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Synopsis:
Sir Lionel Barton (Lawrence Grant) is called to the office of
Commissioner Nayland Smith (Lewis Stone) of the British Secret
Service, where he is astonished to learn that Smith is well aware of
his proposed expedition to the edge of the Gobi Desert to seek the
tomb of Genghis Kahn. Smith tells Barton that the golden mask and
scimitar of Genghis Kahn are also being sought by Fu Manchu (Boris
Karloff), who believes that with these artefacts in his hands, he
can unite the Asian races in a war against the West. Only Barton
getting to the tomb first can prevent such a catastrophe. Later, at
the British Museum, Barton reveals his mission to his long-time
friends and collaborators, Von Berg (Jean Hersholt) and McLeod
(David Torrence), who immediately agree to accompany him. Unseen
eyes are watching, however, and as Barton leaves he is set upon by
three sinister figures.... Days later, Sheila Barton (Karen Morley)
and her fiancé, Terrence Granville (Charles Starrett), wait
frantically for news of Sir Lionel. Smith must break it to Sheila
that her father is the prisoner of Fu Manchu. When Sheila hears that
Von Berg and McLeod intend to go ahead with the expedition anyway,
Sheila insists upon going with them, arguing that her expert
knowledge, gleaned from her father, will save days of searching. In
his lair, Fu Manchu attempts to bribe from Sir Lionel the
whereabouts of the secret tomb, first by the offer of money, then by
the offer of his own daughter, Fah Lo See (Myrna Loy). When Sir
Lionel rejects both with scorn, he is subjected to “The Torture Of
The Bell”.... Guided by Sheila, the expedition uncovers the entrance
to Genghis Khan’s resting place. Von Berg, McLeod, Granville and
Sheila lower themselves into the underground tomb, where they find
the skeleton of Genghis Khan, wearing the legendary golden mask, and
with the golden scimitar resting across its lap. As Terry removes
these artefacts, the team’s Chinese workmen suddenly rush into the
chamber, throwing themselves at the skeleton’s feet. The
archaeologists disperse them by firing their guns into the air.
Meanwhile, Fu Manchu gathers in his palace the leaders of all Asian
nations. He summons Fah Lo See, who announces that the prophecy has
been fulfilled: Genghis Khan has returned to lead Asia against the
rest of the world.... The archaeologists reach town to discover
Nayland Smith waiting for them. He leads them into a deserted house,
warning them not to turn on any lights. He also tells them that he
knows that Fu Manchu is in the vicinity, and that it is imperative
that the artefacts are shipped out of the country as soon as
possible, so that they are in a position to negotiate for Sir
Lionel. The artefacts are placed for the night in an attic room, and
McLeod takes the first watch; but Fu Manchu’s minions are watching,
and before long McLeod is dying, a knife in his back.... The next
day, Nayland Smith goes to make preparations for their departure,
leaving Terry on guard. As he watches in the garden, a gruesome
memento suddenly drops at Terry’s feet: a human hand, wearing a
distinctive ring – Sir Lionel’s ring....
Comments:
Following the tragic death of Lon Chaney in 1930, only weeks after
the premiere of his first and last talking picture, The Unholy
Three, his studio Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer shied away from producing
any further exercises in the macabre, preferring to concentrate
instead upon consolidating its reputation as the home of prestige
motion pictures. However, despite the disapproving head-shaking of
film critics and social commentators alike, by the middle of 1931
the movie-going public was showing no sign of losing its taste for
“horror pictures”. After twelve months of looking on as Universal,
RKO, Paramount and First National carved up this new marketplace
amongst themselves, the executives at MGM decided that they, too,
would have to enter the fray. By the end of the year they had two
such films in production, and would ultimately release them on
consecutive days in February of 1932. One of them was the studio’s
be-careful-what-you-pray-for attempt to outdo the competition at one
stroke with something “more horrible than all the rest” – namely, a
little film called Freaks. The other was The Mask Of Fu
Manchu.
