When Star Trek eliminated space as a significant factor in its stories, there were several advantageous results. Certainly, life was simpler for the special effects people, since they did not have to worry about simulating zero gravity or filming actors in spacesuits; only models of spacecraft and planets had to be filmed against the background of space. More importantly, the peculiar and problematic aspects of space drama observed in previous spacesuit films were no longer present; scenes in Star Trek episodes could be filled with bright colors and evocative sounds, could be paced in conventional ways, and could be understood without annotation. In one key respect, the series famously ignored the facts of space, as Gene Roddenberry once explained:
A spaceship traveling through space, where there is no atmosphere, does not make a sound as it passes. When we did the original titles for the pilot, where we have the ship zoom past the camera at seemingly great speeds, we had no sound...just the visual movement of the ship. As a result, that sequence was literally dead. It had no feeling of speed or excitement about it at all. So we added a “swish” sound as the ship passed by, and suddenly it came alive. We are earthbound creatures, and we are used to some thing going that fast making a sound as it goes by. We had to put it in even though we know that scientifically it wouldn’t happen.17
With this concession to “earthbound” sensibilities, the producer was frankly falsifying the nature of space, making it seem more like Earth with those familiar “swish” sounds (which also accompany all spaceships in subsequent Star Trek series and films). It is a small matter, but it suggests a larger pattern of making space seem familiar and comfortable by ignoring its true features.
In one episode during the third season of Star Trek, however, spacesuits finally made a telling appearance. In “The Tholian Web” (1968), Captain Kirk and other crew members investigating a devastated spaceship must wear large, clumsy spacesuits when they are beamed aboard. Due to strange energy disturbances in the vicinity, Kirk is stranded on board the ship, which soon vanishes; as the crew gradually recognizes that there is no possibility of rescue, Kirk is officially pronounced dead, and Mr. Spock (Leonard Nimoy) takes over as captain. To those who have only seen this episode as part of an endlessly rerun syndication package, it is hard to convey the impact of this episode when I watched its first airing on November 15, 1968. Even as a teenager, I knew that regular characters were sometimes written out of series for various reasons; and, watching an episode in which Kirk is declared dead and Spock is competently settling into a new role as captain, I and all the others watching that night could not be sure, like later viewers, that it was all a trick. The emotional power of the episode was further heightened by a scene in which a quarreling Spock and Dr. McCoy (DeForest Kelley) watch a prerecorded video message from Kirk, who gently tells them that they must stop fighting and work together now that he is gone.
In the end, we do learn that it was all a trick; crew members start seeing fleeting images of Kirk in his spacesuit, flailing about, and after Spock deduces that Kirk is still alive, trapped in another dimension, he figures how to locate him and transport him back to the Enterprise—since the spacesuit kept him alive while he drifted through dimensional space. Still, I would argue that it is in this episode that death as a reality—as something that happens to people we know and like, not just villains, guest stars, and extras—first entered the universe of Star Trek, long before the more celebrated deaths of Spock (in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan [1982]), Tasha Yar (Denise Crosby) (in “Skin of Evil” [1988], episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation), and Kirk (in Star Trek: Generations [1994]). And the apparent death of Kirk occurred at the one time in the first series when someone was wearing a spacesuit—suggesting that the presence of spacesuits in space films can both signal and enforce attentiveness to the true dangers of space.
It is a sign of some fundamental blindness in the Star Trek family that the script’s co-author Judy Burns, recalling “The Tholian Web,” regarded the presence of spacesuits in the episode as a significant flaw; announcing that her original plan was to produce “a ghost story based on fact,” she explained:
Some of the things I was a little disappointed in were caused by technical problems. Originally there were no space suits when Kirk and the others beamed over to the other ship. There were force field belts which kept them encapsulated in a kind of mini-force field.... Therefore, Kirk would have wandered around the ship looking like he looks, except for a little force field belt. I think it would have made a better ghost story. He looks silly constantly appearing in that space suit. I really had a lot of qualms about that. Not from poor designing or anything, but from a story point-of-view, it would have been better.18
Stating a desire for “a better ghost story,” though, is also expressing a preference for a more conventional story. And does Kirk look “silly” in a spacesuit? At times, yes, just like any other real or fictional astronaut wearing one of those cumbersome suits to stay alive, clumsily trying to maneuver through zero gravity. People who really travel into space must be prepared to look silly, even if it offends Burns’a sense of decorum.
In any event, spacesuits have remained relatively rare in the universe of Star Trek; the only one that immediately comes to mind is the suit that Spock wears for a perilous rendezvous with the immense V’Ger ship in Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979). It is one of the most visually impressive scenes in that flawed film, as the tiny human figure reminds us again of the smallness and vulnerability of humans travelling through space—precisely the message that Star Trek otherwise endeavors to suppress.
The pattern set by Star Trek was generally followed by the other major science fiction franchise of our time—the Star Wars films—though these thankfully minimized the role of television screens and returned to the notion of spaceships with windows. Still, even within a few feet of space, no Star Wars character ever dons a spacesuit. As for the later Star Trek series, the only visible concessions to the environment of space are the large picture windows with scenes of space that are often observed in the background of crew quarters and meeting rooms; once a television channel, outer space now also functions as exotic wallpaper.
In the unlikely milieu of the film Superman II (1980), there occurs one striking moment of interaction between different styles of space films that in a way dramatizes the death of the realistic spacesuit film and the triumph of the unrealistic space film. Super-villains from the planet Krypton, flying through the vacuum of space without spacesuits in defiance of all scientific logic, encounter American astronauts on the Moon; the female villain casually rips one astronaut’s suit, causing his realistically-depicted death from exposure to vacuum. This provides a jarring touch of grim authenticity in a generally ridiculous film, an incongruous juxtaposition that illustrates the generic gap between space film and spacesuit film; and, as the villains abandon the dead astronauts to fly on to Earth to engage in epic battles with Superman, one gets the sense that this era of Star Wars, Superman (1978), and the revived Star Trek signaled the end of the true spacesuit film. Spacesuits would still figure in some serious movies, like the first Alien film (1979), and in some light-hearted ones, like the James Bond romp Moonraker (1979), but the spacesuit would no longer function as a generic marker that could impose an atmosphere of grim reality on space adventure films.
Now, given the other virtues of Star Trek, Star Wars, and similar films and television