by Nina Revoyr
“Well, very few of them have, sir, but I’m a serious collector. I have almost a hundred silent films, some of them even more obscure than this one.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Nakayama?” said Mrs. Bradford. “I’ve been dying to see one of your films.”
“Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“Well … it all seems rather … indulgent.”
“Oh, come on! This is perfect! Bernard’s set it all up. I’d love to see you in a movie, Mr. Nakayama. And when’s the last time you saw one of your own pictures?”
I wanted to walk directly out of that house and all the way back home. I wanted them to forget this ridiculous notion and let me get back to my life. For she was right—it had been decades since I’d watched one of my own performances, and it was not only because they were difficult to find. I worried—and only now could I admit this to myself—that our films might indeed be as archaic and silly as the public has determined them to be. I worried that our titles and silent mouthing of words would appear anachronistic. I worried that the limitations of early technology would reveal themselves in unsophisticated camera work and laughably simple backdrops. And I worried, most of all, about how I would appear; that I wouldn’t measure up to my image of myself.
But there was no way I could tell them any of this, nor was there any way to refuse this viewing without appearing trite or dramatic. So I sat down unhappily, next to Mrs. Bradford, and breathed deeply to slow down my heart.
Mr. Weisman practically danced around the room, turning off lights, adjusting the screen, and then assuming his spot behind the projector. In a moment, the motor-like sound of the projector started up, its whirring and hiccuping undisguised by the live music that usually accompanied the films in theaters. Then, on the screen, the image of curtains, which were pulled back slowly to reveal the words, Perennial Pictures. This was followed by the appearance of Evelyn Marsh, as herself, out of costume and character. Then the title, The fairest blossom in the garden of youth, which was replaced by Evelyn again, in the uniform of her character, Gillian.
Finally, as the projector continued to roll, I was looking at an image of me. First the introductory frames, in which I wore a kimono and gave a formal bow. Then the title, The mysterious visitor from exotic Japan. This dissolved into a shot of me in character, wearing a sharp Western suit and a vest chain. I stood easily and smiled confidently into the camera; my face looked fresh and unlined. It was hard to believe that this vital young man was me—but it was, in 1919, at age twenty-eight.
The moment my face first appeared on the screen, Mrs. Bradford grabbed my arm. “That’s you!” she said, gripping me tightly. And then more softly, “Oh, my goodness. Look at you.”
Almost against my own will, I did. After my first few minutes of extreme discomfort, I began to follow the story. In this film, I played Kurashima, an art collector from Japan who is making the rounds of the social circuit in New York City. Kurashima is extremely knowledgeable about art; he knows the arcane histories behind some of the world’s most famous paintings, and he has a well-deserved reputation for finding and supporting the freshest new artistic talents. During the course of attending parties and openings, he meets several young women who are drawn to him for his looks, his wealth, and the air of mystery that surrounds him, including Gillian Stevenson, played by Evelyn Marsh, a museum shop girl with whom he falls in love.
All proceeds nicely in terms of his rising status among the social set, as well as the developing romance between the two principals. The two fiirt subtly: In one title, Gillian tells Kurashima in a clothing store, Every girl wants to wear furs—to which he replies, with a sly smile on his face, And every gentleman is looking for a fox. Then one night, tearfully, the girl confesses that she is promised to another, an impoverished painter whom her parents have forbidden her to marry because of his inability to provide for her. Kurashima is deeply disappointed at this turn of events, but even more saddened by the girl’s predicament. So rather than emphasizing his own ability to give her a comfortable life, he purchases a dozen of her young man’s paintings—thus solving, with one stroke, the painter’s financial difficulties, and securing his reputation in the art world.
