Leonard (18 page)

The
Wrath of Khan
set new box office records for an opening weekend and received wonderful reviews. But rather than being the end of Spock, the success of the movie saved the franchise.

 

NINE

With all the acclaim that Leonard received for his work on the original series, with all the emotional conflicts that he endured about the creation of this big-eared alter ego that occupied such a large space in his world, he once summed up very simply and directly what Spock meant to him: “He gave me a life.”

The third season was difficult for all of us because the quality of the show had deteriorated, and we knew it. So we all were glad when it ended. Of all of us, though, it was Leonard whose life had changed the most drastically because of
Star Trek
. When it ended, he had several options, and one of them he picked was so perfectly Leonard: he became co-owner of Leonard Nimoy's Pet Pad. It was a pet store in Canoga Park in the San Fernando Valley that carried a great variety of exotic pets, including monkeys, snakes, crocodiles, and exotic dogs and cats. “I like the kind of people that shop in pet stores,” he told a reporter, adding that he had worked in a pet store between roles earlier in his career. And then he admitted that he had invested in the shop as “a sort of therapy, something to keep me busy.”

That was so typical of Leonard. Like Spock, I suppose, his mind was constantly searching for the next challenge. Most people, when you ask them what's new, respond in a somewhat predictable fashion. It may be bigger and better, but it's most often an extension of what they have been doing for some time. Not Leonard. When I asked him that question, I never knew where he may have been exploring. In addition to the pet store, for example, he and Sandi had moved into a new home, and he'd bought her an electric kiln for her ceramic work. But he'd also gotten interested in it and began creating glazes for her finished pieces.

There were several traits that Leonard and I had in common, and certainly one of them was our curiosity. Neither one of us ever stopped asking why, or how, or learning new things. When we were intrigued about something, we would dive into something, and neither one of us would stop until we had conquered it. For example, I had my private pilot license and sang the praises of flying. Not too long after that, he too became a pilot, but a much better one than I. He became quite good at it and even had his own airplane, a single-engine Piper Arrow. He'd often fly his son, Adam, back and forth to college in Santa Barbara, and he would bring the same intensity to flying as he did to everything else in his life. “He was a highly competent pilot,” Adam said. “Like everything else, he was kind of obsessive about it. He earned his instrument rating. When he was flying, he was totally focused. There was nothing casual about it; while he always was very confident and comfortable, you couldn't talk to him too much. He brought all his attention to what he was doing.”

That obsessive aspect of his personality became pretty clear when he was talking about soloing for the first time. He was in London making a television movie, and he remembered, “I was so busy thinking about what I was doing that it took me a while to realize that there was nobody else in the plane. It wasn't until I was almost finished with the downwind leg and about to turn on base when I took a look around and said, ‘My God, I'm alone.'” Typical, so typical.

I flew with him on occasion. For a time, he had a house on Lake Tahoe, and we would take his plane to get there. It's not an easy place to land. The lake is surrounded by high mountains, so instead of making a normal approach, you have to circle down into the valley and land. It requires a certain level of expertise. On one of those trips, we flew through a storm, and the plane was hit by lightning. There was a bright flash and a loud thump. In fact, we were not in danger, because planes are designed to take this kind of blow. But it definitely was unnerving. Neither one of us said a word; we looked at each other and acknowledged the possibility of what could have happened: Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, having flown through the universe on a great spaceship, having survived numerous encounters with the worst beings in existence, went down together in a small single-engine airplane.

