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Post by ripper on Dec 31, 2016 19:34:04 GMT
I re-read the first of Rohmer's Fu Manchu novels over the last couple of days and enjoyed it just as much as the first time. It has a breakneck pace and there are some wonderful set-pieces spread throughout the narrative. I also think it is enhanced by the first-person narration of Petrie, though I believe some of the later books dispense with that. The only aspect that I find a little infuriating is Petrie's doltishness when it comes to Karamaneh. It is so obvious that she has the hots for him--her little red slippers are practically on fire--and he is blind to it. Even after Nayland-Smith points it out, Petrie does nothing. Actually, it is just as well Karamaneh fancies Petrie, for without her help our two intrepid heroes would have been bumped off by Fu Manchu or his henchmen on numerous occasions.
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Post by helrunar on Nov 23, 2018 16:04:00 GMT
Rohmer reportedly described "Fires of Baal," a short story (more of a sketch, really) published in the Nov. 9, 1929 issue of Collier's magazine, as his personal favorite of all his tales. The author selected it for inclusion in the 1933 anthology My Best Thriller, published in London by Faber & Faber. (Other entries in that volume included: "The house by the headland" by Sapper, "The Cyprian Cat" by Dorothy L. Sayers, "Death by Judicial Hanging" by Francis Beeding [pseudonym used by John Palmer and Hilary St George Saunders], "Mrs Scarr" by Elinor Mordaunt, and the intriguingly titled "At the Shrine of Sekhmet" by Valentine Williams. Sounds like a book to look for!)
Despite the author's personal regard for the tale, it seems to be one of his more elusive productions. It was included, if I recall aright, in the US edition of Tales of East and West, which I remember Bookfinger reprinting back in the Seventies. Last week, I finally went to the stacks of the distinguished academic library where I toil and photocopied the story out of a bound volume of Collier's which, doubtless purely due to oversight, has yet to have been packed out to the "remote storage facility" which is now located in New Jersey (the library is in Cambridge, Mass.).
The tale opens with a group of Europeans and Americans seated in a briefly, but evocatively described seedy cafe in Aleppo, Syria. Rohmer establishes the scene effectively with a few sweeping, wryly humorous phrases. For those who have been posted in the region on business, military service or profitable but illegal skullduggery, nothing in the scene rises above the banal and commonplace. Until, that is, the "star turn" shows up--Sheba, who is in every detail the ideal, yet never before encountered, fantasy dancing girl of the East:
We saw a perfect woman--a study in pale amber. The quality of her skin created an uncanny impression of transparency. Jet black, snaky hair; smoldering eyes; slim and apparently boneless arms which seemed to speak a language of their own.
She was thin-lipped and aquiline, but beautiful as an opium dream. In contrast to the wobbly bulk of her predecessors Sheba's slender flanks suggested the Persian simile of a gazelle.
The evening moves towards a climax of a type familiar to those who have read Rohmer's Tales of Secret Egypt (the phrase "secret Egypt" shows up as a joke in the final segment of this story). The scene then switches to an excavation at Baalbek, ancient center of the mysterious cult of the Great God Baal. This little passage hinting at the dreadful mystic horrors of the past is characteristic of this author:
The Feast of Baal...
How little we know of their mysterious religion! Much had been learned about ancient Egyptian ritual--so little about Assyrian. Before the shrine of Baal hung an impenetrable veil.
As I undressed and turned in, my imagination was busy with the obscure origin of Baalbek and the greater obscurity of the early rites practiced there. That Baal--most mysterious of divinities--had been worshiped here before Solomon's time seemed moderately certain. It was a form of Sun worship, of course, characterized by sacrifices, probably human.
Probably human...
Our narrator awakes in the middle of the night to see an odd reflection of fire lighting up his room. Panicked, thinking the hotel is going up in flames, he turns to look through the window and sees, in the nearby ruins:
The fire was in the temple!
It rose and fell, waxed and waned, somewhere inside the vast building. It gleamed on the six mighty pillars, redly illuminating their lofty capitals.
