The Age of Dreaming (10 page)

“Listen, Jun,” David said. “What brings you here today? I can’t imagine that time has changed you that much, and you were never the type to just drop in for a friendly chat.”

I cleared my throat and placed my hands on my lap, trying to control my suddenly racing heart. “In fact, there
is
something I would like to discuss with you. I’ve been approached by someone who’s doing an article about the new silent movie theater. It turns out that he’s also a screenwriter with a film that may go into production—and he wants me to play a part in his movie.”

Rosenberg struggled to turn toward me. “A part in a movie! Really? Why Jun, that’s wonderful!”

I held my hands up before he got too carried away. “Nothing is certain yet; Perennial’s still considering it. But Bellinger, the young man, seems very sincere.” I paused. “His contact at Perennial is Ben Dreyfus’ grandson. Did you know that he’s the head of production now?”

David shifted in his chair. “Yes,” he said in a tone that seemed faintly disapproving. “He’s been making quite a killing these last few years. Remember
Leap of Faith
, that lucrative piece of fiuff? Well, that was his. And several others like it.”

I digested this information for a moment. “Well, the two young men are apparently good friends, and Bellinger has been speaking to Dreyfus’ grandson on my behalf. Bellinger is very excited that he’s managed to track me down. He’s seen several of my films, he said; his parents are collectors. He’s been trying to talk to others who were around in those years—and he’s very interested in my time at Perennial.”

David turned back toward the horizon—it was a clear day, and we could make out the shape of Catalina Island in the distance. He was quiet for so long that I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. Then finally he said, “Don’t worry, Jun. If he comes to me, I won’t tell him anything.”

I lowered my eyes. “I’m not asking you to mislead anyone. I would just hope that you would exercise discretion. You know how the public is these days; they take little things and make far too much of them.”

David looked down at his own hands now, observing his shaking fingers as if they belonged to someone else. “You don’t have to worry, Jun. It was a difficult time for all of us. But if you’re concerned about anybody making too much of things, maybe you should go speak with some of the others from the old days.”

“I’ve thought of that,” I said. “But I don’t know where to start.”

He curled one hand into a loose fist and brought it to his chin, as if pressing it there would stimulate a thought. “All the studio men are gone, at least the ones you would have worked with—your directors and all the execs.”

I nodded. “There really aren’t too many of us left.”

“I don’t know if this would help,” he said, “but Owen Hopkins is still alive. He was quoted in a piece in the
Times
about the old District Attorney, Crittendon, and all the corruption in his office.”

I remembered Detective Hopkins. He was a young man himself in the brief time I knew him, a steady, earnest sort who seemed out of place amongst the coarse, hardened older men he worked with. The more I thought about his role in the events of that time, the more I realized that Rosenberg’s suggestion made sense.

“And,” he said cautiously, “you should also talk to Nora. Lord only knows where she is now, but it can’t hurt to cover that base.”

I did not reply to his suggestion immediately, glancing instead at a pair of squirrels who were chattering at each other on the lawn. Then finally I said, “Your advice is always useful, David. I knew I was doing the right thing by coming to see you.”

Rosenberg placed one hand on top of the other, as if trying to hold it still. “It’s a shame you still have to worry about this. Some things should stay forgotten.”

I laughed softly and changed the subject, directing my old friend’s attention to a trio of new buildings that were going up near the 405 freeway. We talked of old times and of how the city had changed, and when David’s breathing grew heavy and he paused longer before speaking, I took my leave of him and drove back down the hill.

This evening, as I sit here attempting to read, my mind keeps wandering back to my visit with David. It startled me to see him in such ill health, and I wonder if I looked as old to him as he had looked to me. When we were young, it seemed like aging only happened to other, less fortunate people; we worked and lived and stayed up all night as if we were immune to the claims of time. David went on, in the ’30s and ’40s, to become a mid-level executive, but he never rose to the heights one might have predicted for such a pleasant and talented man. Perhaps his ambition was held in check by his careful and scrupulous nature; perhaps, like so many of us, he’d been suited to a simpler time. He was a good man, and he’d always been friendly to me, and all in all I’d been happy to see him. But my vivid recollections of him in his youth made his current condition even more troubling. He had spent his whole life in the service of pictures. And like so many of us, he’d simply been forgotten.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
t seemed like David Rosenberg was always there during my most important moments at Perennial. He was at the studio, for example, the day I met Nora Niles. He was also there on the night I met the man who would shape the rest of my career, the British director Ashley Bennett Tyler.

