The Age of Dreaming (7 page)

Terry Canterbury, in
Hollywood: A Historical Perspective
, agreed. Although he incorrectly identifies
Sleight of Hand
as the work of Ashley Bennett Tyler, who directed me later, he too saw the film as a key turning point in my career:

Nakayama’s intensity burned through the surface of his still, patrician face. He was both savage and aristocrat, primal and sophisticated, mysterious and completely irresistible. All the later brooding actors who broke women’s hearts—the Valentinos, the Brandos, the Clifts—learned this art from Nakayama. His smoldering, sexual presence was unlike anything else that had previously appeared on the screen. He was the beautiful, brutal man of a forbidden race, the exotic “other” that women wanted to be ravished by.

Indeed, over the several weeks that followed the release of
Sleight of Hand
, we heard reports of women fainting in the theaters. In several cities across the Midwest and South, theaters were banned from screening the film because of the feared effect on public morals. In Los Angeles, I was suddenly the recipient of much more focused attention. At parties, young women would press closely to me, their hands wandering inside my jacket; I would often go home with my shirt untucked and several phone numbers stuffed in my pockets. My studio biography was released to the public, and women seemed further intrigued by the Hollywood version of my life, which gave me a feudal background and transformed my simple father into a wealthy landowner and high government official. “Let me be the lady of your manor,” one young woman said to me at a party, pressing her ample breasts into my shoulder. “I want to be your concubine,” said another young woman, “for you to ravish whenever you wish.”

I confess that I was tempted by more than one of these ladies. What young man, presented constantly with such delicious opportunity, could possibly resist? As a boy in Nagano, I’d thought that I’d be fortunate to someday find one woman who’d consent to be my wife. Now I had dozens of women competing for my attention. With my increased visibility, my private house, and my limitless money, I was able to entertain dates as much as I pleased, and, in fact, could have had many more. But the young women I met at parties and studio functions were largely tiresome, and they lost their appeal rather quickly.

After distracting myself with several women in the months following the release of
Sleight of Hand
, I focused my attention back on Elizabeth. Even though I found her unpredictable and often quite maddening, I knew that this was part of her appeal. She always carried herself with the air that I was lucky to be with her. And she never let me forget that I was only one of several men with whom she spent her time.

This is not to imply that she never behaved in an admirable fashion. There were nights, for example, when a group of us actors would arrive at a popular night spot, and Elizabeth would smooth things over with the frowning doorman who was not accustomed to having Japanese patrons. There was also the evening of the Red Cross fundraiser, which was hosted by a group of society women who didn’t normally care to mix with picture people, but who’d invited Elizabeth because of her role as a nurse in a recent film. “Mrs. Grace told me it would be social suicide to bring you,” said Elizabeth sweetly, as she introduced me to the president of the local chapter. “She said that you’d embarrass yourself since you might not know how to eat with a knife and fork. This is the same woman who was kind enough to inform me that I really shouldn’t spend time with you at all. So you see, Jun, you really
are
quite an unsavory character, and I’ll bet you weren’t even aware of it!”

In retrospect, I see that Elizabeth enjoyed these confrontations. She herself would have been unwelcome in such fashionable circles if she had not been a Hollywood star, and she liked to do things that challenged the norms of Los Angeles’ social elite. But while she would dine with me, dance with me, charm doormen on my behalf, she still resisted me romantically. And the more she held back from me, the more fervently I made love to other women, either to punish her or to redirect my longing. It didn’t work, however; it never really worked. For even when I was in the company of other young women—indeed, even as they lay naked and quivering in my bed—I thought of no one but Elizabeth Banks.

