The Age of Dreaming (11 page)

Before the filming of our picture began, I attended another meeting in Normandy’s office. I arrived first and listened as he and Rosenberg spoke cheerfully about the returns of Nora’s latest film. Ashley Tyler entered next, looking impeccable in his white pants and blue sport coat. He was followed by Charles Laughlin, the slightly sickly young man who would play the deceptive German, and Arthur Bowen, the thick-necked actor cast as the navy captain. Then came John Wellington, the dignified older actor who would play Nora’s father, the army general. Finally, Harriet Cole burst into the room, fifteen minutes late, followed almost reluctantly by Nora. Mrs. Cole was wearing an emerald-green jacket and dress and a rather severe black hat. She glared at Rosenberg and then at an empty chair that was pushed against the wall, until he understood that she wanted it placed in front of Normandy’s desk. He moved it, she sat, and then she stared at Normandy and Tyler as if to indicate that the meeting could now begin.

It had been several months since I’d met Nora in the courtyard, and while I had since caught glimpses of her around the studio, I hadn’t spoken to her at all. She appeared thin and slightly tired—still girlish, but some of the softness was gone from her face and middle—and there was the same lack of interest in the happenings around her, the same dreaminess I’d seen the day we met. She settled in a chair in the back of the room and conspicuously avoided looking at her mother.

Given the way my first encounter with Mrs. Cole had unfolded, I had not looked forward to seeing her again. But she kept strictly to the business at hand. She discussed the script in a professional manner, commenting here and there about a particular plot turn, questioning Tyler about his vision of especially crucial scenes. Although she refrained from saying anything explicitly negative, it was my impression, judging from her expression of distaste, that Mrs. Cole was not particularly enthused about the prospect of her daughter starring opposite me, and it was clear she had misgivings about working with the producer who was responsible for
Sleight of Hand
. Mrs. Cole was, I believe, in somewhat of a bind—pleased by the success of Normandy’s films, which guaranteed attention for the current one; and afraid that some of the elements that had contributed to their popularity would carry over into his current project. She wanted assurances that there was no hint of romance between my character and Nora’s, and Tyler promised her that this was not the case. There was, in fact, a male romantic figure in the film—the somewhat roguish Arthur Bowen, who played the captain of the American warship—and Mrs. Cole accepted this news without comment. She then asked—as she apparently did at the commencement of every project—if she would have access to the filming.

Tyler replied firmly, “No, Mrs. Cole. I always keep a closed set.” Then he softened. “You may, however, view some of the rushes.”

“All right, I won’t argue with that, but there are certain rules I still expect you to follow.” Her daughter would never be alone with any man, she said—not me, not Bowen, not Tyler, not even the costume people. She seemed to see the entire male population of Hollywood as a group of predators, and her near-obsessive protection of her daughter’s honor aroused my sympathy for the girl.

As the meeting progressed, Nora sat in the back corner staring out the window like a child who had accompanied her busy mother on an errand that had nothing to do with her. When she did turn back to face the room, it wasn’t to engage in the discussion, but rather to watch Ashley Tyler, whose commanding manner captured even her fieeting attention.

When the filming began for
The Noble Servant
two weeks later, I found—as both Tyler and Normandy had assured me—that Nora was a pleasure to work with. She was always on time, always pleasant and prepared, and not given to the fits of hysteria or pique that afflicted so many other young actresses. More importantly to me, she was serious about her work. The melancholy I’d sensed from our very first meeting infused her portrayal of the sad and complex Sarah Davidson, and she was able to convey her character’s emotions at being ignored by her father with subtlety and power.

In spite of her mother’s worries—and the clear intentions of Arthur Bowen, who was famous for his exploits with young girls—there was nothing between Nora and any of the actors. Indeed, despite her earlier attentions to me in the courtyard, I appeared to be invisible to Nora. It quickly became apparent that the only man she saw was our director, Ashley Tyler.

