The Age of Dreaming (33 page)
“They’re organized, the idiots,” said the worker when he opened my door. “The Anti-Jap Exclusion League got word that you’d be filming here today.”
I appreciated his sympathy, but it did not do any good. Although the protestors remained outside of the gate, their coordinated chants of “Jap Go Home!” were so loud and persistent that none of us could concentrate. I simply ignored the yelling and attempted to play the scene, but the rest of the actors were hopelessly distracted.
“We’re going to have to do this another day,” the director said eventually, after conferring with his cameraman. “Preferably where no one can find us.”
I cannot deny that these incidents were deeply troubling to me, both at the time they occurred and long afterward. Perhaps I have not been completely exhaustive in my descriptions of certain encounters from that era. But if I have not recounted these more upsetting events in any significant detail, it is because I do not wish to make too much of them. The kind of incident that occurred during the filming of
Geronimo
was fortunately never repeated, and unpleasant scenes of any degree were relatively few. I recount them now not out of a sense of self-pity, for certainly no one was more fortunate than I. I recall them simply to acknowledge that there may have been some truth to Vail’s interpretations.
Perhaps I did not fully appreciate that what occurred in the outside world affected what occurred in pictures. For when one recalls some of the other things that were happening in the city—the vandalized fruit stands, the stoning of Japanese mailmen, the horse manure smeared on the front door of the Little Tokyo Theater—it is difficult to claim that the atmosphere in California had not become more hostile. And when one considers the legal decisions of the early 1920s—and then, of course, the regrettable developments of the early 1940s—it is hard to maintain that dislike of the Japanese was a small, localized phenomenon. It’s possible that I, despite all my popularity, came to be seen as a symbol of a disliked group of people. Indeed, as much as I am loathe to admit this, one can hardly read the difficult events of that time—the
Geronimo
protest, the incident at the golf course, even Perennial’s decision not to renew my contract—as anything other than an obvious rejection based solely on the fact of my race. I had been admired—loved—for years; that much was true. But like many loves that are forbidden or that carry the tint of shame, I’d been relinquished in the face of public disapproval.
November 19, 1964
I
have finally returned to the safety of my own quiet town house, after a night and day of nerve-wracking mishaps. It was fortunate, to say the least, that Mrs. Bradford was home when I called. I dialed her number from a phone booth in front of the old DeLuxe Theater, which now stands empty and deserted. I should not have been there by myself at such an hour. As I waited the twenty minutes for Mrs. Bradford to arrive, two jumpy, stringy-haired young men were watching me closely, stepping out of the shadows toward me and then back again. My car—the old Packard—stood useless at the curb, one tire so fiat it rested on its rims. When Mrs. Bradford finally appeared a few minutes after midnight, I nearly collapsed with exhaustion and relief.
I was at pains to describe how I’d arrived at this place; I could hardly keep the events straight in my own mind. I had started out the evening at the Tiffany Hotel, in the center of old downtown. Although the Tiffany had once been one of my favorite places, I hadn’t eaten there in over forty years. Perhaps in my distracted state I did not appreciate the passage of time, for despite my absence of several decades, I thought it was perfectly reasonable to stop by the Tiffany and unwind with a drink in the bar.
When I parked my car across the street from the hotel, however, my surroundings were unrecognizable. The Tiffany’s granite façade was still there, and its insets of burgundy tile. But the buildings around it had fallen into disrepair, and the storefronts—at least the ones that were occupied at all—belonged to shoe shops and discount clothing stores. Unsavory people milled about on the side-walks, and when I entered the lobby I wasn’t sure if I had found the right place. I had, of course; this was indeed the hotel. It just wasn’t the place I remembered.
The grand two-story lobby had been reduced to one floor, the marble columns were gone, and the lush Oriental carpet had been removed, now replaced by scratched linoleum tile. Old furniture from the rooms upstairs—beds, dressing tables, desks—had been stacked together and pushed haphazardly into a corner. There were people in the lobby, yes, but not the men in suits and ladies in gowns that one would have found there in the ’20s. The half-dozen people sitting on ripped couches against the wall were dressed in worn, disheveled clothes, and several of their faces were streaked with dirt. Some of them mumbled to themselves, and one was snoring loudly. I could smell them from where I stood.
“Let me ask you something,” called out one man. He was wearing a wool cap and a ski jacket with the stuffing coming out of the sleeves. I looked around to see who he was addressing, but nobody replied.
A metal desk stood where the concierge used to be, and a bored-looking young man in a security guard’s uniform slouched on a small chair behind it. When I approached, he glanced up from his newspaper. “Tour hours are over,” he said. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“May I look around the lobby?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. The old dining room’s closed, though. They’re using it for storage.”