I met Tyler at a party at the Ship Café, which was, in the spring and summer of 1917, extremely popular with the Hollywood set. Unlike the formal Alexandria or the staid Tiffany Hotel, the Ship was a place where people let loose. It extended like a pier from the edge of the beach and reached out over the water. The design, feel, and fixtures were so authentic that on that one occasion, when I’d had too much to drink, I was convinced that we were fioating out to sea. The large, inviting dance fioor was always crowded, and the country’s most popular bands would play on the stage. Waiters in black suits and white gloves glided through the crowd, balancing trays full of drinks. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the anxiety of picture people all attempting to secure their next deals. When stars were at the Ship—and they almost always were—they would often take the stage for impromptu performances; I remember one night when the comedian Tuggy Figgins instigated a shoe-throwing contest, for which the men— and some ladies—stood up on stage and aimed their shoes across the room at a bucket of punch. Everyone at the Ship seemed to know each other, or knew someone who knew someone else; the place was so exclusive that it often felt like you needed to show your credits to get inside.

That evening’s party had been thrown by the studio on Tyler’s behalf, in celebration of his latest picture,
The New Frontier
, which had just premiered that night at the Egyptian. Although Tyler had already made half a dozen films, our paths had not yet crossed, and I was curious to meet the British director who suddenly had the whole town talking. I had recently seen two or three of his films, which were markedly different from what was already becoming standard picture fare. Instead of silly romantic plots or slapstick comedies, Tyler wove tales of psychological and moral complexity. His new film was the story of an East Coast family who’d moved into the wilds of California. The setting was physical—vast and open, unlike the crowded streets of Boston—but the action was metaphysical, as the settlers struggled to forge an identity in this entirely different world. It had struck me as the work of a transplanted outsider, someone who never lost his sense of otherness despite the apparent confidence with which he moved through his new surroundings.

I attended the film and party with a chatty young lady whose name I can no longer recall. She was certainly an actress, or at least was trying to be; over the previous year she’d had bit parts in several forgettable pictures. We danced a few dances together, and then sat at a table with the actors Herman Spencer and Edmund Cleaves. I did not stay seated for very long, however, for young woman after young woman came over to us, imploring, “Jun! Jun! Won’t you please come dance with me?” And I did, indulging them all, spinning to the music, my senses full of their lovely faces and soft white shoulders and fragrant, luxurious hair. Annoyed by my fiagging attention to her, my date fiitted off into the crowd. I didn’t mind—I had plenty of acquaintances at the party—and it was the kind of vibrant, celebratory evening that made me happy just to be among people, to be who I was at that moment in time.

I had just commenced a discussion with Herman Spencer about Tyler’s new film when I looked up and saw the director himself. He was sitting on a bar stool at the edge of the crowd, holding a half-empty glass in his hand. He was dressed like an English gentleman, which I learned later was his habit—tweed coat and pants, light vest, brown leather shoes. His blond-brown hair was perfectly combed; his square jaw anchored his handsome face; and his long, graceful hands looked like they had been washed, massaged, and laid out on a bed of pillows for display.

Despite his appearance, however, Tyler was somewhat unusual for a Hollywood figure. For one thing, he was a middle-aged man in a town that celebrated youth. He’d appeared out of nowhere, acting—badly, I should say—in two films in 1916, and then directing three more before he was put under contract by Perennial. It was rumored that he’d come from the New York theater, and had performed with another theater company in London after a stint as an officer in the British Army.

