Would-be Klingon tries to find right Trek

Friday, May 16, 1997 | 11:59 a.m.

My heart is pounding and my teeth hurt beneath my clenched jaw.

I'm as tense as a teen meeting my prom date's cranky old man.

"Just walk over there and stand at position No. 1, Rick," says one of the audition hosts for "Star Trek: The Experience," using the same tone Roman soldiers no doubt used when escorting Christians to the Colosseum.

There is no turning back now. I am about to boldly go on stage before an audience of the world's toughest critics -- my competitors for 55 acting roles at the new theme park Paramount and Hilton are opening in Las Vegas this summer.

To inspiring chords I recognized as the theme music from "Star Trek: Voyager," I stride on stage with nine other men and women who are among about 200 or so people experiencing Phase 1 of the audition process. It isn't supposed to be this intense. And just a few minutes ago, I was in relative obscurity and safety ...

It was a virtual party atmosphere outside Cashman Field Theater, where Paramount set up five days of auditions, call-backs and wardrobe measuring under the label "Job Fair."

A mixed bag of applicants were on the doorstep. One guy wore a three-piece suit. Another was in alligator shoes. A woman wearing a Star Fleet uniform attracted a lot of attention from the media gathered to cover this curiosity.

One man had a Klingon-to-English dictionary under his arm. A group of seven men and women clung together like fraternity brothers -- they had obviously been to a few auditions together before. Maybe they already had a Vegas gig.

One ominous-looking bald guy with massive muscles -- the perfect Klingon, I thought -- looked like a construction worker. I later found out he is a construction worker. ("I love the show," he confided to me. "I just had to try out for this.")

Me, I dressed in black, which seems to be the dominant wardrobe color for the Klingon. Earlier, I had spent far too much time reviewing Klingon culture. Translation: I watched a lot of "Star Trek" reruns at 11 p.m., paying close attention to the brusque warrior race I knew I could emulate well enough to win favor with Paramount cast-pickers. I practiced my favorite Lt. Worf lines around the house and occasionally growled at the kids. I'd soon find what a waste of time my preparation was.

Suddenly, the person we all had been waiting for arrived -- a dude dressed in full Klingon costume. This guy had it all, from the rigid, primordial skull structure to storm-trooper black boots. He was armed with the distinctive scimitar-shaped weapon Klingons use in hand-to-hand combat.

A few more hopefuls arrived in costume, another Klingon and a guy in a Star Fleet uniform who apparently took his role just a little too seriously. He claimed to be a Star Fleet admiral and was insulted when he was asked to fill out personnel paperwork and not accorded the courtesy due a command officer.

When Brian Simmons, human relations director for Paramount Parks, arrived, the party turned into a pep rally. Exhorting the crowd to cheer on the new theme park that was about to be created, Simmons had us roaring "Star Trek!" in between briefings about what was going to happen inside.

"I must be on the list somewhere," one applicant said as a Paramount clerk scanned the appointment list. "The list is life," he said to another applicant.

The list is life. Those on the list were assigned a number and went into the auditorium. There's something non-Star Trekkian about becoming a mere number, but most of us weren't about to argue about the philosophical implications. I had become P-104.

Phase I. Going on stage. Putting your abilities on display for all to see. Except this exercise would have absolutely nothing to do with "Star Trek." Participants were about to embark in a theatrical exercise to test our role-playing talents and our abilities to think quickly and improvise on our feet.

Entertainment Director Amanda McTigue explained that 10 of us would go on stage, be shown a picture on a screen and we would have to imagine ourselves as being a part of the scene. Every few seconds, she would freeze the action and add new information that we would have to incorporate into our acting.

For example, the first group saw an image of a pear-shaped figurine. The second saw an effeminate character from what appeared to be early cinema. Among the new information: We'd have to address others onstage as a flower name. Or a car model name. The ground was an imagined icy substance that we have become adept at negotiating. We are a race of people that like to look in a mirror, and there were mirrors on everybody else's backs. And so on.

There were three ground rules: no touching of others, no destruction of property and no disrobing.

The whole process seemed to be an exercise to weed out the wannabes and other Trekkers. No Klingon-English dictionary would help here. A costume does not an actor make. Forget about any Worf morphing and other Trekkery. This was serious show biz.

One of the Paramounties knew me by name and skipped the P-104 formalities. He pointed me in the direction of the 10 positions on stage. I took a deep breath. Perhaps today is a good day to die.