MGM’s 1932
production was not the first time that Sax Rohmer’s xenophobic
fantasies had been transferred to the screen. Dr Fu Manchu made his
screen debut in Britain during the early twenties, in a string of
silent “episodes” (released like a serial, but with each part more
or less autonomous) starring Harry Agar Lyons. His Hollywood – and
sound – debut followed in 1929-1931, with Warner Oland featuring in
three productions at Paramount. (Bizarrely, after starring as Fu
Manchu, both the Irish Lyons and the Swedish Oland would ever
afterwards be condemned to masquerading as “Asians”. Lyons’ short
film career would play itself out in the form of Fu Manchu clone Dr
Sin Fang, while Oland would, of course, go on to play Charlie
Chan.) For their production, MGM chose to borrow from
Universal one of the actors who had helped to put the horror film on
the map. The release of Frankenstein at the end of 1931 had
swift and dramatic consequences for Boris Karloff, who at the age of
forty-four suddenly found himself the film industry’s most unlikely
superstar. Karloff was, of course, irreversibly “typed” after
Frankenstein, confined to spending the rest of his career as a
“horror star” – although after so many struggling years as a bit
player, he was grateful to be so. All the same, the three major
roles that followed Karloff’s star-making turn could hardly have
been more different from it or from each other. 1932 saw the actor
top-billed as Morgan, the mute, sinister butler in James Whale’s
The Old Dark House; as Im-Ho-Tep and his alter ego, Ardath Bey,
in The Mummy; and as the titular criminal mastermind in
The Mask Of Fu Manchu.
Just your average, everyday, Chinese criminal mastermind
Although as
unsubtle as the film itself, Karloff’s performance here is a real
delight: his Fu Manchu simply oozes with unctuous malevolence.
Thankfully not attempting any kind of accent – Fu Manchu was
educated in the West, after all – the actor wrings the utmost from
his exaggerated dialogue, leaving all of his co-stars, Myrna Loy
excepted, floundering in their colourless and forgettable roles.
Some of Karloff’s lines are, granted, more memorable for their
content than for their delivery – more on that later – but
you will never forget Fu Manchu’s modest introduction of himself to
his arch-enemy, Nayland Smith:
“I am a Doctor of
Philosophy from Edinburgh. I am a Doctor of Law from Christ’s
College. I am a Doctor of Medicine from Harvard. My friends, out of
courtesy, call me ‘Doctor’.”
The Mask Of Fu
Manchu is a typical MGM production,
with a headlining star, a name supporting cast, and lavish
production values. Indeed, the film is a feast for the eyes, from
the elaborate costumes worn by stars Karloff and Loy, to the amazing
set design provided by Cedric Gibbons and his crew. (And in terms of
beautiful impracticalities, Fu Manchu’s cavernous yet minimalist
operating theatre even manages outdo the art deco morgue of Warners’
Mystery Of The Wax Museum.) The film is also typical MGM
inasmuch as its content is – using the term loosely – realistic.
Circumstances may have forced MGM to dabble in the horror genre
during the thirties, but in none of their productions did they ever
venture into the truly fantastic, getting no closer than the
explained-away supernatural doings of 1935’s Mark Of The Vampire.
Although this film is sometimes classified as science fiction, it is
so only in the broadest possible sense, with Fu Manchu possessing
both an electrical doo-hickey (consisting of several strung-together
Van de Graaf generators) whose only purpose seems to be the
detection of forged antiquities, and – need I say it? – a death ray.
The Mask Of Fu Manchu is more properly considered a horror
film. There is a tendency these days to think of “back then” as a
more innocent time; but even a brief examination of the films of the
pre-Production Code era should be enough to dispel that misguided
notion. The few years between the coming of sound and the crackdown
in censorship from 1934 onwards saw the release of numerous films
featuring a quite staggering degree of cruelty and perversion.
The Mask Of Fu Manchu falls squarely into this category. It is
not, however, the behaviour of Fu Manchu himself that is so very
shocking. After all, what kind of evil criminal mastermind would he
be, if he didn’t torture an enemy or two? – although his tendency to
stroke and caress his victims – and dress them in nappies! –
is rather unnerving. Where The Mask Of Fu Manchu is
likely to blindside modern audiences is in the explicit sexual
sadism of Fu Manchu’s daughter, Fah So Lee.
