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The 30th Anniversary Star Trek Convention.
By
Alien lifeforms exist and they have spent the weekend at the Raddleson Edwardian Hotel on the A4.
Why do otherwise sensible adults spend a weekend dressed as a Klingon? That is a question which intrigues this writer. The desire to don costume is something that we are allowed to do as children but are expected to grow out of as the rigours of the uniformity dominate our adult lives. Even as children we are made aware of the need to fit into, be part of, a group - a gang; it is dangerous to be on the outside looking in, dangerous and a little sad. The notion of normality precludes going the local Tesco dressed as a Klingon although we are surrounded by accepted examples of uniforms designed to set people apart, policemen, traffic wardens (although they are moving more and more towards and undercover mufti), nuns, lollipop persons... Normality has always been a relative term and nowhere is it more relative than at a Star Trek Convention.
The point of entry into this alien environment is a plush and welcoming airport hotel by Heathrow. It is here that several hundred otherwise dowdy and average folk transform like mild mannered Clark Kent into 'Superman', or in their case Klingons, Starfleet Personnel, Picards, Rikers, Ferengi, Cardassians, Vulcans, Romulans and Borg. This last is a robot species who can function only in the third person plural (we are Borg...) and has no notion of individuality but rather talks in terms of 'the collective,' herding in extremis. In a sense it is the Borg that the TREKKIES most closely resemble, weak in isolation - awesome in numbers and nowhere is this more evident than at the evening party at the convention.
Having spent the day watching any number of Star Trek films on the several screens available or contentedly browsing amongst the specialist dealers hoping to pick up a useful prosthetic (Klingon forehead, funny wrinkly nose bits) or a fetching synthetic Starfleet uniform (available for all departments from officer to engineering) the TREKKIES retire to their rooms and change for the evening. While I was on my umpteenth pint in the recherché post 80's colonial 'Polo Lounge' the transformation was taking place.
Wandering into the main hall I felt a bit like Luke Skywalker in the alien bar in Star Wars. Yes these were humanoid but well... different. A Borg was chatting to a group of startled officers and the Klingons huddled together in another group while the disco blared out 'I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper' and a sparsely populated dancefloor jigged about under the coloured lights. Already I sensed the collective at work but I was unprepared for the full monty that was to come.
Drinking ever more beer in an attempt to feel more wacky and less voyeuristic I sat in gobsmacked awe as the dance floor ebbed and flowed according to the song being played. Predictably when the opening bars of the Time Warp became audible the happy jigging few were stampeded by what seemed like thousands of Time Warping TREKKIES. Every step perfect, every word shouted out with a single purpose. I could only watch in mute bewilderment but I did think how very happy they all seemed dancing in synchronisation. This was to be the pattern of the evening, occasionally a song would come along which, like some secret message, would galvanise the room into a headlong rush onto the dance floor and I would be left at my empty table secretly wishing that I knew the steps so I too could join the collective. I was feeling pretty bemused up to the start of Bohemian Rhapsody (funny choice for a disco I thought - silly me) suddenly everyone ran from the dance floor and started to grab chairs. I had to hold on pretty tight to mine in order to stay sitting on it. Then they all ran back on the dance floor and went into the routine. Two 'Conductors' stood on their spindly gold chairs at the front guiding everyone else who sang different parts as instructed and stood up to do so. This all got a bit hair raising at the 'Galileo/Galileo/Galileo/Galileo' section and started to look like chaos theory in action but somehow it all pulled back together for the 'Nothing really matters to me/ Anyway the wind blows' ending. A sentiment felt as strongly as it was sung. The feeling that I was in a room of certifiable people became overwhelming so I staggered upstairs and watched and episode of ( I think) Voyager.
During one of my (many) trips to the 'Polo Lounge' I overheard another, non-con resident mouthing off to his mate about how sad and pathetic he thought it all was that these idiots should all dress up make fools of themselves. I wondered about this well thought out and cleverly argued line of thought and decided that he probably would dare to say it to the Klingon warrior I had passed in the corridor. A part of me agreed but a greater part thought that I'd rather be in the company of the strangely attired than the terminally opinionated. The feeling of kinship and sense of fun was everywhere in the hotel, but in the corner where he sat and judged, 'sad and pathetic' may apply but not, I think, to the Trekkies.
The following day dawned with me feeling a bit fuzzy, or as Malcolm Lowry has it 'dat wibbly-wobbly feeling in the morning'. I made a great effort and tottered into the main hall to hear one of the guests talk. There were three Star Trek guests - William Campbell, a veteran of several episodes and keen convention guest, Robin Curtis (Lt Saavik) and George Takai (Sulu to you). It was William Campbell's turn at the podium, apparently taking the early shift like a gentleman so that Robin Curtis could recover from the night before. His genuine love of the Trekkies is touching. He understands that the relationship between actor and audience is one of symbiosis. If Dennis Pennis singles out stars for abuse to break a taboo and make them appear like the rest of us - foolish, insecure and uncertain in the face of criticism then Bill Campbell attacks the same citadel from the other side by being as interested in the lives of his fans as they are in his. It is a gentler path.
The relation between the actors, the characters they play and their fans is the eye of the storm, the vortex in the sink, the point around which everything rotates and into which everything is drawn with a final gurgle. Why would you want to dress up as Commander William Ryker unless you felt that a part of you desires to be him - is him - a fantasy that is let out in full costume when the proximity of other characters from the same series make it the norm. It is harmless this fantasy and apart from other adjectives like certifiable, bizarre and downright barking the one that comes most to mind in reviewing the two days spent in the company of these people is 'happy'.
There is a section of the current USS Enterprise called the Holodeck - a computer generated world that can be whatever you want, the old west, Victorian London, the open seas. The crew use if for recreation and go into a fantasy world, it is 'Lets Pretend' on a grand scale. If such a thing were ever to exist I would honestly rush to try it but I have a feeling that the Trekkies would be there before me...perhaps they already are.
Copyright 1996 Garf Technology, all rights reserved
