But the aired version did away with moral grayness and cosmic injustice by pumping McCoy full of uppers and sending him through the portal to perform an action that was perfectly in character, with no shades of right or wrong.
Nor were the hero’s actions allowed to have any gray areas to them, and in that, we have an even greater loss of what “The City on the Edge of Forever” was really saying. Because it can always be argued that Beckwith wasn’t really that important; that he was merely the MacGuffin. That the real story was Kirk and Spock and Edith Keeler, and just changing the catalyst wasn’t as vital as maintaining the integrity of the original concept.
And that’s where the greatest injustice occurred. The thing that I, as the aforementioned snot-nosed kid, couldn’t understand.
In the aired version, Kirk sacrifices the woman he loves so that time can be restored.
In the words of Harry Anderson: “Well, we weren’t expecting that now, were we?”
It’s the predictable way. It’s the safe way. It’s the way that you can presume it’s going to go, because you know that Joan Collins isn’t going to be on next week, but Kirk and Spock and the rest of the Enterprise crew are.
That’s the one-dimensional portrayal of a hero. He always does what’s right. Because of course, Edith Keeler must die. The universe of the Federation cannot be sacrificed. Edith dying is right. Kirk is the hero. So Kirk must let her die. Q.E.D.
But not the Kirk of Ellison’s script. Because this Kirk is real. This Kirk is frustrated. This Kirk agonizes over the cosmic unfairness of the situation. His pain goes beyond loving her: “She isn’t important here, the way she feels, the goodness, the things she believes for the world, they aren’t ready for it.” He sees her as significant to the spiritual welfare of humanity in whatever time she’s in, and cannot comprehend, cannot accept, that she is simply to be cast aside, crushed, lost.
And because it’s so wrong to him, this Kirk refuses to be a party to it. When the crunch comes down, Kirk reacts instinctively and cannot force himself to be Fate’s Triggerman. Kirk is willing to shoot craps with the cosmos because he cannot bring himself to accept the fatalistic situation into which he’s been thrust.
Out of character? Not at all. Perfectly in keeping with the Kirk we saw who played fast and loose with the rules time and time again because he had a strong moral center. And in this case, his moral center shouted, “No! I will not accept this predestination! I will not sacrifice this gentle, loving woman on the altar of inevitability! I won’t!”
Was it the right thing to do? Was it the wrong thing? It’s difficult to say. But this we can say beyond question: It was the human thing to do.
Which is why he needed Spock.
Because whereas Kirk fought for the moral center of the universe, Spock was the intellectual, logical center. And not only was Spock willing to be Fate’s Triggerman, he even produced a weapon to do the job should fate—or his captain—screw it up.
Whereas in the aired version, Spock primarily served as comedy relief and dispenser of information—with an occasional, stark “Edith Keeler must die!”—while making it very clear that the final decision was going to be on Kirk’s shoulders; in the original, Spock is the one with his priorities in order. Ellison anticipated Spock’s “The need of the many outweigh the need of the few, or the one” in Wrath of Khan by a good couple of decades.
Spock doesn’t have to worry about doing the human thing, because he’s not human. Rarely has his alien demeanor been quite so coldly, fully realized. This is the chilling, almost callous Spock of “Where No Man Has Gone Before”—a character who is much harder to like than the one we were subsequently given. And never has he been less likable than here, where he makes it clear that he’s going to do whatever it takes to restore his preferred time line. When have you ever seen a situation where one of the ostensible heroes is ready, willing and able to take a life that the “villain” wants to save?
In a burst of overwhelming humanity, Kirk could not find it in himself to allow Edith Keeler to be condemned to death. So Spock did it for him. He took his captain off the hook, seized the initiative and saved the day when Kirk’s humanity would not let he himself do the job. Kirk never expresses any appreciation for what Spock has done. Maybe he doesn’t understand. Maybe the man of action is embarrassed at his own inaction. Maybe he’s pissed at Spock’s letting Edith die. But Spock, in his closing speech, makes it clear that he understands Kirk; nor does he endeavor to judge or issue recriminations. We simply have the eloquent observation that “No woman was ever offered the universe for love.”
