I attended the film and party with a chatty young lady whose name I can no longer recall. She was certainly an actress, or at least was trying to be; over the previous year she’d had bit parts in several forgettable pictures. We danced a few dances together, and then sat at a table with the actors Herman Spencer and Edmund Cleaves. I did not stay seated for very long, however, for young woman after young woman came over to us, imploring, “Jun! Jun! Won’t you please come dance with me?” And I did, indulging them all, spinning to the music, my senses full of their lovely faces and soft white shoulders and fragrant, luxurious hair. Annoyed by my flagging attention to her, my date flitted off into the crowd. I didn’t mind—I had plenty of acquaintances at the party—and it was the kind of vibrant, celebratory evening that made me happy just to be among people, to be who I was at that moment in time.
I had just commenced a discussion with Herman Spencer about Tyler’s new film when I looked up and saw the director himself. He was sitting on a bar stool at the edge of the crowd, holding a half-empty glass in his hand. He was dressed like an English gentleman, which I learned later was his habit—tweed coat and pants, light vest, brown leather shoes. His blond-brown hair was perfectly combed; his square jaw anchored his handsome face; and his long, graceful hands looked like they had been washed, massaged, and laid out on a bed of pillows for display.
Despite his appearance, however, Tyler was somewhat unusual for a Hollywood figure. For one thing, he was a middle-aged man in a town that celebrated youth. He’d appeared out of nowhere, acting—badly, I should say—in two films in 1916, and then directing three more before he was put under contract by Perennial. It was rumored that he’d come from the New York theater, and had performed with another theater company in London after a stint as an officer in the British Army.
The thing that struck me that night at the Ship Café was that even sitting atop the ridiculously high chair, he looked perfectly at ease, as if he were in a garden drinking tea. I watched as a steady flow of partygoers approached him to congratulate him on his film. He listened to them all graciously, and responded to each speaker as if he’d never before received such a compliment. These interactions were all monitored by a fidgety young man who stood several feet off to his left, quietly keeping his eyes on the proceedings.
As far as I could tell, the director was not there with a woman. Several women had been associated with him in the fan magazines, but none with any evidence or consistency, and within the close-knit universe of Hollywood people, he was said to be a solitary figure. Through his short conversations with well-wishers that night, I never saw him look around to find a particular person in the crowd. Tyler’s reactions to all the people who spoke with him were polite and impersonal. He only changed expression when his boss, Gerard Normandy, approached with David Rosenberg in tow.
Gerard Normandy was himself, of course, a figure who commanded attention. It is amazing to think now, from the vantage point of old age, that this accomplished and remarkable man, this man who had already started his own company and was now head of production for a major studio, was all of thirty-three years old. He was not, however, someone who took advantage of his youth. He was terribly serious, always weighted down by the latest financing scheme or attempt to secure film rights, and even when he was out at festive places like the Ship, he looked like he was still at the office. But when Normandy appeared beside the director that night, even he seemed affected by Tyler’s charm. He brightened, a smile cracked the surface of his face, and soon the two men were engaged in a lively conversation. It was Normandy who’d made Tyler, really; he’d convinced the studio to sign him to a long-term contract on the strength of his first three films. The studio’s backers had readily agreed, for they liked the air of respectability Tyler brought to Perennial, at a time when city leaders were complaining more openly about the excess and frivolity of picture people.
As the two men talked that evening, people watched them with interest. David Rosenberg stood quietly a little to the side of them, ready should Normandy need the name of a financial backer, or distribution figures, or the gossip on an actress the boss was considering for a part in an upcoming film. He also ran interference if some not-quite-important-enough person attempted to approach. Tyler looked over at his own man once or twice, as if to make sure that he was still there. I watched all of this too, as curious as anyone else, and after a few minutes, Gerard saw me looking and waved me over.
I muttered apologies to my table and made my way through the crowd while people reached over to shake my hand and called out greetings. Finally I arrived at the other side of the floor.
“Ah, Jun!” Gerard shouted above the music, smiling so widely that he looked almost sick. “I’m so glad to see you here. Have you met Ashley?”
“No, I haven’t,” I said loudly, receiving Tyler’s firm, straightforward
