“Oh, she would have. I knew. I think that you knew, too. Hell, Jun, everybody knew.”
I did not wish to continue on the subject of Hanako, so I asked, “Do you know where I might locate Nora Niles?”
“Yes, I do.” Then David told me that Nora Niles lived in Brentwood, and that his associate at Perennial could furnish the exact address. “Be strong, Jun,” he said. “Remember, it was a long time ago. Even if the truth outs, it’ll be all right.”
But I didn’t believe him—either in 1922 when he first gave me this assurance, or in 1964 when he repeated it. I don’t presume that, if I had been more forthright, I would have had a longer career—but I might at least have had the opportunity. The course of my time in film—and of others’ time as well—might well have been very different. I wish I could say, as people do, that I didn’t recognize the pivotal moments of my life as they were happening. Because I did. I knew precisely. I knew precisely and was powerless to stop them. It was as if I were watching something terrible unfold from behind a glass window and could not get through to intervene. My whole life changed in a few brief moments, and I knew it. I just didn’t know how dramatically, how finally.
Despite my attempts to steer David away from the topic of Hanako, our conversation brought back a flood of recollections. For he was right—she’d been my equal, and in fact my superior, and working with her had been one of my greatest pleasures. I was an ardent fan before I ever met her, and remained so for the rest of her career. I admired not only the finished product of her art, but also her bearing, the way she conducted herself. Hanako, unlike so many other Hollywood actresses, was never impetuous or prone to high drama. She was the consummate professional, not given to piques of rash behavior, and she had a stabilizing effect on every cast and crew she worked with.
That said, however, I do recall one or two instances when she acted out of character. They were odd little incidents, and perhaps I don’t usually include them in my memories of Hanako because they seemed like such minor aberrations. Nonetheless, upon further reflection, I must admit that there were in fact one or two times when Hanako acted in a manner that could be thought of as impulsive.
There was, for example, the incident during the filming of my second picture, Jamestown Junction. We had reached the point in the film where Hanako’s character, Mrs. Lee, a cook for a Chinese work crew, encounters a fallen prospector who’d upended her pot of beef stew earlier in the picture. Moran directed her to kick dirt on the injured man, but Hanako protested strongly. Moran looked at her in surprise—no one ever questioned his decisions—but Hanako stood firm.
“A woman of substance would never do that,” she argued. “She would never stoop to the level of that common thug. She would do the proper thing—she would stop and assist him, even the very man who insulted her.”
Moran stared at her. Finally, though, he shrugged his shoulders and agreed to do it her way. I was shocked by her behavior, but quickly forgot it. Moran had acquiesced, resolving the disagreement, but now I wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t. Hanako had revealed a strength of will I hadn’t known she possessed, and I am not sure she would have relented.
That, however, was a minor event. There was another incident, several years later, where Hanako behaved in a manner I actually found rather alarming. This was in the fall of 1921, soon after my lunch with Gerard Normandy. We were shooting Velvet Sky, the first film I had done with her in almost eight years, and it was only possible because Moran had loaned her out for a two-picture arrangement with Perennial. It was, of course, a great pleasure to work with Hanako again. I had forgotten how much of a creative challenge she presented, and in the first two weeks of shooting, her presence pushed me to the limits of my abilities.
Then one morning, Hanako did not arrive for our 7:00 a.m. start time. The director, James Greene, paced about on the set, worried about the tight shooting schedule. It was so unlike Hanako not to be on time that I began to grow concerned for her well-being. But then, at 8:00, she arrived on the set and immediately approached the director.
“Good morning!” said Greene, relieved.
Hanako stopped before him. I saw on her face not anger precisely, but a firm control that indicated more than tears or flushed cheeks how upset she truly was. “I have been hearing some interesting things in the news these last few weeks, Mr. Greene,” she said. “Very interesting things indeed. For example, are you aware that the Native Sons of the Golden West are promoting a constitutional amendment?”
He stared at her as if she were speaking in Japanese. “What are you talking about, Miss Minatoya?”
“They want a constitutional amendment that would bar immigration from Japan and deny American citizenship to all people of the Japanese race, even those born here in America. The idea has been embraced by the Native Sons, the Oriental Exclusion League, and the Los Angeles Anti-Asiatic Association.”
“Miss Minatoya,” he said calmly, “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
She glanced down, the muscles clenching in her jaw. Then she looked up at him again. “California is being ‘Japanized,’ they say, like the South is being ‘Negroized.’ They’re working to get all the state’s congressmen behind a policy of exclusion. It is quite an interesting proposal, don’t you agree? And this studio is fully supporting it!”
No one moved. It was so quiet you could hear people breathing. “Where did you hear about this, Hanako?”
She paused for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was cold and
