Although I’d been irritated at Mrs. Bradford for pulling me into her scheme, I felt more at ease as the film went on. For I realized that, despite my fears, the picture was every bit the accomplishment I’d remembered. The lighting was subtle and lovely, the sets minimal but perfectly suggestive of galleries and party locales. There were several comic sequences that were still amusing in this modern time—the young artist painting with smelly socks on his hands because he cannot afford gloves or indoor heating; Kurashima, not understanding American cookware, using a metal dustpan to make pancakes. Ashley Tyler—who’d directed—had made ample use of what were then the advancements of dissolves, cross-cuttings, and multiple cameras. Much was suggested by the adjustments of light, and some of the most important events were conveyed indirectly—like the solitary kiss between the two principals, which was shot in silhouette through a rice paper screen door; and the final farewell between Kurashima and Gillian, which was dramatized by close-up shots of the touching, lingering, and ultimate withdrawing of hands. I was pleased by the quality of the actors’ work, for Evelyn Marsh was at her charming best; Tim Buchanan, as the artist, was effective as well; and my own performance still held up under scrutiny all of these decades later. I conveyed both the easy confidence of a wealthy socialite, and then, later in the film, the resignation of a noble man who has sacrificed love for honor.
As the story unfolded, I remembered—for the first time in many years—the satisfaction I took in viewing silent films. Watching movies today is a passive experience, and there is little demand on the viewer’s imagination. But this movie—like all silents—relied on suggestion, and it was up to the audience to supply the absent connections. This movie demanded the active use of the viewer’s own mind, and when it was over, I felt we had experienced the film instead of just receiving it. In my time, we’d treated the audience as if they were adults, not children who required their meaning to be spoon fed. And for that—as well as for the merits of this particular film—I found myself quite proud.
But the feelings I had as I sat in the dark were more complex than pride. I saw, too, how untranslatable our films must seem today, for audiences who are accustomed to voices and sound effects, to gunfire and music and wordplay. Yet there was a quality of freshness and innocence that was clear in Evelyn, in myself, in every aspect of the picture. We performed in front of the camera with unabashed joy, as if we lived only for that moment. And in fact we had, for our work did not stand the test of time. Our images—quite literally—had crumbled.
The film ran about seventy minutes, and after the credits, Mr. Weisman turned on the lights. I found Mrs. Bradford looking at me with a strange expression. “Mr. Nakayama,” she said, “you were wonderful.” She paused and shook her head. “I mean, I knew you’d been an actor, but I had no idea. I totally believed you as that character, and felt awful when he lost the girl. I could absolutely follow the story, even without a lot of titles. You conveyed such strong emotion, just by the expressions on your face. And my goodness …” She appeared to blush. “I can see why women fainted in aisles.”
I smiled awkwardly; I did not know what to say.
“This is the only one of yours I have, unfortunately,” explained Weisman, who had come around to sit in a chair across from us. “But now that I’ve met you, you can be sure I’m going to dig up several more.”
“I want to see them too,” said Mrs. Bradford. “I want to know more. I can’t believe you’ve managed to keep so quiet about this, you old rascal.”
I pressed my hands together and avoided their eyes. “I don’t know if any other films survived. I myself have never seen them.”
“Well, don’t you worry,” Mr. Weisman said. “If anyone can track down obscure old films, it’s me.”
I did not reply to this statement and sat there quietly with my thoughts. Pride and shame and memory all mingled together inside me. For while I understood my reactions to the picture in general, I did not know how to respond to the actor I had watched up there on the screen. That young man was dynamic and fearless, unafraid to defy expectations. That young man had worked tirelessly for the love of the work. I wondered what had happened to him.
Despite my misgivings, I started to see that the day’s events had changed Mrs. Bradford’s view of me. She was different with me now, shyer, on our drive back to my town house. When we arrived, she peered at me and said with unusual gravity, “Thank you, Mr. Nakayama. That was not only a real pleasure, but also a privilege.”
“It was nothing,” I replied, and then I got out of the car.
As I left Mrs. Bradford and retreated to my home, I began to feel—to my own surprise—a sense
