“An instant classic,” wrote Kenneth Seaborne of the Los Angeles Times. “Elizabeth Banks, in her first serious role, is beautiful and tormented, and Jun Nakayama, as the evil Jap Sasaki, is at his savage and sensual best.”
“This picture will have everyone talking,” wrote the Herald Examiner. “The chemistry between Nakayama and Banks is electric, and Nakayama is brilliant at conveying the beastliness of the Oriental nature. The future is unlimited for this slant-eyed son of the Orient. In its daring subject matter and its brilliant acting, Sleight of Hand pushes cinema to a whole new level.”
Later, in his History of the Silent Film Era, Davis Croshere had this to say about the film:
As important an event as Sleight of Hand was to Gerard Normandy’s career, it made Jun Nakayama a star. His concentrated stares, which showed both passion and rage, established him as the master of containment. All the other actors at that time tended to exaggerate gestures and facial expressions in order to compensate for the lack of sound. But Nakayama distilled all his emotion into the center of his being, and then let it be revealed through a single raised eyebrow or menacing glance.
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