And its heat reached me. It was like the heat of the sun at noon!
Our hero throws on his dressing-gown and ventures into the ruined sacred precinct. What awaits him there is a sight and sensation from remote Antiquity:
It was as though I faced a furnace and suddenly the doors had been opened--but such a furnace as man has never contrived. Rather it was as though I stood on the verge of the Pit and a wind from its ultimate depths blew upon me. Such heat I had never known. It seemed to scorch my soul. ...
Before a blaze of light which destroyed its surroundings--an infinite curtain of fire--I watched a drama so dreadful that to this very day it sometimes recurs in my dreams, and I wake, clammy, panic-stricken...
Two men, resembling bronze statues, stood on either side of a kneeling figure. It was that of a man whose white skin gleamed like silver in the radiance of the fire.
He was manacled. I formed an impression that he had very fair hair cut close to his skull. It was a "square" skull--and I knew that his eyes would be blue.
A fourth figure appeared--a woman. She seemed to come from the fire--to be a creation of fire. Her gleaming body reminded me of amber... of amber... of Aleppo ... of Sheba!
But this was not Sheba. Yet, I thought, she surely must be of her family--her tribe--her race. For I had never met any woman, East or West, who resembled Sheba. After that final, inexplicable glimpse of Beckford at the high lattice I had sometimes wondered if the girl who called herself Sheba might be a survival of some older civilization.
The story concludes in a final scene involving a fateful meeting in Cairo. And I agree with Sax that this was one of his best stories, mainly because he plotted and wrote it with such economy. A simple and now rather familiar idea, but conveyed with compelling immediacy and a bit of grace. Granted, it is very much in the vein of "slick" mag fiction of the period, but an exceptionally well turned out example of this genre.
I think collectors of inter-war Pagan survival fiction could do worse than spend a few moments basking in the scorching heat of the Fires of Baal.
cheers, H.
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Post by dem bones on Nov 23, 2018 16:50:37 GMT
Many thanks for the review, Steve. Have just downloaded a pdf of Fires of Baal from unz.org. Will try get around to it this evening. John Richard Flanagan
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Post by helrunar on Nov 23, 2018 18:12:06 GMT
Thanks for adding that gorgeous Flanagan drawing, Kev! I still have a folder of photocopies I made of Flanagan's drawings for Rohmer's serials back in the 1970s. I don't know how that survived since I have lost most of what I had back then. Flanagan's work had such a brisk quality with exquisite sense of detail. Too bad the drawings were, so far as I am aware, never used in any of the book editions.
Hope the little tale does not disappoint! It is really a sketch--possibly inspired by a visit to the Baalbek ruins.
Best wishes, Steve
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Post by ripper on Nov 24, 2018 19:15:42 GMT
Rohmer sure liked his exotic ladies and describing them in detail. Nice review of that short story. Apart from one Morris Klaw adventure, I am struggling to recall reading any more of his short fiction, so it sounds like a worthwhile read.
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Post by dem bones on Jan 23, 2020 20:07:12 GMT
I re-read the first of Rohmer's Fu Manchu novels over the last couple of days and enjoyed it just as much as the first time. It has a breakneck pace and there are some wonderful set-pieces spread throughout the narrative. I also think it is enhanced by the first-person narration of Petrie, though I believe some of the later books dispense with that. The only aspect that I find a little infuriating is Petrie's doltishness when it comes to Karamaneh. It is so obvious that she has the hots for him--her little red slippers are practically on fire--and he is blind to it. Even after Nayland-Smith points it out, Petrie does nothing. Actually, it is just as well Karamaneh fancies Petrie, for without her help our two intrepid heroes would have been bumped off by Fu Manchu or his henchmen on numerous occasions. Sax Rohmer - The Mystery of Fu Manchu (Star, 1977; originally The Story-Teller, Oct 1912 - July 1913. First book publication, Methuen, 1913) Blurb: Fu Manchu, is the Lord of Strange Deaths, the incarnate essence of Evil, the most subtle genius of the Orient.