Although I’d been irritated at Mrs. Bradford for pulling me into her scheme, I felt more at ease as the film went on. For I realized that, despite my fears, the picture was every bit the accomplishment I’d remembered. The lighting was subtle and lovely, the sets minimal but perfectly suggestive of galleries and party locales. There were several comic sequences that were still amusing in this modern time—the young artist painting with smelly socks on his hands because he cannot afford gloves or indoor heating; Kurashima, not understanding American cookware, using a metal dustpan to make pancakes. Ashley Tyler—who’d directed—had made ample use of what were then the advancements of dissolves, cross-cuttings, and multiple cameras. Much was suggested by the adjustments of light, and some of the most important events were conveyed indirectly—like the solitary kiss between the two principals, which was shot in silhouette through a rice paper screen door; and the final farewell between Kurashima and Gillian, which was dramatized by close-up shots of the touching, lingering, and ultimate withdrawing of hands. I was pleased by the quality of the actors’ work, for Evelyn Marsh was at her charming best; Tim Buchanan, as the artist, was effective as well; and my own performance still held up under scrutiny all of these decades later. I conveyed both the easy confidence of a wealthy socialite, and then, later in the film, the resignation of a noble man who has sacrificed love for honor.
As the story unfolded, I remembered—for the first time in many years—the satisfaction I took in viewing silent films. Watching movies today is a passive experience, and there is little demand on the viewer’s imagination. But this movie—like all silents—relied on suggestion, and it was up to the audience to supply the absent connections. This movie demanded the active use of the viewer’s own mind, and when it was over, I felt we had experienced the film instead of just receiving it. In my time, we’d treated the audience as if they were adults, not children who required their meaning to be spoon fed. And for that—as well as for the merits of this particular film—I found myself quite proud.
But the feelings I had as I sat in the dark were more complex than pride. I saw, too, how untranslatable our films must seem today, for audiences who are accustomed to voices and sound effects, to gunfire and music and wordplay. Yet there was a quality of freshness and innocence that was clear in Evelyn, in myself, in every aspect of the picture. We performed in front of the camera with unabashed joy, as if we lived only for that moment. And in fact we had, for our work did not stand the test of time. Our images—quite literally—had crumbled.
The film ran about seventy minutes, and after the credits, Mr. Weisman turned on the lights. I found Mrs. Bradford looking at me with a strange expression. “Mr. Nakayama,” she said, “you were wonderful.” She paused and shook her head. “I mean, I knew you’d been an actor, but I had no idea. I totally believed you as that character, and felt awful when he lost the girl. I could absolutely follow the story, even without a lot of titles. You conveyed such strong emotion, just by the expressions on your face. And my goodness …” She appeared to blush. “I can see why women fainted in aisles.”
I smiled awkwardly; I did not know what to say.
“This is the only one of yours I have, unfortunately,” explained Weisman, who had come around to sit in a chair across from us. “But now that I’ve met you, you can be sure I’m going to dig up several more.”
“I want to see them too,” said Mrs. Bradford. “I want to know more. I can’t believe you’ve managed to keep so quiet about this, you old rascal.”
I pressed my hands together and avoided their eyes. “I don’t know if any other films survived. I myself have never seen them.”
“Well, don’t you worry,” Mr. Weisman said. “If anyone can track down obscure old films, i
t’s me.”
I did not reply to this statement and sat there quietly with my thoughts. Pride and shame and memory all mingled together inside me. For while I understood my reactions to the picture in general, I did not know how to respond to the actor I had watched up there on the screen. That young man was dynamic and fearless, unafraid to defy expectations. That young man had worked tirelessly for the love of the work. I wondered what had happened to him.
Despite my misgivings, I started to see that the day’s events had changed Mrs. Bradford’s view of me. She was different with me now, shyer, on our drive back to my town house. When we arrived, she peered at me and said with unusual gravity, “Thank you, Mr. Nakayama. That was not only a real pleasure, but also a privilege.”
“It was nothing,” I replied, and then I got out of the car.