And that element was excised. No examination of Kirk’s human hesitations or Spock’s alien single-mindedness. No great romantic ideal. The aired version gave the impression that Kirk had two choices, but in fact he only had one. He wasn’t allowed to do the thing that the script hinged upon. When we see the aired episode, we feel for Kirk when he stops McCoy. We share his loss. It’s a poignant moment. But that’s it; it’s over. Business as usual. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” There’s none of the carryover that would have given the aired episode that extra depth.
The point has been lost, the meaning obscured in the overwhelming compulsion to play it safe. The last time anyone took real chances with Kirk’s character was “The Enemy Within,” revealing Kirk’s rape fantasies of Janice Rand. Now that was daring…and unduplicated.
(Speaking of Rand, the roles that female crewmembers play between the unaired and aired scripts is intriguing. Granted that time considerations might have prompted them to lose scenes 30 to 40 anyway, but nevertheless I find it interesting that Ellison’s script portrays Yeoman Rand left behind to hold the fort; by the time the episode aired, Rand was gone and we were left with Uhura, whose contribution was limited to almost saying “Captain, I’m frightened.”)
We see, with the rewriting of Ellison’s script, that limits were set early-on as to just how far and how realistic Star Trek would be allowed to be in its themes; just how human (or alien) the characters would be allowed to be perceived.
Now, it is easily argued—and not without merit—that Star Trek was Gene Roddenberry’s baby, and he had final say. Fair enough. If Roddenberry felt it wasn’t what he wanted to see on his show, that was his right.
However, that perception has changed over the years—mutated even—to the point where representatives of Gene Roddenberry now make efforts to distance televised Star Trek from anything else that could taint the purity of the program. “Not Gene” = “Sucky.” In other words, the perception that I held as a snot-nosed kid is now, in many instances, policy.
Richard Arnold, who for years was Roddenberry’s public face, repeatedly made a distinction between Star Trek fact and Star Trek fiction, prompting fans to observe, “God, and they tell us to get a life!”
Although Arnold’s involvement with the television series was minimal, he had major sway for several years over the licensed Star Trek novels and comics. On the one hand stating that such published fare was not official Star Trek (despite the hefty licensing fees paid to ensure that “official” designation), and had no bearing on Star Trek fact. Arnold would, on the other hand, pore over the manuscripts to make sure that they met with his standards. Standards that included such fiats as that Kirk was no longer interested in pursuing romantic relationships (despite his long sexually active history); that the words “Terran” and “civilian” could not be used (although they were in the “Next Generation” series); and my personal favorite, the ludicrously self-contradicting, “This proposed storyline is like a combination of several other Star Trek episodes; it’s not at all like Star Trek.”
Why the novels and comics are required absolutely to toe the line (a line which keeps moving) when, according to Arnold, they have no relevance to real Star Trek, well…we’ve never gotten an adequate explanation on that.
Arnold, before Paramount canned him, pursuant to Roddenberry’s death, never ever copped to any opinions and declarations coming from
him, swearing instead they all originated with Gene Roddenberry who, Arnold maintained, read every manuscript that came in. This was a patently ludicrous assertion that was persistently denied by all other concerned parties, including Paramount officials.
The reason all of this is germane is that Arnold made some public comments about “City” in an extensive interview. His first comments were about novelists, but he could just as easily be discussing “City”…and then he goes on to do so:
“…the books that the fans jump up and down (about), and praise and cheer about how wonderful they are…they should have seen the original versions of them. And yet, do the authors say, ‘Well, this really isn’t entirely my story…the entire ending of this book was suggested to us through the Star Trek offices because the ending that we had for it didn’t work, but, no, I’m happy to sign it for you and take all the royalties—which we don’t get a penny of. That’s painful, when you see—especially when I go to conventions and see onstage somebody going on and on about this wonderful book they’ve written, and I know damn well that half the suggestions came from Gene…that made it work in the Star Trek format. And, again, any author’s going to disavow that, too…they’re going to completely disagree with it…‘It was all my own idea, sure.’