Sir Crichton Davy was dead. In his study hung a strange and heady perfume. Under the sleeve of his smoking jacket, among the tracks of the cocaine needle, was a red mark, like the imprint of painted lips. It was the Zayat Kiss, sign of a mysterious death met only in the mountain passes of Burma. But Fu Manchu's power was far-reaching, and now London fell under his shadow. His cunning and his malice were infinite - but what were his ambitions? And who could out wit such a terrible opponent?When Chums serialised Fu Manchu: The Yellow Peril Incarnate In One Man (as they diplomatically retitled it) from December Christmas 1923, they did so four chapters at a time which strikes me as a sensible approach, so will try it, see how things go. "Unless you have been in their clutches, you can never imagine the depths of cruelty to which a Chinaman is capable of stooping." Sir Denis Nayland Smith returns to London from Burma on a mission crucial, not only to his fellow countryman, but the entire white race! For word has reached him that the fiend incarnate, Dr. Fu Manchu, is active in the capital, ruthlessly eliminating those who would stand in his way. Nayland Smith has it on the best authority that, unless they can reach him in time, Sir Crichton Davey will be murdered this very night. Alas, even as they arrive, Davey's lifeless body is crumpled on the carpet. It is a terrible sight. While there is no immediately discernible cause of death, one hand is discoloured with what looks to be a birthmark, but isn't. According to his staff, Sir Crichton died raving something about "the red hand!" While Nayland Smith examines the murder scene, his friend, Dr. Petrie is approached by the most seductively lovely mystery woman he has ever seen. The Oriental (uh oh) beauty hands him a perfumed envelope, requests that he pass it to the addressee - Nayland Smith. She leaves the room, thinks better of it, returns, and, fixing a perplexed Petrie with "passionate intentness," implores; "If you would do me a very great service, for which I always would be grateful, when you have given my message to the proper person, leave him and do not go near him any more tonight!" Nayland Smith knows the envelope for what it is - his death sentence! The girl's strange request only confirms it. There is something about the scented envelope attracts a killer. Come what may, at least he can rest assured that the girl will not make an attempt on Petrie's life. "She is one of the finest weapons in the enemy's armoury, Petrie. But a woman is a two-edged sword, and treacherous. To our great good fortune, she has formed a sudden predilection, characteristically Oriental, for yourself. Oh, you may scoff, but it is evident." The two retire for the night and await the nocturnal assassin. They are not to be disappointed. A dacoit shins up the ivy cladding of the building and lets loose .... Let's just say, thank God, Nayland Smith thought to bring along a golf club! Round one to the plucky English fellows! [to be continued ...]
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Post by helrunar on Jan 23, 2020 22:12:16 GMT
This is a painless way of sampling the fifth novel in the series, Mask of Fu Manchu: comicbookplus.com/?dlid=27880The Mystery of Dr Fu-Manchu does not really hold up terribly well, and I write that as a Sax Rohmer fan. But it has some entertaining pages unless blatant jingoistic comments about everyone who isn't white and British get under your skin (so to speak). cheers, H.