One of the more memorable events of that period was the annual awards banquet hosted by
Moving Image Magazine
. Every year, the magazine presented prizes in various categories as selected by their readers. I had attended this function the two previous years with Hanako Minatoya. But this year, because of the success of
Sleight of Hand
, it seemed appropriate that Elizabeth and I attend together. We’d originally planned to go with several friends from the Normandy Players—the arrangements for such functions were not as tightly controlled as they would be just a year or two later—but when the logistics became too complicated, I proposed to Elizabeth that I just pick her up myself. I dressed in my best tuxedo and had my driver take me over to her house. And when I saw her in the doorway, I was immediately glad—and also proud—that I would be her escort. She looked beautiful. She wore a long black gown that emphasized the lovely contours of her body. The diamonds around her neck drew attention to the fragile collarbone, and her hair was tied up in intricate curls. When I stood beside the car and clasped my hands over my heart, she laughed. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, glancing at me slyly. On the drive downtown, I held her hand, so thrilled by her proximity and the reception of our work that I thought my heart would burst.

When we arrived at the grand new Tiffany Hotel, I expected to be received as we had been at our premiere— the red carpet, the fiashing cameras, the clamoring fans. But when I helped Elizabeth out of the car, the people all looked at us oddly. No one rushed over to greet us as we approached the front entrance, and despite the large crowd, it was eerily quiet. Then finally, near the doorway, a young man approached. “Why, welcome, Miss Banks, Mr. Nakayama,” he said. “I’m Stephen Ward, from
Moving Image
. Please come inside.”

Entering the dining room, we were met with the same curious silence—someone’s face would light up when they saw Elizabeth or me, and then cloud over when they saw who we were with. The director Brett Roy walked up as we headed toward the front and clapped me rather hard on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Jun. Yes, it’s quite good to see you. Not afraid to rock the boat a bit, I see.” But before I could respond, he’d moved away.

Stephen Ward from
Moving Image
appeared again and guided us over the Oriental rugs to a table in the corner. Elizabeth frowned when he pulled out her chair. “You’re putting us in an out-of-the-way spot, don’t you think? We can hardly see the stage.”

“Uh, yes, I apologize, Miss Banks. The center tables are already reserved.”

The center tables were, in fact, all half-empty, but I was not in the mood to press the issue. Elizabeth gave him a displeased look, but then settled down into her chair. We had arrived twenty minutes before the start of the formal program. In the intervening time, people whispered and glanced over at us, but no one approached. I looked out at the room—the elegant tables with thick white table-cloths, the crystal chandeliers, the sea of furs and hats and diamonds and tuxedos—and suddenly felt completely unnerved.

“This is bullshit,” said Elizabeth, crossing her arms. The waiter had left two large glasses of champagne, and she was drinking, I thought, a bit too rapidly.

“Elizabeth,” I said in a warning tone.

“Oh, come on, Jun. Don’t you see what’s happening here?”

“Elizabeth, please try to calm down.”

She stared at me as if she would have liked to empty her drink in my face. Just at that moment, mercifully, Gerard Normandy sat down beside me. He was jumpy, fingers drumming the table, shifting in his seat, but I didn’t think much of it because he never sat totally still. His thinning brown hair, as usual, was wild as a bird’s nest; it was rumored he went days without sleep.

“Good to see you, Jun, Elizabeth,” he said a little too cheerfully. “I heard that you were here.” He and I sat talking about the scheduled events for that night, while Elizabeth pointedly ignored us. After a few minutes, Normandy leaned close and said in a low voice, “Listen, Jun. I know you and Elizabeth see a lot of each other, but you should have talked to me about your plans for tonight.”

I looked at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

A flush shot through his cheeks and settled in his ears, which turned an alarming shade of red. “I just mean … well, you
must
know what I mean. This isn’t exactly a private occasion.”

I hardly had time to consider the implications of what he’d told me before Elizabeth turned toward him, eyes blazing. “This is bunk,” she said, too loudly. “You’re all such hypocrites. You think that no one knows about
your
Chinese whore? Or Leonard Stillman’s Mexican mistress? Or your own director who’s taken up with one of the girls from Hanako Minatoya’s company? At least Jun and I have the dignity to appear together in public. Oh, and there’s another difference between us and the rest of you lying bastards—
we’re not even fucking!”

