As I approached along the sidewalk, I saw workmen carrying heavy tools and equipment and heard the intermittent sound of drilling. The old marquee had been removed, replaced by black art-deco lettering that said, Silent Movie Theater. A middle-aged man stood in front of the ticket booth and examined a piece of paper. He was wearing khaki pants and a white long-sleeved shirt that was smudged with dirt. His blond hair was uneven, as if it had been cut by a child, and he had the meaty countenance I associate with the Middle West. As I approached, he looked up and said hello.
“Hello,” I replied. Then I pointed through the open doors. “I have been in this theater before when it played second-run movies. What are you doing with it?”
The man, who I assumed was O’Brien, glanced over at the workers. “My wife and I just moved out here, and we’re opening a silent movie theater. We’re fixing it up—we have to replace the snack counter, renovate the bathrooms, that sort of thing. So the place will still have an old-time feel, but with all of the modern conveniences.” He looked back at me and flashed the smile of a salesman; perhaps that was what he’d been in Ohio. “We’re having a big opening night in four weeks—spotlights, red carpet, live music, the whole shebang. I hope you’ll be able to come.” He reached behind him and then handed me a flyer.
Chaplin Double Feature! it announced in thick black letters. Come Celebrate the Grand Opening of the SILENT MOVIE THEATER!! Relive Hollywood’s Glory Days!
“Tell me,” I said, lowering the flyer, “what other films will you be screening?”
O’Brien tapped his pen against the clipboard he held. “That’s what I’m working on right now. There’s the classics, of course—like Keaton and Mary Pickford and the Keystone Cops. And Intolerance and The Sheik and all those old things. But I don’t know what to show beyond the obvious choices. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Well,” I said, stepping closer to him, “thank you for asking. I do, in fact, have several suggestions. I believe you should consider showing some of John Gilbert’s films, as well as those of the Gish sisters and Harold Lloyd. Certainly Greta Garbo and Gloria Swanson. And you might consider Jun Nakayama.”
A look of puzzlement crossed O’Brien’s big Midwestern face. “Who?”
“Jun Nakayama, the great Japanese star.”
“He was a star in America?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to mask my impatience. “From 1912 to 1922, he made more than sixty films. He was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood, particularly in the years between 1915 and 1920. He starred opposite Fannie Ward, Lillian Gish, and Bessie Love, and did one picture with Gloria Swanson.”
“Really? Now what was his name again?”
“Jun Nakayama. His most well-known work was the 1915 picture Sleight of Hand. Several others, including the World War I film The Noble Servant, may still exist in private collections. He worked with all the great directors of the day, including William Moran and Cecil B. DeMille.”
“You know, I think I do know who you’re talking about,” said O’Brien, brightening. “Somebody else mentioned him also.” He looked at me with a new respect. “You sure know a lot about silent films.”
“I suggest that you try to find Nakayama’s pictures. I believe that you will find them quite interesting.” And with that, I bade him farewell and continued down the sidewalk to Canter’s. I felt too unnerved to make the trip home right away, and ordered some tea and an apple turnover to calm myself down.
While I was thankful that someone had taken enough of an interest in silent films to open a special theater, I was troubled by the fact that the proprietor seemed to know so little about them. How could he do the period justice if he didn’t recognize the contributions of some of the silent era’s most accomplished artists? How could someone who was clearly not a student of film present even the pictures he did know in an appropriate context? For silent movies are a singular form, one that viewers cannot appreciate without a basis for understanding what they see. They have their own rules and symbols; they depend on inference and audience involvement much more than outright explication; and every element—from the use of light and shadow, to the choice of color stock, to the suggestion of off-camera space—is vital in creating the overall effect and expressing a larger vision. And it is not simply that silent films themselves have been forgotten; lost, too, has been the language to discuss them. I was not convinced that the man I had met that day would be able to convey that love and understanding.
And I cannot deny that it bothered me that O’Brien was unaware of my own career. It made me question what other major actors and actresses he simply didn’t know. I wondered what he would think if someone told him who I was. I wondered what he’d say if he realized that, even as we spoke, I was being considered for a part in a movie.
I pulled out O’Brien’s flyer again and looked at the rendition of a crowded theater on an opening night. I myself, of course, had attended many premieres—both for other people’s films and for my own. Those evenings, with their cameras, the lights, the crowds, the stars, were the grandest events in Hollywood. And as I sat drinking my tea, my mind wandered back to the most spectacular opening of all, the premiere of my greatest triumph.
Sleight of Hand, which opened in May of 1915, was a milestone not only in my own career; it was also one of the most important events in early Hollywood. The premiere was held at the brand-new Illustrious Theater, and the Normandy Players had made
