I mention all of this—Mrs. Bradford, the pharmacist, my forgotten career—to give some sense of why I was so startled by the phone call yesterday morning. It has been fifteen years since I granted an interview, and that one occasion, in 1949, which coincided with the remake of my picture The Stand, never led to an actual article. Before that interview, I had not spoken to anyone regarding my films for over twenty years.
If I had been more cognizant of how ardently fans behaved in this new era; if I’d been aware of the focused attention that simple contact could trigger, I might have anticipated Mr. Bellinger’s second call. But again this morning, when the telephone rang, I expected someone else:
the painters I’ve hired to repaint my living room, who seem to run perpetually late. But instead of Mr. Gomez, the head of the crew, I heard the now-familiar breathless voice. “Mr. Nakayama, sir,” said Nick Bellinger, “I’m sorry to bother you again, but I never got a chance to tell you why I’m calling. You see, I’m not just an advisor to the Silent Movie Theater. I’m also a writer for the L.A. Observer, and I’m doing a piece on the theater. And as part of that article, I’m trying to find stars from the silent era to see what they’ve been doing all these years. I was especially interested in your career, since it ended so abruptly. And I know you worked with all the major directors from that time, and that you were one of the original actors at Perennial Pictures. I was hoping that I could meet you and do an interview.”
This news provoked several responses in me at once.
It is true that I was one of the original players under contract at Perennial—the studio that the Normandy Players, along with several other small companies, evolved into. And while I cannot deny that there was a certain appeal to the idea of recalling my colleagues and some of our now arcane methods of filmmaking, of describing the glamorous parties and dinners and myriad love affairs, there was also something about the young man’s proposition that made me profoundly uneasy. There are many memories from that period I have treasured over the years—the films I worked on, the characters I portrayed, the late-night parties at the Cocoanut Grove—but there are also things that I would rather forget. I do not know what happened to most of my peers, the great majority of whom did not achieve lasting fame. And I felt that learning what had become of them, dredging up their once-bright but now forgotten careers, would diminish not only their memories, but all their past accomplishments. It is a tragedy when a man’s great contributions to the world, once heralded by all, simply vanish beneath the rolling waves of time. I did not wish to be reminded of all that we had achieved momentarily, and lost. And so I said to the young man, “I am not interested.”
I could almost hear him deflate, but he rejoined without a second’s delay. “Mr. Nakayama,” he said, “this is a great opportunity. If I can be frank, there just aren’t that many of you left from the silent era, and this article could help give you the recognition you deserve.”
I took a deep breath before I answered. “Young man, you are clearly not as avid a student of film as you profess to be. For if you were, you would certainly be aware that I received tremendous recognition throughout the course of my career. I …” and here I took a breath to level my voice.
“I was twice named the year’s most popular actor by Moving Image Magazine. I was regularly featured in Photoplay and Motion Picture Classic. For three years, I was the highest paid actor at Perennial Pictures, and the premiere of Margin of Error nearly caused a riot when it opened at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn. It is quite inaccurate to insinuate that I was somehow overlooked—I could not have asked for a higher degree of fame.”
Bellinger paused for just a moment. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“I know that’s all true. I didn’t mean to imply … what I mean is, this article could be a way for modern audiences to learn of your accomplishments. Certainly your work could be more … appreciated today.”
I tried not to sound angry when I replied. “I do not need you, young man, to tell me what could happen or what I should do. I thank you for your interest in my career, but I am content with my life, and do not wish to endure any further interruptions.” With that, I hung the phone up, then went over to the window to look out for Mr. Gomez.
About twenty minutes later, Mr. Gomez and his two young workers arrived. I stayed with them for an hour, supervising as they moved the couch and armchairs away from the walls, taped off the floorboards, and covered all the furniture with drop cloths. Once they had completed this preliminary work, Mr. Gomez gave me a patient look, which indicated that he wished me to leave. Since I could do nothing in the kitchen or my bedroom while this commotion was occurring, I changed into walking shoes and stepped outside.
As I do at least three mornings of every week, I walked two blocks to the entrance of Runyan Canyon Park. There is a lovely path that hugs the canyon walls and winds up into the hills; with each turn, more of the city disappears. One gains elevation at a surprisingly rapid rate, so that by fifteen minutes into the walk, when the path curves out toward the city again, one is startled by the smallness of the buildings below. It takes