The thing that struck me that night at the Ship Café was that even sitting atop the ridiculously high chair, he looked perfectly at ease, as if he were in a garden drinking tea. I watched as a steady fiow of partygoers approached him to congratulate him on his film. He listened to them all graciously, and responded to each speaker as if he’d never before received such a compliment. These interactions were all monitored by a fidgety young man who stood several feet off to his left, quietly keeping his eyes on the proceedings.

As far as I could tell, the director was not there with a woman. Several women had been associated with him in the fan magazines, but none with any evidence or consistency, and within the close-knit universe of Hollywood people, he was said to be a solitary figure. Through his short conversations with well-wishers that night, I never saw him look around to find a particular person in the crowd. Tyler’s reactions to all the people who spoke with him were polite and impersonal. He only changed expression when his boss, Gerard Normandy, approached with David Rosenberg in tow.

Gerard Normandy was himself, of course, a figure who commanded attention. It is amazing to think now, from the vantage point of old age, that this accomplished and remarkable man, this man who had already started his own company and was now head of production for a major studio, was all of thirty-three years old. He was not, however, someone who took advantage of his youth. He was terribly serious, always weighted down by the latest financing scheme or attempt to secure film rights, and even when he was out at festive places like the Ship, he looked like he was still at the office. But when Normandy appeared beside the director that night, even he seemed affected by Tyler’s charm. He brightened, a smile cracked the surface of his face, and soon the two men were engaged in a lively conversation. It was Normandy who’d made Tyler, really; he’d convinced the studio to sign him to a long-term contract on the strength of his first three films. The studio’s backers had readily agreed, for they liked the air of respectability Tyler brought to Perennial, at a time when city leaders were complaining more openly about the excess and frivolity of picture people.

As the two men talked that evening, people watched them with interest. David Rosenberg stood quietly a little to the side of them, ready should Normandy need the name of a financial backer, or distribution figures, or the gossip on an actress the boss was considering for a part in an upcoming film. He also ran interference if some not-quite-important-enough person attempted to approach. Tyler looked over at his own man once or twice, as if to make sure that he was still there. I watched all of this too, as curious as anyone else, and after a few minutes, Gerard saw me looking and waved me over.

I muttered apologies to my table and made my way through the crowd while people reached over to shake my hand and called out greetings. Finally I arrived at the other side of the floor.

“Ah, Jun!” Gerard shouted above the music, smiling so widely that he looked almost sick. “I’m so glad to see you here. Have you met Ashley?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said loudly, receiving Tyler’s firm, straightforward handshake, and I felt inexplicably nervous. But Tyler saved me—he pulled me toward him and leaned forward with a genuine smile.

“I admire your work, Mr. Nakayama,” he said in a crisp British accent. “It’s truly an honor to meet you.”

“No, sir,” I said, “the privilege is mine.”

“You damned foreigners and all your formalities,” said Normandy cheerfully. “It’s enough to drive us uncouth Americans crazy.”

“You are hardly uncouth, Gerard,” said Tyler. “Although your suit’s a bit loose. And those glasses make you look like an accountant.”

It was true—Normandy’s clothes were always a touch too large, and he did have the look of a lowly financial man—but I had never before heard anybody speak to him in this manner. Even Rosenberg, who’d greeted me with a wave when I came over, raised his eyebrows and watched for Normandy’s reaction. Gerard, however, appeared to enjoy this exchange, in the way that a homely boy can sometimes be pleased by a handsome boy’s teasing attention.

“So you’re talented and slick and well-dressed, you old devil,” he said. “And now you’re telling me you’re an expert in grooming. Remind me never to go out with you when I’m trying to impress a girl. She’ll run off with you and never give me a second glance.”

“You hardly need any help with women, Gerard,” replied Tyler. “You’re out with a different woman every time I see you. If I had a daughter, I’d lock her up whenever you came around.”

“Oh, please. Those girls just want me to get them into pictures. If you want a
real
ladies’ man, you should talk to Jun.”

I was aghast at this exchange, horrified that this was the first thing that Tyler should hear about me, and I lowered my eyes to the floor.