“Harlan’s taken accolades for ‘City’ for 25 years, and at the same time, behind Gene’s back, bitched and complained about it. He’s perfectly happy to take the royalties…he’s perfectly happy to be ‘the author of “The City on the Edge of Forever”’…and I love Harlan dearly, and if this ever gets back to him, believe me I’m going to get a phone call from him…’cause he and I have spoken many times over the years, and he has given me some very strong advice, about this sort of thing, not dealing with this sort of thing. But at the same time, he’s been very public, too. And Gene’s kept his tongue all this time, because Gene knows that if you’re going to continue to work with people, that you’ve got to stay on good terms with them.” (Richard Arnold interview copyright © 1991 by Tim Lynch)
If you’ve read the introductory essay to this book, you have seen the evidence that Arnold toadyingly got it all backwards…on purpose. It was Ellison who was restrained in his comments, and Roddenberry who lied endlessly.
Since Arnold states elsewhere in the interview that he has never been and never will be a writer, the first part of the above commentary smacks of extreme jealousy over those more talented receiving justly due accolades. The list of popular books with Paramount-dictated endings is never spelled out, possibly because they don’t exist; and possibly because, from the time Arnold first got a firmer grip on the novels, readers began to complain about a downswing in quality.
As for the rest of the diatribe, Arnold essentially accuses Harlan Ellison—one of the most highly principled individuals in the industry, if not the country—of being a hypocrite. What he fails to mention is that Ellison has stated repeatedly over the years that, yes, he is the author of “The City on the Edge of Forever”…and that the aired version is markedly different from the script that he wrote. Ellison has stuck meticulously to the truth, something that not everyone can claim.
For you see, some of us actually are suckers enough to believe in the concept that Star Trek put forward called IDIC—Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination. Taking joy in the many varieties and points of view that the universe has to offer, and treating them all with respect. Or perhaps some of us have quite simply managed to wipe that ignoble snot from our noses and appreciate the grander and infinitely more complex shadings that truly talented people can bring to a shared universe.
Whereas others still have their olfactory senses hopelessly plugged up, going nicely with the blinders on their eyes and the bile in their words. For people like that, who will never be able to fully appreciate the remarkable achievement that the original script of “City” presents—but instead will only perceive that it, along with other unaired stories, is “not real” and therefore not good enough—mere fiction, if you will—well, they are to be pitied, much like Ron Moody at the end of “The Twelve Chairs,” flailing about and feigning epilepsy to get a few coins.
If nothing else, you can all toss coins to Richard Arnold next time he appears at conventions, so that he can buy a copy of this book…and hate it. At the very least, perhaps he might be able to purchase a package of KleenexTM.
D.C. Fontana
Whenever I am asked what Star Trek episodes are my favorites, I always reply “The City on the Edge of Forever” and “The Trouble with Tribbles.” Both stories are unique in that they show sides of Captain James T. Kirk that were seldom displayed on the show—a sense of humor and a fine appreciation for the ridiculous (“Tribbles”) and a genuine growth of love and poignant loss (“City”). In all the episodes that had Jim Kirk involved with a young lady, only “The City on the Edge of Forever” portrays a romance with a woman of admirable human qualities, purpose, and intelligence as well as beauty; and it is a romance which Kirk knows is doomed.
The production story of “The City on the Edge of Forever” began in the spring of 1966 when Gene Roddenberry was given the go-ahead on the series from NBC. He had decided that he would approach some of the top science fiction writers who were also experienced screen and television writers to write episodes of Star Trek. Among them were Theodore Sturgeon, Richard Matheson, Jerome Bixby, Jerry Sohl, Robert Bloch—and Harlan Ellison.
Harlan’s idea in rough was the discovery of a planet where all time meets and an adventure which takes Kirk and Spock back through time to Earth of the Depression era. It was to be a genuine and poignant love story for Kirk.
The idea was approved, and Harlan went to work on the story outline. The writing of the outline seemed to take a long time. Producers don’t like to badger writers about delivery. Most of them are also writers, and they understand the reluctance of writers to face the blank page or computer screen. Besides, it was not uncommon then for a writer to be juggling two or three assignments at the same time, having one in outline, one in first draft, and one in final draft. Other stories came in. Then scripts. Weeks went by. No Ellision.