I noticed her affection almost immediately. On the first day of rehearsal, as he moved about the set and shouted directions, I saw Nora looking at him with the unmistakable bliss of romantic adoration. One couldn’t blame her. Tyler was, after all, a handsome man, and the sight of him with his sleeves rolled up was the very image of masculine vitality. His accent helped also—I’d heard many women comment on how appealing it was—and the brilliance of his films was undeniable. But perhaps the director’s most agreeable trait was that despite his success and the attention from women, he did not act self-important. He dressed well, but was not a dandy—not like DeMille in his breeches and shiny high boots, or Erich von Stroheim with his white gloves and cane. He was simply a gentleman, self-possessed and confident, and clearly in command of his craft. Taken together with his reputation for being a caring man, Ashley Tyler seemed like any woman’s ideal. The fact that he was forty-three—old enough to be Nora’s father—didn’t seem to deter her at all. There were, in fact, other examples of affection between beautiful young actresses and powerful older men—Norma Talmadge and Joseph Schenck, Gloria Swanson and Herbert Somborn. But the difference with Nora and Tyler was that it was she who was in pursuit. Indeed, as time passed, she took less care to disguise her affections.

There was the day, for example, when we were filming the scene where Sarah Davidson stands alone on her veranda, watching her father leave for yet another meeting. It was a typical chaotic day of filming. Our set adjoined another, where a different director was shooting interiors for a Western, and we could hear his shouted directions through the thin barrier between us, as well as the hammering of crew members still building the backdrop. On our own set, a three-piece ensemble played something mournful to help create the proper mood, their music unable to drown out completely the cheerful notes of another band somewhere else on the lot. Nora, unlike many other leading ladies, was not particular about these details—not like Pola Negri, who was once thwarted from completing an emotional scene when a brass band (hired, rumor had it, by her rival Gloria Swanson) struck up a raucous song on a connecting set. But Nora seemed distracted that day nonetheless. Tyler was trying to get her to stand in a certain manner, to convey her desolation with the posture of her body, but no matter how she adjusted her shoulders and arms, the director was not satisfied.

“Now your father has left you behind again while he goes back out to the base,” he reminded her through his megaphone. “He’d promised to have dinner with you, and to go see a play, but he’s leaving you alone yet again. You’ve gone through
years
of being ignored like this, and you feel unloved and forgotten. Now put your arms around that post there and lean against it like it’s the man you want to marry … There … No, a little more heavily … Look toward the camera … Now, Nora, I know you can do this.” Tyler, like all the great directors, was half-general and half-seducer. His deep, reassuring baritone commanded actors like the firm voice of God, and the effect—especially on women—was near-hypnosis. He gave clear directions about how to stand or where to go, and he tried to transfer the emotions of the character from his head to the actor’s heart. With some actors—myself included—he did not need to express much verbally; I always understood what he wanted. But others, like Nora, needed clearer direction, a much more steadying hand.

That day, however, nothing seemed to work. He pleaded with Nora, coaxed her, and finally commanded her, but she was distracted and resisted all of Tyler’s attempts. Finally, Tyler came out from his perch next to the camera, walked over behind Nora, and placed his hands on her shoulders. She shuddered visibly at his touch. He moved her gently into the posture he wanted, saying, “Here, here.” Nora raised one of her hands to touch one of his, and her eyes closed in unself-conscious bliss.

A few days later, we filmed a scene where Nori, my character, is helping Sarah out of a car after she has sneaked out to a party with the German. The implication is that she is tired and perhaps a bit tipsy, which sets the stage for Mays to search through her father’s office while she lies asleep on the couch. But following several botched takes, it was clear that something was amiss. Nora was too reserved, not trusting me to hold her up, and once again Tyler stopped and stepped toward her.

“Let yourself go,” he directed Nora, in deep, reassuring tones. “Pretend you’re falling into a bed.”

He assumed my spot, placed an arm around her, and cradled her elbow with his other hand. And instead of just leaning on him, Nora totally collapsed, taking his instruction literally. As she fell into him, her face was shaped by an expression of such intense rapture that we all looked away in embarrassment. And Tyler, after awkwardly supporting her there, gently propped her up on her feet and said, “Perhaps you shouldn’t fall
that
completely.”