Fu Manchu's ugly and insignificant daughter
When Terry
Granville unwisely ventures into Fu Manchu’s lair in an effort to
buy the life of Sir Lionel Barton, he carries with him a golden
scimitar that, unbeknownst to him, is a forgery. The deception
revealed, Fu Manchu vents his rage upon Terry by – handing him over
to his daughter. At Fah So Lee’s bidding, Terry is strung up,
stripped to the waist, and whipped into unconsciousness, as the girl
herself watches in a state of undisguised sexual arousal. Having had
her victim carried to her bedroom, Fah Lo See is about to have her
wicked way with his bruised and beaten body when her father
interrupts, having thought of a way to use Terry to get his hands on
the real scimitar. “May I suggest a slight delay in your customary
procedure?” Fu Manchu purrs at his daughter....leaving the mind
boggling at the thought of how many times this scenario may have
been enacted in the past.
(According to
Hollywood legend, the young Myrna Loy’s reaction to Fah Lo See’s
excesses was the immortal exclamation, “Say – this is obscene!”)
Although structured
very much like any of the numerous adventure films of the time,
The Mask Of Fu Manchu separates itself from its fellows not so
much in its violent content – many films of this era are amazingly
violent – but in its willingness to put its heroes through the
wringer. The torture of Sir Lionel Barton, which in story terms goes
on for days, is dwelt upon in detail. (Never mind the film’s sexual
content: The Mask Of Fu Manchu here sails perilously close to
shattering one of the longest and most rigidly enforced of cinematic
taboos with its implication that during the torture of Sir Lionel,
there won’t be any stops for potty breaks.) The preparation
of the drug that will turn Terry Granville into Fu Manchu’s
unknowing tool (a marvellous sequence involving tarantulas, a gila
monster and – what the!? – a boa constrictor) is carried out
right before the eyes of the bound, near-naked, terror
sweat-drenched captive. The lead-up to the film’s climax sees Terry
being hauled back to the lab for a final dose of the drug that will
make him Fah So Lee’s willing sex slave – “Until she tires of him,”
as her father kindly explains to Sheila; Dr Von Berg strapped to a
seat as long metal spikes approach him from both sides; Nayland
Smith dangling over a pit of alligators (yup, alligators – in the
Gobi Desert); and Sheila Barton dressed in virginal white robes,
being prepared for sacrifice before the gathered “chieftains of
Asia”. Naturally, however – and I don’t think you could call this a
spoiler – all four of them escape with their lives (and their
virtue). The audience, clearly, is expected to consider this a good
thing....but frankly, I have my doubts about that.
"- but NOT a Doctor of Herpetology
If the violent and
sexual content of The Mask Of Fu Manchu can make the modern
viewer gasp in disbelief, its unrelenting and unapologetic racism is
enough to make your hair stand on end. In this, the film is, in one
sense, simply being true to its source – although in some respects,
it exceeds even Sax Rohmer, who despite his nakedly anti-Asian
sentiments always allowed for a certain grudging respect between the
Chinese master criminal and his thoroughly British nemesis (who,
curiously, has misplaced his “Denis” here, being addressed
throughout as “Nayland”). Here, there is no room for any such
feeling. Even Fu Manchu’s extensive Western education is considered
a mark against him – intelligence and education being, as is so
often the case, explicitly correlated with evil. Although Karloff
was obviously having fun as Fu Manchu (and, in the broadness of his
performance, invites the viewer to join him), and although the
film’s opening scenes promise a certain detached kind of humour
(“The British government is asking you to risk your life again,”
Nayland Smith tells Sir Lionel Barton solemnly. “Oh, very well,” Sir
Lionel responds with a casual shrug), this promise is never
fulfilled. It is, on the contrary, disturbingly straight-faced in
much of what it proceeds to serve up. Fu Manchu was, upon his first
appearance in the literary world, described by his creator as “the
Yellow Peril incarnate”. The Mask Of Fu Manchu plays this
card to the nth degree. In its opening scene, Nayland Smith
recruits Sir Lionel Barton to his cause by conjuring up a vision of
a race war, should Fu Manchu find the mask and scimitar of Genghis
Khan before they do. “He’ll lead hundreds of millions of men to
sweep the world,” prophecies the Commissioner grimly – and you can
understand his indignation: sweeping the world was, after all,
England’s job. And indeed, this proves to be Fu Manchu’s
intention – although by “world”, we soon learn, he means white
world. The invective starts comparatively slowly, with Fu Manchu
agreeing with Fah So Lee that Terry “is not entirely unhandsome –
for a white man”; but before long he is threatening to “wipe the
whole accursed white race off the face of the earth!”
