I had already been with the Normandy Players for more than two years before I was offered the lead in Sleight of Hand. In that time, I had appeared in a dozen films. Usually the roles were somewhat limited in scope: twice I played an Oriental drug lord, once a vanquished Indian chief, and once a Mexican marauder. While I continued to get favorable reviews, I was growing tired of these generally unambitious films, and was eager to expand the range of my characters. When Normandy approached me with the idea of starring in Sleight of Hand, I immediately jumped at the chance. I was hesitant about appearing with Elizabeth—I didn’t know how well we would work together—but Normandy, despite his earlier misgivings about her, was convinced that having a female lead of her caliber would give the film a dangerous edge. And while her previous work had been in comedies, he saw an untapped passion in her, a pathos, that he felt would be right for the part.
The basic plot line was simple: A young society wife, bored by life with her older husband, has taken to midnight excursions to illegal casinos, where she drinks and runs up a steady debt playing blackjack and poker. The proprietor of her favorite gambling joint is a wealthy Japanese named Sasaki. As she gambles away her husband’s money, Sasaki offers to loan her more—for a price. If she fails to pay off her debt within thirty days, she must surrender herself to him for one night. She continues to lose, however, and to borrow more money, until she finds herself in greater debt than she could ever repay. What she doesn’t realize is that Sasaki has rigged the games—his men who run the tables have made it impossible for her to win. The story culminates in a protracted scene between the two principals, where Clara Whitbrow—Elizabeth’s character—begs for more time, and Sasaki insists he must collect. Her continued resistance only stimulates his fury, which he expresses not through angry words or histrionic gestures, but with concentrated glares of rage and desire. Finally, he embraces her and sinks his teeth into her neck, and carves an S into her shoulder with a knife. As he grabs her from behind and presses his weapon to her flesh, her eyes fly open in shock and rapture. It was the most radical scene ever filmed between a Caucasian actress and an Oriental actor, and it was this scene that stirred so much discussion and interest on the picture’s opening night.
The erotic violence in the film was only fueled by the conflicts between the principals. As documented years later in Croshere’s history, and as I was already well aware, Elizabeth Banks had a problem with alcohol. She often arrived intoxicated to the set in the morning, and then slipped off to her dressing room at lunch for a cocktail. Several times Gerard had to send her home, and on the days she was sober, he worked her up with his scolding to a fever-pitch intensity that resulted in a masterful performance. For he’d been right—despite her drinking, her acting was passionate and authentic; perhaps the difficulties of her own early life had instilled in her a great reserve of feeling. But regardless of her talent, I was often irritated with her—not just because of her drinking, but because of the tantrums she would throw if the catered food was not satisfactory, or the Klieg lights too blinding, or the mood music not to her liking. It wasn’t difficult for me to convey this rage through the eyes of my character, Sasaki. And because I was seeing her off-camera as well, our friendship, which flashed hot and cold on a near daily basis, created a tension that was electric on the screen. All of these elements—along with risky subject matter—made the three-week filming a heady, intense, and volatile experience. When Normandy played back the final cut for the actors, we were stunned by the beauty of what we saw.
It is hard to convey now, in the different atmosphere of the 1960s, how shocking Sleight of Hand was fifty years ago. This was an era when people did not kiss in public—and there was I, with my lips on Elizabeth’s neck. This was a time when Japanese moviegoers were seated separately from whites—and there was I, with my name on the marquee. This was a time when Caucasian actors still played most Oriental parts, as Mary Pickford had done that very year in Madame Butterfly—and there was I, playing the lead in a major film. The sensation our picture caused was something wholly unprecedented, surprising even to those of us who were involved in its making. That first night, at the premiere, an audible gasp went up from the audience when Sasaki bent down over Clara’s shoulder—and after the curtain was raised, the standing
