There was the day, for example, when we were filming the scene where Sarah Davidson stands alone on her veranda, watching her father leave for yet another meeting. It was a typical chaotic day of filming. Our set adjoined another, where a different director was shooting interiors for a Western, and we could hear his shouted directions through the thin barrier between us, as well as the hammering of crew members still building the backdrop. On our own set, a three-piece ensemble played something mournful to help create the proper mood, their music unable to drown out completely the cheerful notes of another band somewhere else on the lot. Nora, unlike many other leading ladies, was not particular about these details—not like Pola Negri, who was once thwarted from completing an emotional scene when a brass band (hired, rumor had it, by her rival Gloria Swanson) struck up a raucous song on a connecting set. But Nora seemed distracted that day nonetheless. Tyler was trying to get her to stand in a certain manner, to convey her desolation with the posture of her body, but no matter how she adjusted her shoulders and arms, the director was not satisfied.
“Now your father has left you behind again while he goes back out to the base,” he reminded her through his megaphone. “He’d promised to have dinner with you, and to go see a play, but he’s leaving you alone yet again. You’ve gone through years of being ignored like this, and you feel unloved and forgotten. Now put your arms around that post there and lean against it like it’s the man you want to marry … There … No, a little more heavily … Look toward the camera … Now, Nora, I know you can do this.” Tyler, like all the great directors, was half-general and half-seducer. His deep, reassuring baritone commanded actors like the firm voice of God, and the effect—especially on women—was near-hypnosis. He gave clear directions about how to stand or where to go, and he tried to transfer the emotions of the character from his head to the actor’s heart. With some actors—myself included—he did not need to express much verbally; I always understood what he wanted. But others, like Nora, needed clearer direction, a much more steadying hand.
That day, however, nothing seemed to work. He pleaded with Nora, coaxed her, and finally commanded her, but she was distracted and resisted all of Tyler’s attempts. Finally, Tyler came out from his perch next to the camera, walked over behind Nora, and placed his hands on her shoulders. She shuddered visibly at his touch. He moved her gently into the posture he wanted, saying, “Here, here.” Nora raised one of her hands to touch one of his, and her eyes closed in unself-conscious bliss.
A few days later, we filmed a scene where Nori, my character, is helping Sarah out of a car after she has sneaked out to a party with the German. The implication is that she is tired and perhaps a bit tipsy, which sets the stage for Mays to search through her father’s office while she lies asleep on the couch. But following several botched takes, it was clear that something was amiss. Nora was too reserved, not trusting me to hold her up, and once again Tyler stopped and stepped toward her.
“Let yourself go,” he directed Nora, in deep, reassuring tones. “Pretend you’re falling into a bed.”
He assumed my spot, placed an arm around her, and cradled her elbow with his other hand. And instead of just leaning on him, Nora totally collapsed, taking his instruction literally. As she fell into him, her face was shaped by an expression of such intense rapture that we all looked away in embarrassment. And Tyler, after awkwardly supporting her there, gently propped her up on her feet and said, “Perhaps you shouldn’t fall that completely.”
As far as I could tell, Tyler was nothing but a perfect gentleman in the years I knew him. Of course, given all that was eventually revealed, it is remarkable that he kept us fooled for so long. At that point, however, we believed everything we thought we knew about him. While people were aware of his special friendships with women, he did not appear to favor any one of them. It was his very elusiveness, I think, the odd combination of generosity and restraint, that made him so irresistible. I saw his charm working on every woman he encountered.
The Noble Servant was only a modest success. It garnered mostly positive reviews—the Los Angeles Times declared it “one of the Jap’s best yet”—but it was not the unqualified hit the studio had hoped for. Strangely, the very thing I liked about the film—my more sympathetic character—was precisely what left viewers cold.
“Interesting, but unrealistic,” wrote the Herald Examiner. “It is hard to believe that Charles Laughlin is pegged as the guilty party. Whenever something goes missing and a soft-footed Jap is lurking about, you can be sure that the yellow-face is responsible.”
“A nice stretch for Nakayama,” wrote the critic for Variety. “But I prefer the cold-hearted, devious Jun who