Actually – being
wiped out isn’t the fate that awaits the entire white race:
for one half of it is reserved A Fate Worse Than Death. We have
already been made aware of the “natural” physical superiority of the
“white race”, in Fah So Lee’s instant attraction to Terry – although
given the girl’s general conduct, we are also permitted to view this
as one more aberration. No, the specific threat here is against the
white woman by the Asian man. The mask and scimitar of Genghis Khan
secured, Nayland Smith’s first concern is to get Sheila out of the
country. “Do you suppose for a moment that Fu Manchu doesn’t know we
have a beautiful white girl here with us?” he demands of the
suitably appalled Terry. Sure enough, Sheila falls into Fu Manchu’s
hands, and ends up being exhibited to the howling, sword-waving mob
as an incentive to action. Having proclaimed himself Genghis Khan
incarnate, Fu Manchu rallies his “chieftains” by showing them the
reward that awaits them once they have conquered their enemies:
namely, white nookie.
“Would you all have
maidens like this for your wives?” Fu Manchu cries to his followers.
“Then conquer and breed! Kill the white man and take his women!”
Incredible as it
may seem, the real offensiveness of The Mask Of Fu Manchu
does not reside in its outrageous Asian stereotypes. Those at
least were intentional. Where this film really disturbs is in what
it does all unknowingly, which is to present us with a group of
“heroes” who are not only in every respect as viciously bigoted as
the bad guys, but utterly insensitive towards, utterly contemptuous
of, every culture on earth but their own....and then expect us to
sympathise with them.
"Crikey! (What, too soon?)"
No doubt, the
Caucasian can hold his own when it comes to racial invective. As
soon as Nayland Smith has mentioned Fu Manchu, we are hearing about
“his wicked eyes” and “his bony, cruel hands”. So on it goes. It
ultimately falls to Sheila Barton to address Fu Manchu to his face
as, “You hideous yellow monster!” The difference here is that while
Fu Manchu is being deliberately insulting, the others don’t seem to
realise they’re doing anything wrong, either in their language or
their behaviour; certainly not that others might find them
offensive. Upon opening the tomb of Genghis Khan – to whom Terry has
earlier referred as “the jolly old skeleton” – the archaeologists
stand for just a moment, awe-struck. “You’re standing in the
unplundered tomb of a king who died over seven hundred years ago!”
comments Von Berg to Sheila – and promptly plunders it. When the
Chinese workmen rush into the opened tomb to kneel before the
remains of the Khan, the others are astonished and indignant – and
chase them out (fancy, Chinese people having the temerity to
enter a Mongolian tomb!) by firing their guns into the air.
(Yes, by firing their guns in an enclosed, underground tomb:
wherever white superiority resides, it clearly isn’t above the
neck.) Having blithely secured the treasures of another nation –
sacred objects to their rightful owners, yet sneeringly considered
as just one more curiosity for the British museum by our heroes (and
with anyone objecting to their actions dismissed as “fanatics”) –
the Englishmen become aware that – surprise! – they’re being
watched. “We can’t even trust our own coolies!” laments Nayland
Smith. Well, hey, Nayland: try not calling them “coolies”, and see
where that gets you! The climax of this film sees the three
remaining white men freeing themselves from their various
predicaments. Terry goes to rescue Sheila (even her natural
superiority doesn’t allow her to rescue herself), and cuts
down Fu Manchu with the scimitar of Genghis Khan – oh, irony!
Meanwhile, Nayland Smith and Von Berg have gotten their hands on Fu
Manchu’s death ray, with which they mercilessly slaughter the
gathered chieftains in the room below them. At this point, those
chieftains haven’t so much as lifted a finger against our heroes,
but that fact isn’t permitted to bear any weight. And granted, they
were planning to be part of Fu Manchu’s army for the
destruction of “the accursed white race”....although given what we
see of “the white race” in this film, one is hardly inclined to
blame them. In fact, by the end of The Mask Of Fu Manchu, the
viewer is likely to feel that the “Asians” and the “Caucasians” are
just as bad as one another....while, perhaps, conceding white
superiority, at least in one respect. If there is a message to be
found in The Mask Of Fu Manchu, it seems to be that when it
comes to racial bigotry, grave-robbing and/or mass murder, no-one
can outdo the white man. No-one.