As far as I could tell, Tyler was nothing but a perfect gentleman in the years I knew him. Of course, given all that was eventually revealed, it is remarkable that he kept us fooled for so long. At that point, however, we believed everything we thought we knew about him. While people were aware of his special friendships with women, he did not appear to favor any one of them. It was his very elusiveness, I think, the odd combination of generosity and restraint, that made him so irresistible. I saw his charm working on every woman he encountered.

The Noble Servant
was only a modest success. It garnered mostly positive reviews—the
Los Angeles Times
declared it “one of the Jap’s best yet”—but it was not the unqualified hit the studio had hoped for. Strangely, the very thing I liked about the film—my more sympathetic character—was precisely what left viewers cold.

“Interesting, but unrealistic,” wrote the
Herald Examiner.
“It is hard to believe that Charles Laughlin is pegged as the guilty party. Whenever something goes missing and a soft-footed Jap is lurking about, you can be sure that the yellow-face is responsible.”

“A nice stretch for Nakayama,” wrote the critic for
Variety
. “But I prefer the cold-hearted, devious Jun who draws the viewer in and then rips his heart out.”

The
Rafu Shimpo
, on the other hand, approved of this film. “Nakayama finally plays a man of character,” its critic reflected. “A definite step forward in portrayals of Japanese men.”

While the film was a disappointment to Normandy and Benjamin Dreyfus—who’d done everything he could to promote it—it also drew enough good notices for Nora Niles that she was picked to star in several new projects. Her growing popularity was good for the studio, but it was only a matter of time before it started to affect the careers of other Perennial actresses. For the fortunes of one could not rise, of course, without the waning in the fortunes of others.

During this time, I saw very little of Hanako Minatoya. We ran into each other occasionally at premieres or other events; and there was also the O-bon Festival in Little Tokyo one year, where we met at the Buddhist temple and then set lanterns on the Los Angeles River to guide the visiting spirits of our ancestors back home. Every few months, in addition, we would meet for tea in the garden of her house in Pico Heights, and talk for hours amongst the cacti and succulents she cared for as tenderly as children. Hanako was as busy as I with work, although she still spent much of her time doing theater. She was offered many more roles in pictures than she actually took, and while this certainly affected her financial state, she seemed wholly unconcerned with fiscal matters. In fact, other than requisite appearances at the premieres of her films, Hanako did not have much to do with Hollywood; nor, outside of me, did she socialize with picture people. But she appeared quite content on those afternoons when I visited, always excited about her current theater project. And if she ever felt alone in that cavernous house, she certainly didn’t show it.

One Saturday afternoon in May, we drove up to Santa Barbara to shoot a short promotional film at the behest of our respective employers. We arrived in time to have dinner with the director—a young newcomer from Perennial—and then retired early to our rooms. By 5:00 a.m. we were up again, in order to start shooting at 7:00. The whole process was very short, not even three hours, and by 10:00 the filming was done. At that point, I had not yet spent much time in Santa Barbara—which was still, in 1917, a provincial little town—and it seemed a pity to leave that beautiful area without doing a bit of exploring. So as we checked out of the hotel the studio had arranged, I asked Hanako if she was anxious to return to Los Angeles.

“No,” she said. “Are you? I’d much rather stay here. Our lives will still be there when we get back.”

And so we spent the rest of the day there in Santa Barbara, as giddy as children skipping school. Hanako, who loved the ocean, wanted to stroll along the beach, and we walked for two hours up and down that lovely coast, which was wilder than the coastline of Los Angeles. Dark bluffs jutted out over the surface of the sand, and the Santa Ynez mountains stood directly behind us, as green and gentle as the mountains of Japan. It was a gorgeous day, the sun tempered by a cool ocean breeze, and I was glad I had brought a change of casual clothes—linen slacks and a button-down shirt. Hanako wore a fiowered blue short-sleeve dress and a wide-rimmed summer hat, which made her look charmingly young. When we ventured down to the edge of the water and the surf splashed her toes, she laughed with surprise and delight.