would scramble to move all the furniture and props under the complex’s few permanent roofs. But despite these challenges, everyone remained in good spirits. We were working, yes, but it felt like play, and it was hard to comprehend the tremendous good fortune that had suddenly befallen me.

Through the making of both films, Hanako gave me constant guidance, which I eagerly accepted. And I immediately discerned the difference between myself, an untrained amateur, and a seasoned professional who knew everything about the art of acting. Indeed, she was perhaps the largest influence on my development as an actor—with the possible exception, a few years later, of Ashley Bennett Tyler.

“There is no audience to see you,” she said one day in Japanese, as I gestured expansively to convey my anguish at the death of one of my fellow soldiers. “You don’t need to project like you would in the theater, as if you’re trying to be seen by the person in the last row. Pretend the camera is the one man you’re playing to.”

On another occasion when I was perhaps too under-stated, Hanako approached me after Moran called “cut.” “You’re painting a picture with your body,” she said. “Think of pantomime. You must express physically what you can’t with your voice. And use your face, your eyes. You have such eyes. They alone speak volumes.”

Moran nodded in agreement, although he couldn’t have understood, and I adjusted my actions accordingly. I was surprised by the extent to which he let Hanako direct things—not only my own performance, but also the placement of props, even the movements of the other actors. Yet all of her suggestions improved the films. And between her advice and Moran’s direction, I was slowly learning what to do. The transition from theater, which depends on dialogue, was more difficult than I had imagined—indeed, many stage actors, even those who didn’t disdain the new medium of moving pictures, did not make the change successfully. Hanako Minatoya was one of the few who was equally accomplished in both realms. I was learning under her tutelage every day.

On certain days, when we weren’t in scenes, Hanako and I would leave the sets and walk into the hills. They were vibrant with color, with flowers wherever one looked— blue brodiaea and lupin, Mariposa lilacs, the wispy orange California poppies. Even the cacti, which she loved, put forth dense and vibrant flowers, unexpected bursts of yellow and pink against their sturdy, sharp, untouchable bodies. The beauty of that landscape, when the air was cool, the sun glinting off the ocean, and the breeze carrying the scent of the flowers, was so dramatic I could hardly believe it real. And I was seeing it, feeling it, in the company of an artist whose work I had admired for years.

One day on our walk we were discussing a well-known actor, and Hanako surprised me by her reaction to his name. “He is nothing but a face for the fan magazines,” she said dismissively. “He is not a genuine actor.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, although I didn’t disagree.

“It is impossible to distinguish one of his roles from another. He is always the same, and it is obvious why. In order to project a believable fiction, the actor himself must have substance. You must possess something internally to perform it externally. He has only a fraction of the talent of an artist such as you.”

I was, of course, deeply flattered by her compliment, and I did not know how to respond. Hanako continued talking of this actor and that, without noting my reaction. That night, however, and for many nights after, I recalled what she had said with much pleasure.

Because Hanako had always been unfailingly proper, I was surprised by her judgment of her famous peer. But I soon realized that beneath the unassuming exterior lay strong convictions and a will of utter steel. And while I quickly got over my initial awe of her, I remained grateful and honored that she treated me as her equal. I was so engaged in our work and our daily conversations that I found myself saddened when our time together drew to its inevitable end.

After we finished our second film, I did not see Hanako again for more than a month. We did not have occasion to speak at all, in fact, until three weeks after the party in Whitley Heights, when I made a trip to see Mr. Moran alone. When I arrived at his office, he greeted me warmly and invited me to sit by the window, where there was an unobstructed view of the ocean. I was cordial, but nervous, for the news I had would not be taken lightly. Indeed, as I spoke, the smile on Moran’s lips quickly faded.

“I had a meeting with Gerard Normandy earlier this week,” I said. “He informed me that he was starting a new film company and that he would like me to be one of his players.”

Moran was sitting behind his heavy wooden desk, and he took a cigar from the drawer. “Did he offer you a contract?”

“Yes, he did. He offered to pay me a thousand dollars a week.”

Moran had just bitten off the tip of the cigar, and now he spat it out. “A thousand dollars a week? He must have been bullshitting. He can’t afford that kind of money, especially not for a newcomer with only two films to his name. I mean, I know that Oriental subjects are all the rage right now, but this is ridiculous.”

“He showed me the contract, Mr. Moran. And I am here because I’m asking you to match it. I would prefer to continue working with you …” and here I broke off, surprised by my surge of emotion. “I would prefer to continue working with you, sir, as long as there is not a great disparity in the terms.”

Moran put down the cigar and pressed his fingers together; they were as papery and thick as the cigar. “What

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