Leonard also became more visible for those causes he supported. This was the 1960s, a tumultuous period in American history. As a Canadian citizen living and working in the United States, I really didn't believe I had the right to participate in American political issues. But Sandi was an activist, and Leonard just jumped right in with her to support their beliefs. They were shaken by the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. in May 1968, and Leonard spearheaded a food drive for Dr. King's Poor People's Campaign, then joined people like Jack Lemmon and Barbra Streisand at a benefit at the Hollywood Bowl that drew eighteen thousand people and raised $142,000. He also volunteered a lot of his time emceeing local telethons for a variety of good charities, including United Cerebral Palsy, the March of Dimes, and Variety Clubs. They both got involved in the antiwar campaigns of both Eugene McCarthy in 1968 and George McGovern four years later. Leonard visited thirty-five states during the McGovern campaign. When he was up in Alaska, a TV reporter asked him if he thought it was appropriate for a television star to use his celebrity to influence voters. Once again, I can hear him responding as if the answer was obvious: “Well, I think it's about as fair as Ronald Reagan running for governor of California based on the fact that he's done some movies.”

Leonard campaigned for McGovern anywhere people would listen to him, from large rallies in arenas to talking to a few committed young people in a college dorm. As always, his message was one of compassion. He was supporting Senator McGovern, he told 350 people in Toledo, Ohio, because he had promised to end the war in Vietnam, and the millions of dollars that would be saved could be spent “to build homes and hospitals and finance ecology programs.”

Leonard's passionate support made absolutely no difference. Nixon won forty-nine of the fifty states in a landslide. In appreciation of Leonard's support, however, McGovern read several of his poems into the Congressional Record.

At a rally sponsored by the American Civil Liberties Union, he was introduced to Dr. Benjamin Spock, the legendary author of
Baby and Child Care,
whose involvement in the anti–Vietnam War movement had led to him being arrested several times for interfering with draft board activities. This was the only time the two most famous Spocks in the world ever met, and while the two men were never mistaken for each other,
Star Trek
's Mr. Spock had on occasion been referred to as Dr. Spock. When the two men met, Leonard said, “How do you do? My name is Leonard Nimoy, and I play a character called Mr. Spock on television.”

Dr. Spock looked at him, smiled, and replied, “I know. Have you been indicted yet?”

Leonard's active involvement in causes in which he believed never waned. We both knew the publicity value of Kirk and Spock appearing together, so we used it judiciously to benefit those organizations in which we truly believed. If I needed him to show up at one of my charity events, I'd make the call, knowing that he would do exactly the same thing. Except for scheduling conflicts, I don't think either one of us ever turned down a request—but because we both knew we didn't really have a choice, we limited the number of requests.

Star Trek
provided his fame, but the first substantial money he earned came from
Mission: Impossible
. Everybody knows the
Mission: Impossible
setup: To save the world or rescue an extremely important person or prevent a coup, the MI team has to create an unbelievably clever deception to make someone do something they don't want to do, usually without them knowing they're doing it: Paris poses as an amnesia victim to retrieve the stolen isotope that could make atomic weapons affordable to every country in the world; Paris plays a mystic who plans to abuse his powerful influence over a duchess to ascend to the throne; Paris impersonates an American mobster in order to infiltrate the Syndicate's Mediterranean branch, obtain the list of their opium suppliers, and prevent the branch's terminally ill boss from perpetuating his empire.

Leonard was paid $7,500 a week, a substantial salary in 1969. In addition to that salary, for the first time he began earning residuals. With a hit show like that certain to run for a long time in syndication, that was like putting money in the bank.
Mission: Impossible
was a success when he joined the cast and continued to be successful after he left two years later. I think he joined the show for several different reasons; like all of us, I know he worried about being so typecast that he would find it difficult to get other roles. Maybe just as importantly, this role offered him the opportunity to join a strong cast that was not dependent on him. And the fact that in the role of ex-magician, master of disguises Andrew “the Great” Paris he would get to play a variety of different characters I'm sure appealed to his description of himself as a character actor.