Position No. 1 on stage is the toughest. After McTigue ran the first group through its paces, each individual had to go to a microphone for a short verbal presentation based on another absurd scenario. In Position No. 1, where I was assigned, you get about two seconds to come up with something innovative.

The only position that could be worse -- No. 10. Nine people already have exhausted all the possibilities of the exercise.

After my group parades on stage, we take our positions and model ourselves for a few seconds to be photographed while an unseen panel of judges -- unseen, because the spotlights blinded us -- look us over like so many sides of beef.

Our cohorts in the audience, who we were often reminded would get their own turn to make fools of themselves, chortle when the image is flashed on the screen, the dorky-looking character that appears to have an appendage extending from his backside.

McTigue continues giving instructions while each of us improvises on stage.

"Imagine that the others on stage have something wrong with their appearance ... but you don't want to insult them. Go."

After the final instruction, we are told to go back to our stage positions. McTigue tells us our verbal presentation would be to explain the rules of proper manners using the disposition of a drill sergeant.

Think quickly. Manners. Sgt. Carter and Gomer Pyle. Etiquette. Lou Gossett Jr. in "An Officer and a Gentleman." Ahhhh! No!!! Scotty, beam me up!!

"This time, let's start with No. 10." So I was off the hook for a quick response, but, as I suspected, all the best drill sergeant bits were used by the time it was my turn. I offer a weak Jekyll-and-Hyde rendition of a helpful officer who transforms into a worst-nightmare kind of guy. It is over in 10 seconds, but it seems like an hour.

As the 10 of us left the stage, we receive the reward actors live for -- applause.

As we leave the auditorium, our paperwork is returned to us, marked in secret code for the next Paramount administrator to decipher. Our group is shuffled down to another part of the building where the paperwork is decoded. Some of us get call-back scripts for a Klingon role. Others get Star Fleet scripts. Some receive Vulcan monologues. And some are herded into lines for applications for other in-costume jobs at the park -- waiters, waitresses and ride operators.

My designation: Khorris, a Klingon warrior. I am asked to return in the afternoon to read.

The return to Cashman Theater is different for Phase 2. Those assembled seem relieved to have survived the morning's theatrical ordeal. Gone are most of the costumed Trekkers, although the armed Klingon is back. He was asked to read the part of a Vulcan.

Many of the professional actors are back. So is the ominous construction worker and a local businesswoman who has a "Star Trek" gig regardless of how well she does with the audition -- her company has been contracted to provide the plates and glasses for the theme park. An understudy for the Eva Peron role in a production of "Evita," she, too, is reading for Khorris the Klingon.

Inside the auditorium lobby is a study of concentration. People with intense stares, mouthing their lines. Then it occurs to me. These people are memorizing their parts.

Should I try to memorize mine? I thought this was just a reading. Surely those who have demonstrated they can memorize a one-page monologue in a couple hours will have an advantage over those of us who don't.

Then Brian Simmons returns to explain the procedure for the readings. The selection panel may be looking for just one or two characteristics and may have us read just a few sentences and leave, he explains. Others may be asked to review a line over and over to get it just the way they want to hear it. That clinches it for me -- no need to memorize. I will march up to the microphone, deliver my Khorris lines and be on my way.

The character description for my role: "Klingons are tall, dark and threatening. Their speech is direct and aggressive. Militaristic mannerisms and deep booming voices are characteristics of the warrior Klingon."

Finally, it is P-104's turn to become a Klingon. I somehow have to transform a tenor voice into something a little baritone. But this is something I have done before, coaching Little League. Come on, P-104, become Pavarotti for a few minutes.

"Greetings, Earthlings!" I bark into the mike and through a sound system that transforms my pipes into something like 7.4 on the Richter scale.

" ... We have been monitoring your planet for some time now and have discovered you are of no threat to us," I read. "Rather, I should say, you are of no interest to us. No one on your planet offers us a challenging battle worthy of our time."

"Give it to me again," says a voice from the back of the auditorium. "Make it like your addressing someone who one day told you you'd never make it. You are really pissed off."

So I read again. And again.

Unlike Phase I, this is more fun than work and it ends all too soon. P-104 has become a warrior.

The final stage of the audition process is a visit to wardrobe. A team of hem and cuff specialists take every conceivable measurement and scribble it on a form attached to my application. This would put the costume designers to work, since 24th century uniforms aren't something you can pick up at J.C. Penney.

When that is over, I am on my way, time-warped back to 20th century reality.

Those who would make the cast would be called, we are promised.

I haven't quit the day job, but my communicator has a channel open for that call.

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