But when I looked over at the studio people, they were stone-faced. I must admit that at that moment I felt rather deflated, since I thought we had done so well. Then the casting director, Tony, shook his head.
“I wanted to rib by za rake,” he said. “This pu-race is berry du-rye. Live by the lake,” he said. “Very dry. We’ve got to do something about that accent.”
I did not know how to respond to this, but it was clear he wasn’t talking to me. “Yeah, it’s pretty pronounced,” said Mr. Gregory, the producer. “Much worse than I expected.”
“Well, you know, he was in all those silents,” said Tony. “Back then, it didn’t matter what they sounded like.”
Goodman, the director, glanced up from his notes. “Well, it’s not that big a deal to just loop the voice,” he said. “But the other problem is that he’s so uptight. That whole containment thing might have worked back in the ’20s, but for this part we need some pizzazz.”
With that, they looked up at Miss Michaels and myself, as if they’d just remembered we had functioning ears. Star gave us each a glass of water, Tony played with his hair, and Dreyfus said, “Let’s try the second scene.”
“I have a question,” I interjected, and I was suddenly more conscious of the sound of my voice. Was it heavily accented? I hadn’t thought so before. Now I would have to be more careful when I spoke. “This scene, with the townspeople. Do you think Takano is primarily angry or frightened?” Dreyfus shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the Japanese man. What would you be?”
“It is not a matter of his being Japanese—and anyway, he’s Japanese-American. It is a matter of this individual man and his particular character. I myself would be angry, but in truth probably frightened as well. After all, he’s a man under unjust suspicion of being a war criminal.”
Gregory shot Dreyfus a glance, then looked away.
“What is it?” I asked.
Dreyfus sighed. “Well, see, that’s the thing, Nakayama. We’ve rewritten the story a bit. Ken, Steve, and I all think that it would be more interesting if Takano actually was a war criminal. If he was one of the men who led a death march, or something like that. Just think about what it would be like for these poor townspeople to have a monster like that living amongst them.”
It took me a moment to find my voice. “But that would defeat the whole point of the film. The point is that people project their fears on this man unfairly, and that’s dependent on the premise—the unshakable premise—that this man is not the villain they imagine.”
Dreyfus gave Gregory the kind of look that two adults exchange over the head of an impudent child. Then he turned back to me. “Listen. All that psychological stuff is interesting on paper. But the fact is, a war criminal with a secret past is a lot more compelling than a man who has nothing to hide.”
“But that is not the film that Bellinger wrote.”
“Bellinger sold his script to the studio. It’s not his anymore.” Dreyfus said this coldly, though when he spoke again his voice was much softer. “Look, Nakayama. I can see it’s no use doing this other scene right now. Let’s go up to my office and talk. I can tell you where we’re thinking about going with this movie, and why. Everyone else, just take a break. We’ll be back in half an hour.”
I was sure he was taking me away to tell me I would not get the part. But I had concerns that went beyond my own possible involvement, for I was disturbed by the film as he envisioned it. What he was proposing was the kind of villainous role I used to play fifty years ago. I would have hoped there’d been some progress since then.
With a genuine bow to Miss Michaels, and a nod to the others, I followed Dreyfus toward the door. Instead of going to his office directly, however, we headed outside to a different building, where Dreyfus carefully opened a door marked Stage 3 and indicated that I should follow him in. He took us to the edge of a set. Several actors, who all looked vaguely familiar, were seated around a table, in what appeared to be a holiday dinner scene. We stood watching for a few minutes, Dreyfus gesturing for me to move closer. And what was noticeable about the set—the first working set I’d visited in decades—was how quiet everything was. The director would give directions, but after he yelled “action,” nobody spoke but the actors. There was no coaxing director, no cameraman wrestling with his equipment, no noise from the adjoining set, no live music. It was just the voices of the actors, everyone else working quietly so their sounds would not be captured by the microphone. Watching this, I thought of the irony—silent films had never been silent. Quiet sets like this one had never existed until the advent of sound.
After a few minutes, Dreyfus led us out again, speaking as soon as the door was shut behind us. “That’s a little family picture due out next Thanksgiving. I just wanted to show you a modern-day set.”
