Despite the unpleasantness of that night at the Tiffany, I continued to reap the rewards of our picture’s success. Not only did Sleight of Hand turn me into a highly visible figure, it also made me a very rich man. The windfall came in the form of a new contract from Perennial Pictures, which had just absorbed the Normandy Players. Perennial feared— with good reason—that another studio would tempt me away, and the competition resulted in my signing a new contract for the incredible sum of $10,000 a week. My next four films were also successful, becoming, along with Sleight of Hand, some of the largest-grossing pictures in the short history of Hollywood. And this dramatic improvement in my financial situation allowed me to purchase an eight-bedroom Spanish villa at the foot of the hills. I was the first person connected with Hollywood to move into the neighborhood, which until then had been the exclusive province of the city’s downtown business elite, and while there were a few grumbles about the invasion of “picture people,” my appearance brought no real repercussions. In fact, I adapted quickly to the life of a wealthy gentleman. I bought an entirely new wardrobe, as well as another automobile, a little roadster. I hired a cook, a live-in butler, a gardener, and a chauffeur. I acquired the finest and most expensive of Western-style furniture, and several classic Japanese wood block prints and landscape paintings. I was suddenly very popular and began to throw my own parties—large, festive events to which everyone in Hollywood clamored to be invited.
All the while, I continued to send money to my family, and to put them off with promises that I would visit them soon. It was, of course, quite clear to me that I would never return to live in Nagano. In just three years in Hollywood I had accumulated more wealth, fame, and glory than a hundred famous actors in Japan.
By this time, my family was well aware of my growing success in America. I would send them reviews and articles from the Japanese papers in Los Angeles, and my mother would write back with comments from the entire village. “We were so happy to read of your performance in Purple Mountain,” she wrote in one letter. “And we all enjoyed the photographs. You look so different, Junichiro—so grown up and dignified. Mrs. Takahashi nearly fainted because she thought you were so handsome, and all the schoolgirls in town are asking for your autograph.” They still thought of my career, though, as a temporary amusement, or something that might lead to similar work in Japan. “We await the day when you come home and start working in Tokyo or Kyoto,” my mother wrote—but they seemed pleased that I was making a name for myself. And they were certainly pleased with the money, which allowed them to pay off their remaining debts and to build a large new house at the edge of their village.
I did not send them the reviews of Sleight of Hand. For while the critical response in the general press was mostly positive, the reviews in the Japanese papers were markedly different. Among certain factions of the Japanese community, there was the sense that the character of Sasaki reflected poorly on the Japanese male. In his deceit of the Elizabeth Banks character; in his devil’s bargain; in his nearly successful attempt to collect his debt by force, he conveyed, they said, a negative image of Japanese men. There was a steady stream of criticism from commentators in Little Tokyo; owners of some establishments seemed less happy to see me; and the Japanese Embassy wrote an official letter of protest to the Normandy Players and the Los Angeles City Council.
“Nakayama’s portrayal of Sasaki,” wrote the film critic for the Rafu Shimpo, “has set back Western understanding of the Oriental at least half a century. Our efforts to win recognition from Westerners as equal human beings have been undercut by this image of the Japanese man as cruel, base, and dishonest.”
“It is unfortunate,” wrote another reviewer, “that Jun Nakayama has squandered his considerable talents on this racialized and limited work.”
Even some American commentators were troubled by the film, for entirely different reasons. A columnist for the Herald Examiner warned American husbands, “All taboos have been shattered in this scandalous picture. Don’t leave your wives at home alone with your Jap houseboys.” And Harlan Chaney, the congressman, wrote a letter to the Los Angeles Times in which he declared:
This film is a perfect example of why the Japs are such a threat. Unlike the Negro, they refuse to accept their place. Unlike the Chinese coolie, they’re smart enough for business. This picture proves beyond doubt that Japs believe they have the right to anything, even our pure white American maidens. If it is shown in Japan, you can be sure that tens of thousands of them will come to California—with the express purpose of colonization.
Surprisingly, it was Hanako Minatoya who spoke out most passionately in my defense, sending a letter to the Rafu Shimpo in which she asserted that actors could not shy away from playing difficult roles. But privately, even Hanako admonished me. “You should really be more careful, Nakayama-san,” she said when I called to thank her for her letter. “I wish you weren’t so convincing at portraying a brute.”
I was not altogether surprised that the film stirred such emotion—I knew it
