink that water.”  “Why not?” countered Lynne, and my response was true to form.  “Well, it might make him sick,” but she quickly pointed out what would soon happen and we both smiled a bit at my absurdity.

The doctor and the assistant arrived and we got Shubert settled back in my lap, again resting atop his favorite blanket.  The details of his final moments, at least for this part of Shubert’s journey, are not important here. And my stories and memories could pour out forever.

Let me wrap by confessing that growing up with a farm background was supposed to instill a hard, pragmatic view of life.  Don’t get too attached.  But of all animals that I’ve ever had the privilege to spend time with, Shubert was the only one to share with me such a deep and remarkable invisible bond. For whatever reason, we were two peas in a soul pod with the same basic loves, same hates, same motivations and exasperations. Why did the universe bring me, as a grown man, together with something so different in form with four legs and a tail, yet we'd end up being so completely alike?

Shubert’s off to his journey now, a shadow cat on to a new and endless big backyard on the other side. Although there can never a good time for these things to happen, it was for him the right time. His thirteen years with us, and how he lived it, became both an example for me to witness and at the same time, my inner reflection bouncing back. A mystical cat who became my model for what’s noble and a mirror in which I review my own self.

Hell of a ride, Boo. Hell of a ride.