I looked beyond him to the old wooden check-in counter, which remainted intact, but seemed out of place now in those dingy surroundings. The space above it was covered with plywood. “What happened to the stained glass?” I asked, remembering the beautiful thirty-foot windows that filtered in the afternoon light.
“They covered ’em up. The bums outside were throwing rocks through ’em.”
While I stood there staring at the old check-in area, the man in the ski jacket said more loudly, “Hey, can I ask you something?”
The guard sighed impatiently. “Pete, shut the hell up! Can’t you see we’ve got a visitor here?”
I turned toward the entrance to the bar. The heavy wooden door had been replaced by a glass door that had several cracks running the length of it. Inside were decorations from the dining room—tablecloths, paintings, broken chandeliers. I could not bear to look around me anymore, so I turned back to face the guard.
“What is this place?”
He looked over at the people on the couches and then up at me. “It’s a crash pad for people who got problems up here,” he said, tapping his forehead. “I guess you could say it’s one step up from a flophouse.”
“This used to be—”
“Some kind of fancy hotel. I know, can you believe it?”
I thanked the guard and walked back outside and across the street to my car. I did not feel entirely safe— disheveled men lingered in doorways, and a younger woman in gaudy clothing and too much makeup looked me up and down before continuing down the street. By the time I got back into the driver’s seat, I was shaking all over. I could not reconcile the squalid hotel I’d just seen with the place I had frequented as a young man. I could not understand what the years had done—to the Tiffany Hotel, and to all of us.
After a moment, I gathered myself and drove the four blocks west to the Biltmore. That hotel, thankfully, still had a restaurant and bar, and the patrons—while not as glamorous as the patrons of old—were still a respectable sort. I had several glasses of Scotch, and stayed in the bar all evening. For the first time, I felt truly old. And perhaps with all the talk of Thanksgiving approaching, I felt more melancholy than usual; I knew that this year, like every year, I would spend the holidays alone. I must have had more to drink than I realized, for when I got back in my car, I hit a curb turning the corner. Then, in need of something cheerful, I had the urge to drive over to the old DeLuxe Theater, where in my altered state of mind I half-believed that one of the old vaudeville troupes might be performing. I hit another curb or two as I made my way through downtown, and when I reached the old theater, I found that it had been abandoned. I got out of my car for a closer look, and when I returned, I discovered that my tire was fiat. For a moment I panicked; I’d never changed my own tire. Then I thought of Mrs. Bradford.
She was kind enough to drive me home without asking any questions, accepting my explanation that I’d had a difficult day. She went so far as to accompany me into the house, which would have caused me discomfort under normal circumstances but seemed perfectly natural now. After seeing me to my armchair and asking where the cups were, she brewed me a pot of strong coffee. Then, as I drank it, she called the automobile club and arranged for someone to retrieve my car in the morning. After that had been settled and she was sure I was all right, she sat down on the couch across from me. I noticed, even in my altered state, the graceful lines of her jaw and neck, more apparent because her hair was tied back. She looked, at once, quite younger than usual, and also—given the hour—rather tired.
“I’m starting to worry about you,” she said.
I waved her away. “I’m fine, Mrs. Bradford. I’m fine.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I tried to find something for you to eat with your coffee, and your refrigerator’s totally empty. There’s nothing in there but iced tea and some Japanese pickles.” She leaned forward, an expression of concern on her face. “Mr. Nakayama, you need someone to look after you.”
I assured her again that I was fine and that all I needed was sleep, and so, after one last disapproving shake of the head, Mrs. Bradford took her leave.
But I haven’t been able to fall asleep, and I’m not sure that sleep will come to me tonight. My mind keeps working like an engine that is idling too high. I can’t keep myself from going over what happened today at Perennial, when I went to do the screen test for Bellinger’s movie. I cannot stop reliving the troubling details—of the screen test itself, and of my meeting with Josh Dreyfus that followed it.
Dreyfus had instructed me to come at 3 o’clock, my first indication that the day would not go well. I like to work in the morning, when my mind is sharp and my body still full of energy. But there was nothing to be done, and so at 2:30 p.m. I arrived at the Perennial gate. Upon gaining entrance to the studio grounds, I was struck first by how familiar everything looked. The main buildings were the same, and the fountain in the courtyard, and the fiower beds along the south wall. But there were significant changes as well. For one thing, the grounds were much larger, taking up several city blocks, perhaps square miles. There were little golf carts everywhere, weaving through the people. Huge billboards dominated the sides and fronts of the buildings, with likenesses of current stars looming fifty feet high. The people, on the whole, seemed more aware of themselves now; even the stagehands and office people had too much makeup and expensive-looking haircuts. As I stood at the steps leading up to the main building, a cluster of about thirty people came moving slowly down the sidewalk, with a young woman bellowing a history.