As I left Mrs. Bradford and retreated to my home, I began to feel—to my own surprise—a sense of reassurance. For my deepest concern—that my acting would not live up to my memory of it—had been comfortably put to rest. Certainly I will have adjustments to make for this new era, speaking for the camera being one of them. But I feel more confident now about the prospect of being the anchor for Bellinger’s film, and I believe I can acquit myself quite well. Indeed, as I think about the contemporary reception to The Patron—which was a significant hit for Perennial in 1919—I can admit to myself how much I enjoyed being in the limelight. I have missed taking part in a vibrant social scene, and I have also missed the work of making motion pictures. I am looking forward to returning to the studio, to being surrounded by bright and creative people, more, perhaps, than I have cared to acknowledge.
As I enjoyed my tea that evening, remembering the film, I also found my thoughts returning to the business of acting, all the other things with which I will have to acquaint myself. Perhaps I should seek an agent, which is something that none of us had in the silent era. Perhaps I should think about securing a publicist, to handle the inevitable rush of media attention. Perhaps I should arrange to get an unlisted telephone number, to make me less accessible to the enthusiastic fans who will surely attempt to call. Some of these complications existed in my time, but the world has grown busier and more demanding since then, and I must ensure that I am well-equipped to handle it.
I was able to enjoy my thoughts of the future for half a day. For that very same evening, David Rosenberg called from the nursing home. “Listen,” he said, “Ben Dreyfus’ grandson came up here today. He wanted to talk about you.”
My stomach dropped. “I see.”
“He’s not exactly the most endearing character. Launched straight into it, and hardly said hello. He wanted to know what you were like, what kind of actor you were, and if you were all right to work with.”
“What did you tell him?”
“What do you think I told him?” David said. I could hear voices rising in the background, but couldn’t tell if they were arguing, laughing, or crying out in pain. “I told him you were the greatest actor of your generation. I told him you were an absolute professional, a real pleasure to work with. I told him that what happened to you, your leaving pictures and then practically dropping out of historical record, is one of the most regrettable things in the history of Hollywood.”
“That was unnecessary.” I was glad he couldn’t see me, for I believe I might have blushed. “I’m humbled by your words, David, and I thank you.”
“Oh, shut up, Nakayama. Humility never became you. Anyway, I know you expected this boy to come around, so this wasn’t a real surprise. But I wanted to tell you that things did take a bothersome turn.”
I waited. Through the phone I heard a wail, but David did not seem to notice.
“He asked why you didn’t make any pictures after 1922, and I told him the same thing you probably told him, that you were offered crappy roles. He didn’t buy it, and kept saying that it had to be something else. That it was too strange that you stopped working so abruptly.”
I tried to control my breathing. “And so what did you say?”
“Nothing, old man. I said nothing. Even if I were inclined to speak about that time, I would never do it with a kid like him. He’s too self-involved and immature to understand the complexities—he doesn’t exactly have the sensitivity of his granddad.” He paused. “And that’s my point. Jun, he’s real interested, and he’s convinced he’s going to dig something up. I don’t know whether he wants to discredit you or find something he can use to help market you. But he’s not going to drop this, and I think you need to be prepared. He even mentioned that it was notable that your career came to an end around the time of the Tyler murder.”
I said nothing, but gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white.
“He’s on to something, Jun, and this is not the kind of kid who takes no for an answer. He has access to everyone and everything, including all the records at Perennial … Did you manage to find Owen Hopkins and Nora Niles?”
“I did have the opportunity to speak with Hopkins,” I said. “I have not yet spoken to Nora.”
“Well, it’s time to try harder, Jun. You want to get to her before he does.” He paused again. “Is there anyone else we’re forgetting?”
I shook my head miserably. “I don’t know.”
“What about Hanako Minatoya?”
I started at the name. “I have no idea what became of Miss Minatoya.”
“Did she know about what happened?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
“It’s difficult to explain. We didn’t speak of such things explicitly. But she always seemed to know more than I told her.”
For a moment neither one of us spoke. Then Rosenberg said, “When was the last time you talked to her?”
“It’s been years. Probably more than a decade.”
