Free Up Till Now: The Autobiography by William Shatner; David Fisher Page B

say no. Is that how you want me to say it? No. No? No. You mean no? Yes.
    After the first dozen attempts all the pretend has disappeared. By the time you say any word fifteen times you no longer even understand the meaning of the word. It’s just a sound. Do you understand the meaning of the word no? No. Yeah, that’s good.
    I played a minor role in the film; mostly my job was to stand in the background looking saintly. The problem with being saintly is that Yul Brynner kept kicking me in the pants. Being new to the movie business I didn’t know exactly what that meant. That’s the entertainment industry, when someone kicks you in the pants it’s not just someone kicking you in the pants. It requires analysis: it might be a show of affection. I like you, therefore I can kick you in the pants to show it; or it might just as easily be a display of anger. I don’t like you at all, so I’m going to kick you in your pants. Or it might even be a demonstration of power. I’m so important that I can kick another actor in the pants and no one will stop me. Or it might even simply be intended as a joke. We’re all so serious and self-important here and what could be sillier than kicking someone in the pants?
    I didn’t know what to do. I remember knowing how demeaning it was but not how to respond. He was the star of the movie and I wanted to be successful and I believed he could make or break me. So I didn’t know whether to say, “Mr. Brynner, would you mind not kicking me in the pants?” Or ask him, “Would you like to kick me in the pants again?” I was torn between those two responses and a third, which is really what I wanted to do. I wanted to punch him out.
    Well, he was in pretty good shape too. So for the rest of the film I did my best to keep my pants out of the way of his foot. And I learned a very important lesson that I have followed throughout my career: don’t kick other actors in the pants.
    Later in life, when Yul Brynner had cancer and was making his final tour in The King and I , I went to see him. He was very affectionate in his emotional memory. He remembered a wonderful shoot. All I remember is getting kicked in the pants. The film received very nice notices. Variety wrote: “Shatner has the difficult task of portraying youthful male goodness, and he does it with such gentle candorit is effective.” In other words, I was very good at portraying being very good.
    At the same time I was learning how to be married. Supposedly it was Sir Donald Wolfit who said on his deathbed, “Dying is easy, comedy is hard.” Well, compared to being married, comedy was easy. I had no experience in the great art of living with another person. The great surprise of marriage is that the other person is always there, and has needs and desires that are often in conflict with your own—and sometimes, may actually be right. Everything I knew about marriage came from my mother and my father, and they never raised their voices to each other. Gloria knew how to have an argument; I didn’t. Instead of raising my voice and flailing my arms I remember feeling that her actions were unjustified. I didn’t understand how someone could love you and still yell at you. So from time to time I was set right back on my heels.
    What I didn’t know how to do was put myself in somebody else’s shoes. Or more specifically, someone else’s high heels. I always thought of myself as being sympathetic and loving and kind. But I didn’t think of myself as wrong. It has taken me four marriages to understand the part I have to play in a marriage and to learn how to do it.
    The challenge to me with Gloria was to not scream back. But finally, I let myself go just a little and I found myself yelling. Well, listen to me. I can do that, I can yell just as loudly as she can. Isn’t that a surprise. I hadn’t known that part of me existed. One thing didn’t change, though: I still believed that if you really loved another person you