“This fountain was a gift from Gregory Coleman, the oil man. It was placed here in 1918 after one of the producers at the time, Gerard Normandy, gave Coleman’s mistress a part in a movie.”
I wanted to shout a protest to this false information. Bessie Calloway, Coleman’s lover, had indeed starred in several films, but she only met Coleman—a close friend of Normandy’s—after the oil man had already given him the fountain. More fundamentally—and this was the stronger reaction—I could not believe that this woman was leading a tour; that more than two dozen members of the fawning public had been allowed to enter the studio. In my day, we would not have dreamed of opening the studio up that way—it was a place of serious work, and was not meant for public display.
A few minutes before the appointed time, I made my way into the central building and asked for Dreyfus. The woman at the receiving desk directed me back outside and told me to look for Stage 4. I had never been to this part of the studio before, but her directions were accurate, and in a moment I arrived at the proper doorway.
“Ah, Nakayama,” said Dreyfus as he opened the door. “Come in, come in.”
He led me over to the stage, where a half-dozen people milled about. A camera was set up to face it, although the cameraman was busy reading a newspaper. Offstage to the right was a haphazard collection of props—a stuffed cow head, nineteenth century rifles, and dark green monster suits. Dreyfus introduced me to the other people—a man of about forty whom I recognized as the director Steven Goodman; a younger man named Tony, who was the assistant casting director; Kenneth Gregory, an older gentleman who would be the producer; and a girl named Star, who appeared to be someone’s assistant. Also present was an actress I recognized as having played supporting parts in several films, a lovely young woman in her late twenties whom Dreyfus introduced as Beth Michaels. I felt overdressed. After much consideration, I had settled on a tan suit, yellow vest, and navy-blue tie, but the other men wore casual slacks and short-sleeve shirts, with the exception of Dreyfus, who at least had on a jacket. Tony did not even have proper shoes; his large feet spilled out over a pair of leather sandals.
“Where’s Bellinger?” I asked.
“Ah, Nick,” said Dreyfus. “Well, Nick isn’t here. I know he wanted to be, but I find that it’s a mistake to involve the writer at this stage. He often has too strong of an opinion about who should play what, and can’t get past his own ideas.”
I was not pleased, and wondered why Bellinger hadn’t warned me of his absence. But there was no time to worry about it, because then Dreyfus clapped his hands and walked to the front of the room.
“We’re going to do two scenes,” he said. “Jun, Beth here is going to play Diane Marbur y. The first scene is the one where Takano’s working in his garden, and Diane comes up and introduces herself. The second scene is where Diane and two of the townsmen confront Takano about his role in the war. Star here has the scenes copied out for you to use. I take it you already have them memorized?”
I nodded; of course I did. I had, in fact, committed all of Takano’s lines to memory; I had already begun to think of them as
my
lines.
“All right then,” said Dreyfus, “why don’t you two assume your spots?”
I did not quite know how to position myself, but when I saw Miss Michaels go to one corner of the stage, I moved toward the other. I looked back at Dreyfus and his colleagues, who observed me like a jury. “Just relax,” said the director, Goodman. “I know it’s been awhile. But the screen test process hasn’t changed, Jun. It’s much the same as it was in your time.”
I nodded, but didn’t say what I had just then realized— that I’d never before
had
a screen test, or indeed an audition of any kind. Moran discovered me at the Little Tokyo Theater, and after that, all the parts had simply been offered. Nonetheless, I attempted to carry myself as if I had been through this process many times before.
I stood there awkwardly until Goodman called out, “Action!”
Beth Michaels walked toward me, and then she began: “Hello? Excuse me, sir. Are you the new owner of this house? I wanted to introduce myself—my name is Diane Marbury.”
I stepped forward to face Miss Michaels and was met with a radiant smile and an outstretched hand. This was all in character, but the warmth of her eyes, the encouragement, seemed genuine. “Hello,” I said too loudly. “I am Takano. Yes, I have just moved into this house. And you are my neighbor, with the husband and son.”
Once we started, everything changed. For after a few moments of initial discomfort, I remembered what it was like to inhabit a character; to become a being that, until that moment, had existed only on paper, and make him real for the rest of the world. As Miss Michaels and I settled into that first critical scene, I felt the last forty years fall away. Yes, I was doing something different than before—I was using my voice, speaking someone else’s thoughts—but the process of becoming a character was exactly the same. Miss Michaels and I had a natural rapport, and we played the parts well, knowing exactly how to look at each other and how to use the space between us. When we reached the end of the scene, she smiled at me brightly, and I was filled with a surge of exhilaration I hadn’t known in decades.
But when I looked over at the studio people, they were stone-faced. I must admit that at that moment I felt rather deflated, since I thought we had done so well. Then the casting director, Tony, shook his head.