Tyler, however, didn’t seem to notice. “Well, he
does
cut quite a figure,” the director remarked. “He looks like the tuxedo was invented for him. I suppose I’ll have to keep my daughter away from
both
of you, then. The only man she’d be safe with is our friend David here, but that’s only because he’s dreadfully boring.”

Rosenberg, hearing this, leaned over and said, “That isn’t what they tell me, old man.”

Normandy and Tyler both laughed. I continued to marvel at Tyler’s informal manner with Normandy, which was particularly striking because everything else about the director appeared to be so proper. Nobody kidded with Normandy this way; he was one of the kings of Hollywood. And when I got to know Tyler better, I would see that he was able to speak in such a manner because of his age and accent, his air of class. It was all good-natured teasing of the highest order—tasteful, for Ashley Tyler was a gentleman.

“So Jun,” said Normandy, turning back to me, “I’ve been thinking. Ashley’s my brightest new director, you’re my best actor, and it’s time to put the two of you together. How would you feel about working on a film with Ashley? And Ashley, I’m not asking you, because I don’t care what you think.”

The director laughed. “I’m going to tell you anyway. I think you’ve been wasting Mr. Nakayama’s talent on one-dimensional villains. With me, he could play characters of some complexity.”

“And what do
you
think, Jun?” Normandy inquired, ignoring Tyler’s comments.

“I’d be honored,” I said. “I’m a great admirer of Mr. Tyler’s films.”

“Well, wonderful. It’s settled then,” Normandy said. “Why don’t you both come by my office next week? David, do I have time on Tuesday?”

“For them you do,” Rosenberg answered, and just at that moment my date reappeared, tugging at my arm. She gave me a look, and at her cue I introduced her to Tyler and Normandy, who shook her hand politely but did not offer anything beyond the requisite greeting. Disappointed, she turned away and began to pull me after her.

“See?” said Normandy, grinning at Tyler. “He can’t fight them off with a stick.”

The project that Normandy came up with for us was the World War I spy film,
The Noble Servant
. As he had promised at the Ship Café, we all met on Tuesday at his office, a cavernous room with heavy wooden paneling and stained glass windows, which seemed designed to intimidate anyone who entered. Both Normandy and Tyler were all business that day. The lightheartedness and kidding of the nightclub were gone, replaced by a focused but excited attention to the details of the project. It was Tyler who suggested Nora Minton Niles for the female lead, and this caused a prolonged discussion. While I was worried about working with someone so young—not to mention someone with an ever-present mother who had a reputation for being difficult—it is also true that I was intrigued at the prospect of appearing in a film with the unmistakable new darling of Perennial.

My enthusiasm only grew when Normandy laid out the plot, which reflected America’s recent entry into the war. Nora was to play Sarah Davidson, the lonely daughter of an army general who is consumed with preparations for battle. My role was that of Nori, ostensibly a servant in the general’s household but in reality a Japanese secret service agent whose mission is to protect Sarah, and to discern who in the general’s household has been stealing his secret war plans and turning them over to the Germans. Despite my objections to my character’s unlikely name—which Normandy insisted sounded “authentic but pronounceable”—I was pleased with my part and with the story line. The Great War had made allies of the U.S. and Japan, and this affected how Japanese characters were portrayed on the screen. I had played spies before, yes, but always dangerous ones; now my character’s motivations were purely noble.

Nori, who admires the heroic General Davidson, takes seriously his charge to protect his young daughter and to ferret out the spy in the household. Through his interactions with the servants and his careful observations of Sarah, he discerns that her suitor, Peter Mays, is in reality a German spy who has been courting Sarah in order to gain entry to the general’s home. Nori knows the general would be furious if he learned that his daughter had inadvertently given the German access to his secrets, so, sacrificing the credit that is rightly his, he tells the general that it was Sarah who exposed the spy. This action, in one stroke, solves the problem of the army’s secrets and raises Sarah in her father’s esteem, thus inspiring the fatherly love and attention she has craved all her life. Even better, it draws the admiration of a handsome navy captain, who makes her forget about the German. Nori, his mission complete, is sent back to Japan, where he awaits his next assignment for the Allies.