While the story intrigued me, what impressed me even more was Bellinger’s handling of all the dynamics of his people—their expectations and misreadings of each other; the way that fear and fantasy distort their everyday lives; the price that people pay in their futile attempt to outdistance themselves from pain. And he captured perfectly the conflicts of California’s Central Valley, where white and Japanese farmers had coexisted so uneasily. It was a wise, taut, compelling work, psychological and troubling. And the character of Takano, which was clearly who Bellinger wanted me to play, was sensitively rendered. It was a relief that the Oriental character was not a villain, and his actions, both in the present of the film and in his distant past, included elements that could even be called heroic. And while he was, in fact, quiet and mysterious, those qualities had more to do with the other characters’ failures of understanding than with something inherently unreachable in him.
The thought of playing a complex, intelligent, dignified man, a Japanese who was not dishonest or brutal or hiding a violent past, was more than I could possibly resist. It was true that I was forty years out of practice and unversed in the ways of modern film. But it was also true that something of the old actor in me was stirred by the prospect of a challenging role. Moreover, I knew that this could represent my chance to finally portray a hero.
I did not call Bellinger that afternoon. I felt too overwhelmed, and I needed to make sure that my initial enthusiasm was not short-lived or superficial. But I began to have thoughts which indicated to me that I was now taking his proposition more seriously. I wondered if Bellinger had a commitment from Perennial—whether his conversations with Ben Dreyfus’ grandson were informal or involved more concrete terms. I wondered what, if an agreement had indeed been struck, the process involved from there. I suspected that Bellinger, once the screenplay was sold, would have no say over who was cast in the film. But I also happened to know that there was no other Oriental actor of my stature. Steve Hayashi, who still appeared in the occasional B film, was simply not in the same league—and just as importantly, the Dreyfus grandson knew who I was.
I felt, I must admit, a certain apprehension, for a return to movies wouldn’t be a simple matter. I was also quite nervous about the thought of doing a talkie. So many of my contemporaries had not survived the transition to sound—not only the actors and actresses whose voices were too high or too low or too grating, but those with fine voices who did not know how to use them, or whose voices could never live up to their viewers’ fantasies. Still, I knew that I was unrivaled in terms of pure acting ability. And I speculated on who would be suitable to work on the film. Of course, my first choice for director—had it been possible—would have been Ashley Bennett Tyler, with whom I had partnered so successfully over the years. As for actors, Terrence Marbury would have to be someone handsome and workmanlike, not an aristocrat like Gregory Peck or Cary Grant. Diane Marbury would be spirited with an undercurrent of sadness, pretty but down to earth, an actress who was at once pleasant to look at and also unassuming. There were very few actresses who met those criteria; very few who took their beauty for granted. One actress, however, from my own days in film, came immediately to mind. Of course, she is an old woman by now, and she hasn’t spoken to me in many years. Merely thinking of her, though, brought back a flood of recollection. She had been an original, a true talent and precocious child, and her story was one of the saddest tales of all.
I met her in early March of 1917, after the Normandy Players had been absorbed into Perennial. I had just finished meeting with Gerard Normandy about my upcoming film—he was vice president for production at the new studio—and was stepping down from his office for a cigarette. The day was beautiful, clear and still cool from the morning’s chill, and all the flowers and trees on the Perennial lot looked especially lush and bright. I watched the studio employees rush back and forth, some on foot and some on bicycles, as well as players in full makeup and costume. Many of them called out as they passed, “Hello, Mr. Nakayama!” and, “Loved your last picture, Jun!” I nodded and waved, aware of the people talking about me, the looks of admiration.
I was riding a string of remarkable successes. Since Sleight of Hand, my last eight pictures had all been hits, bringing the studio so much money and allowing for payment toward so many debts that people had started referring to me as “the paycheck.”
