“Who’s opening this theater?” I asked.
“Just a pair of film buffs. Ken and Geri O’Brien, a couple from Cleveland. They’re very enthusiastic, but they know nothing about running a business. So this story has taken on a lot of significance. If I do a good job, it could help publicize the theater and get it off on the right foot. And the really fun part is that it’s given me an excuse to dig up people like you.”
We talked for perhaps an hour more about the current crop of actors. Sidney Poitier and Gregory Peck were his favorites, which made me think more of him, and he also liked Sean Connery, which reminded me of his youth. Then we circled round to the early days of Hollywood and the formation of the various small film companies. We spoke only briefly of my career, and I later realized how intelligent this was; Bellinger was trying to make me comfortable before asking any real questions, and his strategy was successful. I found him a pleasant companion, and after our talk had come to a natural stopping point, he suggested we meet again. I agreed, for I was eager to resume our conversation. Then he handed me a folder of his articles, all clips from the L.A. Observer and the Los Angeles Times, as well as a piece from Life. The fact that he had pieces in such reputable publications was enough to convince me that he was legitimate. “Very well,” I said. “I look forward to continuing our discussion.”
Bellinger beamed, and then suggested that we meet two days later at a coffee shop in Hollywood, where the tall booths afforded more privacy. He pulled a different folder out of his bag, removed an old photograph, and pushed it shyly across the table. It was a publicity still of me from my eleventh film, The Archivist. The camera captured me gazing intently at a spot just beyond it. I wore a crisp white shirt and dark tie, my hair was slicked back, and I looked like nothing in the world could defeat me. I had not seen this image, or any image of myself from the movies, for more than forty years. This photo had appeared on the cover of Motion Picture Classic. In it, I was twenty-two years old.
“I feel silly asking this, Mr. Nakayama,” Bellinger said, “but would you mind signing this picture? It’s very special to me, and it would thrill me to have your autograph.”
I said that I would be glad to, and he handed me a pen. I wrote, For Nick Bellinger, All the best in your future endeavors, Jun Nakayama, and then slid the picture back across the table. He picked it up carefully and read the inscription.
“Thank you, Mr. Nakayama. I’m going to go out right now and buy a frame.” Then he looked at the picture, smiled, looked back up at me, and said, “You certainly were a handsome devil, weren’t you?”
Nick Bellinger was not the only one who used such words to describe me. Indeed, “handsome devil” was a term I heard quite often early in my career. There was something about the way he said it, however, something sly and mischievous, that made me recall the first time someone referred to me in this manner. It was at one of the big all-night parties in Whitley Heights, and the speaker was none other than the Mistress of Mayhem, the actress Elizabeth Banks.
The party took place in July, about a month after the release of my second picture, Jamestown Junction. Since I had signed with Moran’s company, I had been attending such functions on a weekly basis. At first I did not enjoy them. The attendees, who were largely the same from party to party, all seemed to know one another, and they drank and danced and carried on with a vigor that initially shocked me. But gradually I found that the revelers, when sober, were in fact charming and intelligent people, serious artists devoted to their craft. Many of the partygoers were actors and actresses who are now long forgotten, once illustrious names like Mae Marsh, Louise Glaum, and Earle Williams. Some better-known stars were also regularly in attendance, people like Wallace Reid and Blanche Sweet. Moran had insisted that I attend these functions, to make people think that I was someone to be seen. So I bought several tuxedos and tailored shirts, as well as a gold watch and cuff links, in order to dress the part of a gentleman.
Both The Stand and Jamestown Junction, my first two films, were notable successes. They only played for a few days, usually Thursday to Saturday, as was customary for that time. But they were exciting days, with reports of ticket sales that thrilled Moran and his investors. Both films were well-received, and Photoplay, in its reviews, heralded the arrival of a brand-new talent. “The Stand marks the impressive debut of a Japanese actor named Jun Nakayama,” wrote the magazine’s critic. “Although he has not yet mastered the techniques of acting for film, his presence—and his striking intelligence—are totally captivating.” All of the reviews were along these lines. They noted my in-experience, but also said that I possessed a compelling, mysterious quality that would serve me
