My trek through Trek (Part 1) - Escaping The Cage

What we’re watching: The Cage - Pilot of the Original Series (1964)

Martian Spock and Surly Pike molest some Talosian vibrating
flowers. Notice Pike seems ticked these flowers aren't women.

My Rating out of 5 Tribbles: 2 Very Small and Sickly Tribbles

A Snapshot of my after episode thoughts: “Roger Sterling commands the Enterprise and  proves that sexism and surliness make for a boring journey.”

Pros: Talosians are cool. Yeoman Colt is stunning and perhaps one of the most beautiful woment to stand on the bridge of the Enterprise. Majel Barrett has more then three lines and doesn’t hit on Picard once.

Cons:  Jeffrey Hunter. Emotional Spock. Creepy rapist Doctor.   

Recently I saw Star Trek: Into Darkness. This experience caused me great distress. Not only was it a shoddy film, it also did not resemble a Star Trek movie beyond having the same characters (and vaguely at that). I resolved then in the cacophony of explosions and Cumberbatch diphthongs to rewatch all of Star Trek from the beginning to the end. I intend to watch from the Pilot, right through the films, Next Gen, DS9, Voyager and Enterprise. Enterprise will be most interesting as much to this Trekker’s shame, I never watched it when it was on the air. I intend to put my finger on what  the soul of Trek is. Tonight, I began my journey into the rich galaxy of the Federatio with a review of The Cage. I also remembered that I had a blog (that I rarely use because of some unpleasantness) and I thought I’d keep a journal record of this trek. (Ok. I’ll attempt to cut down on my usage of the word Trek. Trek. Trek.) 

It is alienating to go back and look at The Cage knowing all that we do now about the Federation universe. Not only is the Enterprise populated by strangers, Spock, perhaps the protagonist of Star Trek as a whole, is unlike Spock. Aside from the Vulcan pointy ears, Spock is petty much unfamiliar. He even cracks a smile at one point. It is amazing how uninteresting Nimoy is in the pilot. He seems like a young school boy actor whose energy is flying all over the screen.  On the other, what Spock became in the later episodes is embodied by Majel Barett’s Number One. She instead is the cold logical advisor. Alas, there also something disjointed in her character. The soul of the Enterprise is missing. That soul is the Captain. 

The role of “the Captain” has always been integral to Star Trek. Much like Doctor Who’s Companion, the Captain is the human character the audience can draw in on to help them navigate through the absurdity that is high Sci-Fi. Hunter’s Christopher Pike fails in  almost every regard to do this. He lacks any form of humor; the one joke he cracks at the end to the Doctor, is frighteningly disgusting.  As a commander he seems lost and more interested in selfish pursuits of pleasure. The first goal he declares is that he wants to quit! The majesty of the universe is to be guided by a man who has lost his passion for adventure. When he first descends to the Talosian surface it seems like this is a job requirement, not an expedition for knowledge and after all happening of this episode he begrudgingly returns to the bridge. 

Pike and his harem of women. 

Ok. I am sure you are saying “Julian you are wasting your breath harping on about  characters.” You are right, but I found myself feeling disconnected to the plot as frankly I did not care if Pike made it back to the Enterprise or not. 

The most striking thing I take away from the episode is the inherent sexism. I forgot that at the beginning of this widely ahead of its time show, it was a bastion of orchestrated 60s moralism in space. Yes, there are at least two women in the main crew, and this is ahead of its time. But the yeoman   character is largely the classic airhead women of sixties television.  Number One, a women of power, does not make a single decision for herself as commander, which would not make her a women of much power. All decisions are made for by the smiling Mr. Spock or the nameless male yeoman is the blondest guy I have ever seen and I am pretty blonde. It is amazing how timid The Cage is compared to the episodes that followed. It’s a miracle the show ever made it past the Pilot. 

I have knowingly not delved into the themes and philosophies of this episode because I will engage with those again when I reach The Menagerie episodes later in the first the season. These episodes present the same ideas with far more thought and investigation then The Cage ever throws a blue Talosian flower at.

