Ensign Chekhov did not find a permanent seat at the console until well into the five-year mission of seeking out new worlds. Although Lt. Sulu to his left kept busy advancing the ship to warp speed, firing on Klingons and Romulans, and setting course for Mark 7, 332.592, Ensign Chekhov spent most of his time looking intense, scowling down at the console (“Vhat are all these blinking lights for? Vhat vould happen if I pressed this button?”), and muttering.
He is perhaps best known for his Rrrrrrussian accent, achieved largely through exchanging his w’s with his v’s, and wice-wersa.
In the recent J.J. Abram’s Star Trek movie (surely, there’s a sequel on its way?), Chekhov’s accent, which according to our Tired-of-Being-Youngest progeny is simply a stronger version of the real thing, is almost insurmountable. Even the computer had difficulty accepting his access code — “This is Weser Weser Tree” or something of the sort — and his brilliant analysis of how to solve the problem of the red matter in the hands of the mentally disturbed Romulan approximated the diatribe of precautions rattled on in a prescription drug commercial.
All the same, Chekhov is an endearing character, an emotional polar opposite of the icy cool blue Mr. Spock. His childhood was spent, not in an English boarding school where they would have hammered away at and eventually destroyed that accent, but in Russia itself, where his family lived on a small farm, like Winterscape Farm, in the country. His hot-headed personality kept him warm in the long, cold winters, and on snowy afternoons he trudged about after the cows, muttering, “Vhere are they? Oh, how I vant to be in Star Fleet!”