Finally the outline for “The City on the Edge of Forever” was delivered, and it was received with glad cries of enthusiasm from Gene Roddenberry, Desilu and NBC. Harlan received a prompt go-ahead for a first-draft script. The series was deep into production by then, and Roddenberry wanted “The City on the Edge of Forever” scheduled soon. But—no script.
Granted, Harlan was going through an emotionally intense and difficult period—the breakup of one of the shortest marriages on record. On the other hand, we needed the script. Desperate measures were called for. Roddenberry set aside a desk in the assistant directors’ room and asked Harlan to come in and work on the script in the studio. Every day. Please.
Harlan arrived with his manual typewriter and a record player and set up shop. There are some stories told that Roddenberry had to lock the door of that office to keep him working—but Harlan got out the window. The stories say Roddenberry had the windows nailed shut—and Harlan still got out. Well, they are just stories. Harlan did spend time visiting the set, but that’s considered necessary research for a writer. When a show hasn’t been on the air yet, freelance writers must have an opportunity to study the actors’ speech patterns and delivery, the little gestures and nuances each one brings to his or her role, and—most of all—the character relationships which are being built episode by episode. The script for “The City on the Edge of Forever” began to emerge page by page, and finally it was done.
By then it was fall, and changes had taken place on the staff of the show. Gene Roddenberry had moved up to the position of Executive Producer, and Gene L. Coon had come aboard as Producer. John D. F. Black had departed as story editor to write a movie at Universal, and Steve Carabatsos replaced him. I had left the position of Roddenberry’s executive secretary to write freelance, so I wasn’t there when Harlan was asked to do revisions on the script and turn in his final draft.
When he did, things were still in flux. Grace Lee Whitney had completed her thirteen-show contract, and the character of Yeoman Janice Rand shipped off the Enterprise.
DeForest Kelley’s role had become more important because his warm and gently humorous portrayal of Dr. McCoy balanced the logical Spock and the volatile, action-oriented Kirk. Roddenberry decided he would not renew Steve Carabatsos’s contract and offered me the opportunity to become Star Trek’s story editor if I could do a good rewrite on a troubled script. The complete overhaul of the script which became “This Side of Paradise” landed me the job of story editor at the beginning of December, 1966. I reported the first day and walked right into a hornet’s nest of trouble with “The City on the Edge of Forever” at the heart of it.
Harlan’s script was brilliant. Always a master of words, his language conjured the images of the desolate planet “as if some cosmic god had flicked an ash and it had grown into a world,” the enigmatic Guardian of Forever, and the Time Vortex. The streets of 1930 Earth were described artfully—deep in the Depression, peopled by characters like Verdun veteran Trooper and the vivacious Edith Keeler who could see beyond this moment into a hopeful future. What man wouldn’t lose his heart to her (except for Mister Spock, of course)?
If “The City on the Edge of Forever” had been written for an anthology such as Outer Limits, undoubtedly it would have been shot almost without change. As written, it stands shoulder to shoulder with Harlan’s bleak study of future warfare, “Soldier,” and his twisting, turning, character-rich “Demon with a Glass Hand.”
Unfortunately, it was not best suited to a series format. As the reader readily can see, the plot problem (the change in history) is brought about by characters who are strangers to the audience, LeBeque and Beckwith. The result of Beckwith’s meddling with the past is that the USS Enterprise is now the Condor, a raider ship with a crew of renegades. Once this situation is established, it is seen again only once, in a flash cut, leaving the audience to wonder how the few defenders in the transporter room are doing while Kirk and Spock are in the past. It is almost the end of the second act before Kirk and Spock see Edith Keeler—and at that moment, Spock realizes Edith is the focal point of the time change because of clues the Guardian of Forever gave them. Kirk does not meet Edith face to face until Act Three, so their personal relationship is short (though no less deep). Kirk loves her despite the fact he knows she must die. He loves her despite the even more cruel fact that he knows he cannot lift a hand to save her. At the climax of the story, it is Beckwith who reaches out to save Edith and Spock who stops him while Kirk looks on in his grief.