The Age of Dreaming

energy. But there was nothing to be done, and so at 2:30 p.m. I arrived at the Perennial gate. Upon gaining entrance to the studio grounds, I was struck first by how familiar everything looked. The main buildings were the same, and the fountain in the courtyard, and the flower beds along the south wall. But there were significant changes as well. For one thing, the grounds were much larger, taking up several city blocks, perhaps square miles. There were little golf carts everywhere, weaving through the people. Huge billboards dominated the sides and fronts of the buildings, with likenesses of current stars looming fifty feet high. The people, on the whole, seemed more aware of themselves now; even the stagehands and office people had too much makeup and expensive-looking haircuts. As I stood at the steps leading up to the main building, a cluster of about thirty people came moving slowly down the sidewalk, with a young woman bellowing a history.

“This fountain was a gift from Gregory Coleman, the oil man. It was placed here in 1918 after one of the producers at the time, Gerard Normandy, gave Coleman’s mistress a part in a movie.”

I wanted to shout a protest to this false information. Bessie Calloway, Coleman’s lover, had indeed starred in several films, but she only met Coleman—a close friend of Normandy’s—after the oil man had already given him the fountain. More fundamentally—and this was the stronger reaction—I could not believe that this woman was leading a tour; that more than two dozen members of the fawning public had been allowed to enter the studio. In my day, we would not have dreamed of opening the studio up that way—it was a place of serious work, and was not meant for public display.

A few minutes before the appointed time, I made my way into the central building and asked for Dreyfus. The woman at the receiving desk directed me back outside and told me to look for Stage 4. I had never been to this part of the studio before, but her directions were accurate, and in a moment I arrived at the proper doorway.

“Ah, Nakayama,” said Dreyfus as he opened the door. “Come in, come in.”

He led me over to the stage, where a half-dozen people milled about. A camera was set up to face it, although the cameraman was busy reading a newspaper. Offstage to the right was a haphazard collection of props—a stuffed cow head, nineteenth century rifles, and dark green monster suits. Dreyfus introduced me to the other people—a man of about forty whom I recognized as the director Steven Goodman; a younger man named Tony, who was the assistant casting director; Kenneth Gregory, an older gentleman who would be the producer; and a girl named Star, who appeared to be someone’s assistant. Also present was an actress I recognized as having played supporting parts in several films, a lovely young woman in her late twenties whom Dreyfus introduced as Beth Michaels. I felt overdressed. After much consideration, I had settled on a tan suit, yellow vest, and navy-blue tie, but the other men wore casual slacks and short-sleeve shirts, with the exception of Dreyfus, who at least had on a jacket. Tony did not even have proper shoes; his large feet spilled out over a pair of leather sandals.

“Where’s Bellinger?” I asked.

“Ah, Nick,” said Dreyfus. “Well, Nick isn’t here. I know he wanted to be, but I find that it’s a mistake to involve the writer at this stage. He often has too strong of an opinion about who should play what, and can’t get past his own ideas.”

I was not pleased, and wondered why Bellinger hadn’t warned me of his absence. But there was no time to worry about it, because then Dreyfus clapped his hands and walked to the front of the room.

“We’re going to do two scenes,” he said. “Jun, Beth here is going to play Diane Marbur y. The first scene is the one where Takano’s working in his garden, and Diane comes up and introduces herself. The second scene is where Diane and two of the townsmen confront Takano about his role in the war. Star here has the scenes copied out for you to use. I take it you already have them memorized?”

I nodded; of course I did. I had, in fact, committed all of Takano’s lines to memory; I had already begun to think of them as my lines.

“All right then,” said Dreyfus, “why don’t you two assume your spots?”

I did not quite know how to position myself, but when I saw Miss Michaels go to one corner of the stage, I moved toward the other. I looked back at Dreyfus and his colleagues, who observed me like a jury. “Just relax,” said the director, Goodman. “I know it’s been awhile. But the screen test process hasn’t changed, Jun. It’s much the same as it was in your time.”

I nodded, but didn’t say what I had just then realized— that I’d never before had a screen test, or indeed an audition of any kind. Moran discovered me at the Little Tokyo Theater, and after that, all the parts had simply been offered. Nonetheless, I attempted to carry myself as if I had been through this process many times before.

I stood there awkwardly until Goodman called out, “Action!”

Beth Michaels walked toward me, and then she began: “Hello? Excuse me, sir. Are you the new owner of this house? I wanted to introduce myself—my name is Diane Marbury.”

I stepped forward to face Miss Michaels and was met with a radiant smile and an outstretched hand. This was all in character, but the warmth of her eyes, the encouragement, seemed genuine. “Hello,” I said too loudly. “I am Takano. Yes, I have just moved into this house. And you are my neighbor, with the husband and son.”

Once we started, everything changed. For after a few moments of initial discomfort, I remembered what it was like to inhabit a character;