She said this last bit in an elevated voice that must have traveled across the room, for all conversation stopped. Normandy turned an even brighter shade of red. “I’m just telling you,” he said, “we all need to be careful. Considering how sensitive everyone is about the film, it’s better not to instigate them further.”

With that he left us, and the room exploded in conversation. “Waiter,” called out Elizabeth, “bring another glass of champagne. Actually, just bring the whole bottle.”

We sat there hardly speaking until finally it was time for the program to begin. And while the center tables did eventually fill up, no one else joined us in the corner. With the lights down and the program under way, it was easier to forget our discomfort. The event was not particularly long—a few speeches, some joking, and then the awards. Despite the success of
Sleight of Hand,
it did not win the Moving Image Award for Most Popular Picture—but to everyone’s surprise, I had been picked by the readers as the Most Popular Male Actor. When I ascended the stage, the applause in the room was hesitant and scattered, and the presenter—actor Jacob Steele—did not look at me as he handed me the plaque. I gave thanks to everyone, including Normandy and Elizabeth—who lost the Best Actress award to Evelyn Marsh—and as I descended the stage to return to my seat, I heard someone say, “Lucky for him the votes were cast before tonight.”

Despite the unpleasantness of that night at the Tiffany, I continued to reap the rewards of our picture’s success. Not only did
Sleight of Hand
turn me into a highly visible figure, it also made me a very rich man. The windfall came in the form of a new contract from Perennial Pictures, which had just absorbed the Normandy Players. Perennial feared— with good reason—that another studio would tempt me away, and the competition resulted in my signing a new contract for the incredible sum of $10,000 a week. My next four films were also successful, becoming, along with
Sleight of Hand
, some of the largest-grossing pictures in the short history of Hollywood. And this dramatic improvement in my financial situation allowed me to purchase an eight-bedroom Spanish villa at the foot of the hills. I was the first person connected with Hollywood to move into the neighborhood, which until then had been the exclusive province of the city’s downtown business elite, and while there were a few grumbles about the invasion of “picture people,” my appearance brought no real repercussions. In fact, I adapted quickly to the life of a wealthy gentleman. I bought an entirely new wardrobe, as well as another automobile, a little roadster. I hired a cook, a live-in butler, a gardener, and a chauffeur. I acquired the finest and most expensive of Western-style furniture, and several classic Japanese wood block prints and landscape paintings. I was suddenly very popular and began to throw my own parties—large, festive events to which everyone in Hollywood clamored to be invited.

All the while, I continued to send money to my family, and to put them off with promises that I would visit them soon. It was, of course, quite clear to me that I would never return to live in Nagano. In just three years in Hollywood I had accumulated more wealth, fame, and glory than a hundred famous actors in Japan.

By this time, my family was well aware of my growing success in America. I would send them reviews and articles from the Japanese papers in Los Angeles, and my mother would write back with comments from the entire village. “We were so happy to read of your performance in
Purple Mountain
,” she wrote in one letter. “And we all enjoyed the photographs. You look so different, Junichiro—so grown up and dignified. Mrs. Takahashi nearly fainted because she thought you were so handsome, and all the schoolgirls in town are asking for your autograph.” They still thought of my career, though, as a temporary amusement, or something that might lead to similar work in Japan. “We await the day when you come home and start working in Tokyo or Kyoto,” my mother wrote—but they seemed pleased that I was making a name for myself. And they were certainly pleased with the money, which allowed them to pay off their remaining debts and to build a large new house at the edge of their village.

I did not send them the reviews of
Sleight of Hand
. For while the critical response in the general press was mostly positive, the reviews in the Japanese papers were markedly different. Among certain factions of the Japanese community, there was the sense that the character of Sasaki reflected poorly on the Japanese male. In his deceit of the Elizabeth Banks character; in his devil’s bargain; in his nearly successful attempt to collect his debt by force, he conveyed, they said, a negative image of Japanese men. There was a steady stream of criticism from commentators in Little Tokyo; owners of some establishments seemed less happy to see me; and the Japanese Embassy wrote an official letter of protest to the Normandy Players and the Los Angeles City Council.