In spite of all
this, The Mask Of Fu Manchu Award For Jaw-Dropping
Racism finally goes to neither its Asians nor its Caucasians, but to
Hollywood itself. Few Asian actors were permitted to be “stars” in
the early days of the film industry; and even when the lead
character in a story was Asian, he or she would almost
invariably be played by a white actor in make-up. The Mask Of Fu
Manchu, however, takes this convention to disturbing lengths. It
gives us not just a made-up Boris Karloff, but a made-up Myrna Loy
as well. (Surely one of the film industry’s most bizarre career
transformations was that of Ms Loy, who in the space of two years
went from playing not just bad girls and other women, but evil
Asians and Eurasians as well [and if anyone out there has a copy of
13 Women, please---], to a long reign as Hollywood’s
favourite wife, the woman who proved that marriage could be fun, and
husbands and wives, best friends.) This was probably to be expected.
Where things get worrisome is in the supporting and bit parts. In
the first place, The Mask Of Fu Manchu – possibly taking a
cue from Sax Rohmer – uses the word “Asian” with awe-inspiring
broadness. There is not the slightest hint that anyone connected
with the film was aware of the multitude of peoples, cultures,
religions and ways of life that collectively make up what we
generally term “Asia”. On the contrary, the word “Asians” is used to
lump everyone from Singapore to Istanbul, and from Chennai to
Vladivostok, together into a single, indistinguishable, swarming
mass; a collective consciousness. The crowning insult comes in the
crowd scenes, as we realise that the vast majority of these
homogeneous “Asians” are also played by white actors. In fact, there
is only one actual Asian on view in The Mask Of Fu Manchu.
Willie Fung pops up in the film’s brief coda, playing a properly
comic, and properly servile, and properly uneducated, ship’s
steward. In other words – he knows his place.
Asians
But even this isn’t
the worst of it. In this battle for supremacy between “Asian” and
“Caucasian”, there is no acknowledgement that anyone else is even
present in the world. There are black characters in The
Mask Of Fu Manchu, however – sort of. Fu Manchu keeps a small
army of black henchmen. For the most part they are nameless,
faceless ciphers who are used primarily for set decoration, standing
around in the background of the lab scenes, naked except for their
loin-clothy nappy things (this Fu Manchu definitely has a
fetish), and coming to the fore only as Fu Manchu’s muscle....or as
Fu Manchu’s victims. This is classic Hollywood hypocrisy. Fu
Manchu’s casual disposal of his black servants once they have served
their purpose is supposed to be evidence of how evil and ruthless he
is – yet when our so-called heroes are just as casual in killing
them, we are expected to applaud it (as indeed was the case in
countless films of this era, with “natives” and “savages”
slaughtered beyond number). In short, the Asian man may deserve
extermination for his audacity in attempting to threaten the
superiority of the Caucasian, but the black man is barely even
allowed to exist.
It is hardly
surprising that for many years, The Mask Of Fu Manchu was a
difficult film to see – or to see intact. With changing attitudes
came censorship, the removal of much of the material I have been
discussing. (In a wonderful example of the double standard, for a
long time only the anti-white invective was removed, while the
anti-Asian invective was left untouched.) And despite what I have
had to say in this review, I am entirely in favour of the
restoration of this film, and its availability uncut. A viewing of
The Mask Of Fu Manchu today is a real right brain/left brain
kind of experience: on one hand, if you manage to overlook the
appalling racism, the film is outrageously entertaining,
particularly in the wholly unexpected kinkiness of Myrna Loy’s
performance; on the other, we must face up to this film as a
documentary record of an ugly aspect of our collective past. Burying
our heads in the sand, pretending that such aspects did not exist,
achieves nothing....and we know what they say about those who forget
history. Such lessons are all the more important in a world where
prejudice too often comes disguised as patriotism, and where both
sides, all sides, of our various conflicts use the behaviour
of the minority to excuse the transgressions of the majority against
what they know to be right....and where attempts to stem the
tide of such conduct are too often swept aside with jeering
accusations of political correctness. (You say
“political correctness”, I say “good manners.) With this in
mind, we should, perhaps, close by highlighting the one fleeting,
fascinating moment in The Mask Of Fu Manchu when the film
suddenly gives us a surprising glimpse of a broader awareness. As he
contemplates the scimitar of Genghis Khan, Nayland Smith shakes his
head. “Will we ever understand these Eastern races?” he inquires
sadly of his companions. “Will we ever learn anything?” You,
Nayland? Absolutely not. The rest of us? Well – let’s hope....
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