“The last I heard she was living in Pacific Palisades, running acting classes.”
“Yes, that’s right. She always did love the ocean.” I remembered our days out at Moran’s studio in the Palisades, the walks we took together through the hills.
“You should go find her, Jun. Just to cover all the bases.”
“I will.”
“She was something, that woman. A real class act. So quiet and beautiful, but tough as nails.” He paused. “You know, I never understood why you didn’t marry her.”
I gave a light laugh. “Oh, we were far too much alike. We would have driven each other mad.”
“I’m pretty sure she would have been willing. It’s really kind of a shame. I think you were scared, Jun. She was the only one of those women who was honestly your equal.”
I laughed. “What makes you so sure she would have had me?”
“Oh, she would have. I knew. I think that you knew, too. Hell, Jun, everybody knew.”
I did not wish to continue on the subject of Hanako, so I asked, “Do you know where I might locate Nora Niles?”
“Yes, I do.” Then David told me that Nora Niles lived in Brentwood, and that his associate at Perennial could furnish the exact address. “Be strong, Jun,” he said. “Remember, it was a long time ago. Even if the truth outs, it’ll be all right.”
But I didn’t believe him—either in 1922 when he first gave me this assurance, or in 1964 when he repeated it. I don’t presume that, if I had been more forthright, I would have had a longer career—but I might at least have had the opportunity. The course of my time in film—and of others’ time as well—might well have been very different. I wish I could say, as people do, that I didn’t recognize the pivotal moments of my life as they were happening. Because I did. I knew precisely. I knew precisely and was powerless to stop them. It was as if I were watching something terrible unfold from behind a glass window and could not get through to intervene. My whole life changed in a few brief moments, and I knew it. I just didn’t know how dramatically, how finally.
Despite my attempts to steer David away from the topic of Hanako, our conversation brought back a fiood of re
collections. For he was right—she’d been my equal, and in fact my superior, and working with her had been one of my greatest pleasures. I was an ardent fan before I ever met her, and remained so for the rest of her career. I admired not only the finished product of her art, but also her bearing, the way she conducted herself. Hanako, unlike so many other Hollywood actresses, was never impetuous or prone to high drama. She was the consummate professional, not given to piques of rash behavior, and she had a stabilizing effect on every cast and crew she worked with.
That said, however, I do recall one or two instances when she acted out of character. They were odd little incidents, and perhaps I don’t usually include them in my memories of Hanako because they seemed like such minor aberrations. Nonetheless, upon further reflection, I must admit that there were in fact one or two times when Hanako acted in a manner that could be thought of as impulsive.
There was, for example, the incident during the filming of my second picture, Jamestown Junction. We had reached the point in the film where Hanako’s character, Mrs. Lee, a cook for a Chinese work crew, encounters a fallen prospector who’d upended her pot of beef stew earlier in the picture. Moran directed her to kick dirt on the injured man, but Hanako protested strongly. Moran looked at her in surprise—no one ever questioned his decisions—but Hanako stood firm.
“A woman of substance would never do that,” she argued. “She would never stoop to the level of that common thug. She would do the proper thing—she would stop and assist him, even the very man who insulted her.”
Moran stared at her. Finally, though, he shrugged his shoulders and agreed to do it her way. I was shocked by her behavior, but quickly forgot it. Moran had acquiesced, resolving the disagreement, but now I wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t. Hanako had revealed a strength of will I hadn’t known she possessed, and I am not sure she would have relented.
That, however, was a minor event. There was another incident, several years later, where Hanako behaved in a manner I actually found rather alarming. This was in the fall of 1921, soon after my lunch with Gerard Normandy. We were shooting Velvet Sky, the first film I had done with her in almost eight years, and it was only possible because Moran had loaned her out for a two-picture arrangement with Perennial. It was, of course, a great pleasure to work with Hanako again. I had forgotten how much of a creative challenge she presented, and in the first two weeks of shooting, her presence pushed me to the limits of my abilities.