In his first episode, he got to put on a beret and a beard, smoke a big cigar, and play a Che Guevara–type character. That certainly was a departure from three seasons of life in space, as I don't recall Spock wearing a beard or smoking a cigar—although undoubtedly he would have found the cigar “fascinating.” Initially, Leonard enjoyed doing the show; it allowed him more freedom to play than he'd had in a while. But that didn't last long. After two years, he found himself doing it mostly for the salary. Unlike Spock, whose life story emerged slowly as the series continued, Paris just existed. He had no backstory. It didn't matter where he came from, what issues he faced in his life, or how he would deal with them. For an actor in love with his craft, it was like playing a cardboard box. There was no sense of continuity in the role, no internal life, no emotional core from which everything could flow. All he had to do was show up, put on the disguise of the week, and convince the bad guys he was whoever he had become in that episode. And then he found himself playing the same shallow roles more than once. He was the Latin American dictator, he was the very old man, he was blind, he was Japanese, he was an old blind Japanese dictator. It was “throw on the makeup and read the lines.”

After two seasons, he decided it was time to leave. His reason, he explained, was that he had reached “professional menopause.” It was time for an artistic change of life …

“It was a great job. They treated me great, paid me a lot of money, and the hours were easy. But I'd done five steady years of television. I thought, that's enough for a while. I made enough money to last me a long time. I'll have good residuals coming in for several years, and I might as well go out and act in other areas now …

“If I could get a play somewhere, I should go out and do it and just start getting back to being an actor again.”

Fame changes people. It does—it can't be helped. I've seen it so many times in my career. I've seen people use it as a ladder to better roles; I've seen careers destroyed by it. I don't think people really can predict how they will react if they catch that particular gold ring. Leonard never loved being famous, although he enjoyed the accoutrements that came with success. At times, as we all do, he found the constant attention overwhelming; he never liked the fact that he simply couldn't sit in a restaurant with his family or some friends without being interrupted. Generally, he was good about it, though; he gave autographs and posed for pictures, but he was wary of the stalkers, the people who found out when his plane was arriving at an airport and followed him.

I think what kept Leonard from ever fully embracing his fame was the fact that he considered himself a working actor and considered that about the best thing in the world anybody could be. He'd set out to make a living at it, never expecting to become a star. But even after he did, his passion for the profession of acting never diminished. He loved talking about it, thinking about it, teaching it, and doing it. He loved taking this unformed lump of written lines and converting it into a vehicle capable of evoking great emotion. I just think he was always curious to see the result of the creative process. He explained the process this way: “My job is to be part of the magical illusion created equally by the play, the players, and the audience. When all those elements meet in the right way, the truth takes place between us and within us, and it's an experience like no other I know.”

Nowhere is an actor more alive than on stage, when he or she is receiving an immediate and direct response from the audience. Making movies or TV shows is a different process; it's working in pieces and most often not in any kind of order. There are times when it makes sense to film the dramatic conclusion at the very beginning. But the theater … it's different.

After leaving
M:I,
Leonard became a gypsy actor, touring the country in several different plays. His name always packed the theater, and he played roles as varied as Tevye in
Fiddler on the Roof
to the controversial businessman Goldman in
The Man in the Glass Booth.
Tevye the singing milkman in
Fiddler
hardly is the first role you'd associate with Leonard—but it was a part he really wanted to play. While people had become accustomed to seeing large, bold, loud men like Zero Mostel in the role of the milkman whose family is forced to leave their ancestral village, it actually fit Leonard well. He easily related his own family background to Tevye; this story was his heritage, and he embraced it. The strength in his performance was his ability to channel his own experience into Tevye's, and what his singing voice may have lacked in quality was infused with his passion and understanding. I tell a joke during a one-man show I do about a record company named Golden Throat who took every actor who thought he or she could sing and put all those songs into an album entitled
Golden Throats
:
The Great Celebrity Sing-Off
. In addition to Leonard and me, some of the other performers included Andy Griffith, Jim Nabors, Mae West, and Jack Webb. While to many people Mae West's version of “Twist and Shout” is a highlight, the only two performers with more than one cut on the record were Leonard and I. Leonard performed “If I Had a Hammer” and “Proud Mary” while I did my rendition of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” and “Mr. Tambourine Man.” In fact, Leonard actually could carry a tune while I could carry the guitar case.