Sports Fans what can we say about The Cage? It is a good thing Jeffrey Hunter thought Trek was beneath him and returned to a very short film career. He is unlikable and a dinosaur. His leering at the female characters would have stunted any of the political commentary of the later episodes. It is a great thing that Roddenberry was able to creep out of the overbearing fists of network executives and produce the genius that is only episodes away. The Cage should remain where it is, at the beginning and stuck behind a forcefield under the Talosian surface. 

The Brains of the Organization. (See what I did there?)

My New Hat

Ladies and gentlemen it has been just over a week since I purchased a new hat.

This is not the hat. 

This is an unusual act for me as I have only worn a hat on three occasions in my life. All of which were stage performances. The first, was my brilliant turn as the main Aryan threat in the Sound of Music. Here I traipsed around in the blackest hat since 1918 Russia. It was a dark forbidding headpiece which accurately portrayed my shadowy German authority to the Von Trapps as it obscured my face into a shadowy Nazi monster Gestapo nightmare. The second time, was when I stood on the great ship H.M.S. Pinafore in the operetta of the same name. It was an undersized little bellhop hat that conveyed my desperate bossy demeanor throughout that show while I solo’d my way through the best Gilbert & Sullivan ditties. The third time, was during my tenure at that great Mississauga theatre that so often performs archaic plays that spur on a nap with a standing ovation at the end; Theatre Erindale. Here I played a monstrous Ring Master that was either supposed to be the devil or the incarnation of legendary Southern Ontario lawyer Dennis O’Connor. I cannot recall and I don’t think the audience knew either, but they enjoyed my none diarrhea related songs. (You see the major theme of this show was volcanic explosions of the posterior.) You can now see then how much of a titanic event this purchase is to my life.

This titanic event pails in comparison to the fact that I actually found a hat that fits my Rock of Gibraltar like head. As anyone who was either cursed or blessed with height from a young age will tell you, certain body parts are larger to assist the bulbous frame of the body in carrying itself. My head took the brunt of this accentuation. Hats and me have been friends like Pirates and Ninjas: violent and hate filled. (Ninjas and Pirates have been forever locked in combat since the great Ninja and Pirate battle of 1972.... Don’t believe me? Well, it feels like it is true.) This violent and hate filled conflict found restive resolution on a rainy afternoon in the neighborhood of hippie delights: Kensington Market.

As anyone who has ever galavanted down the streets of that historic and over gentrified place will tell you ‘there are so many G.D. hats in Kensington Market.’ (Quoted from Slim Pickens’ visit to the Market.) An accurate observation and one to me that has always been a slight annoyance. I had often looked through the hoard of head coverings that infect the Augusta line and laughed when I placed the offending article on my head for it reminded me of stuffing a cannon ball into a Smith and Wesson revolver. That was until I entered a vintage furniture store that was occupied by an extremely annoying desk clerk. (If you are reading this, Desk Clerk, I am sure you will agree with my assessment of your character.) I was fiddling around with the many hats that lay on on one those metal hat trees when I discovered my future fashion friend. My new friend was as yellow as a banana and brimmed like a cross between Rocky’s funny little hat from the later films and a 1940s Bookie. I placed it upon my head, looked into the mirror and after I marveled at my gorgeous visage (which is my normal reaction upon seeing my face) I noticed that this hat looked fantastic and most importantly fit. At first I did not believe it but after being annoyingly assured by the beast behind the counter that I was not dreaming, I decided immediately to buy this hat and ‘buy’ I did.

Looking back after a week of this hat being in my life, I can tell you that it has made my life more interesting. Now I have a friend to share my many jaunts around the city with. I can go to the butcher and feel proud of myself like no other, as I receive looks from gawkers, no doubt because they are marveled by this badge of courage. I can go to the bar and feel better then anyone else who does not have a hat. I can call upon my marks for playing the two ten split and then not paying up the buy on time. More of the former then the prior. (I just sometime pretend that.) It has made my standard of life full of whimsy.

Dear viewer, reader or whatever the great fuck you are; I do indeed enjoy my hat and if you see me in a flighty visit around the city you will no doubt enjoy this hat as much as I. (For Doctor Who fans you will notice its similarities to Sylvester McCoy’s yellow Time Lord boat hat.) Now it is time to place my hat upon my head and head out into the world for the day for I an my hat have much to do!