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Post by dem bones on Jan 24, 2020 9:51:48 GMT
Pardon me boy, is that a bat or Fu Manchu-chu ? The action shifts from the City to East London. Inspector Weymouth of New Scotland Yard requests Nayland Smith's presence at Wapping River Police Station. The drowned corpse of Cadby, his top undercover man, has been dredged from the Thames, minus three fingers. The body of the dacoit who failed in his attempt on Nayland Smith's life last night is similarly mutilated. Fu Manchu is not a would-be master of entire world domination to tolerate failure. Dr. Petrie visits the late Cadby's landlady in Brixton. Who should be burning papers in the murdered man's room but the mystery beauty! The woman passionately insists that she had no wish to kill Nayland Smith or anyone, but must do as bid by her master, the insidious Fu Manchu! How she longs to break the shackles of enslavement! The Police are feeble, he would find and kill her easy as blinking, but perhaps if she could rely on the protection of a brave man like Petrie .... Weymouth's men identify Singapore Charlie's dope shop on Ratcliff Highway as Dr. Fu Manchu's likeliest bolt-hole. Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie infiltrate this opium den disguised as "two dangerous-looking seafaring ruffians" while a pair of CID men, masquerading as dossers, wait out front. This, far the most exciting chapter to date, begins with an excruciating exchange between Shen Yan (aka 'Singapore Charlie'), the comedy Chinese barber ("No shavee - no shavee! Too late. Shuttee shop!") and rough-house 'Dago' Nayland Smith ("Get inside and gimme an' my mate a couple o' pipes. Smokee pipe, you yellow scum — savvy?"). Needless to say, the foreign chappie relents, ushers them behind a curtain. Who can it be? Feigning drugged out oblivion ("Whatever you do, don't inhale any"), the pair choose their moment. Petrie, revolver drawn, rushes upstairs and bursts in on the yellow peril incarnate, Dr. Fu Manchu ... who, unmoved by the interruption, operates a switch. As Petrie drops through a trapdoor and into the icy waters of the Thames, he takes a wild shot, exploding a lantern ... Within moments, all is chaos! The opium den is ablaze, raining debris on the drowning debris. Only the intervention of she masquerading as a bloated hunchbacked Chinaman spares him his life - and a full complement of fingers. The police collar Singapore Charlie and clientèle, but no sign of their prime target. Can it be that Dr. Fu Manchu perished in the flames? Round two to Fu Manchu and, especially, the as yet unnamed slave of Fu Manchu. TBC
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Post by dem bones on Jan 26, 2020 18:00:36 GMT
Red Moat, Suffolk. The Rev. J. D. Eltham is aka 'Parson Dan, the Fighting Missionary' a nickname bestowed him after his exploits in China during the peasant uprising of 1900; "With a garrison of a dozen cripples and a German doctor [he] held the hospital at Nan Yang against two hundred Boxers." Now, despite warnings that he will only stir up old resentments, Eltham announces his intention of returning to the Far East. This does not sit well with Fu Manchu (or, to be fair, anyone else). Red Moat is surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence, but that is of no hindrance to the Yellow Peril! Following a failed kidnap attempt on Parson Dan and daughter during a railway journey, a six foot something with luminous green eyes, emerges from the shrubbery at Red Moat, to attack and brutally destroy a hound. Dan's bull-mastiff is savagely maimed soon after. Can agents of Fu Manchu have infiltrated the household, or has the Devil Doctor unleashed dark forces to prevent Parson Dan's departure?
After the high drama of the raid on Singapore Charlie's dope den, a frustratingly inconsistent episode which drags on too long before the seemingly 'supernatural' mystery is, for want of a better term, rationalised.
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Post by andydecker on Jan 26, 2020 19:57:04 GMT
It's been ages that I read this novel. But I have a fairly good recollection of it. This episode was a bit dull, the locked room mystery not very convincing.
When re-reading the collected edition of Marvel's Master of Kung Fu I was surprised how good Doug Moench updated all the characters after he took over the writing early on, especially the female characters. Fah Lo Suee - who is a user of papa's immortality serum - is made the head of MI6 along the way after Smith is forcibly retired, and Karamaneh, also still young, takes care of Petrie. MoKF is for a series at first capitalising on a fad still worth of reading. After a shaky start Fu Manchu is taken earnest as a villian, and for all its comic bookiness the major Fu Manchu arcs work splendidly. Of course it helped that this was a time before the constant crossovers and that the world of MoKF was self-contained, so no visits from the X-Men or Captain America.
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Post by cromagnonman on Jan 26, 2020 21:21:52 GMT
I seem to recall that Paul Gulacy delivered a particularly alluring Fah Lo Suee who favoured buttock high slits to her gowns and neck lines that didn't so much plunge as plummet. Whereas Leiko Wu prefered more sensible Emma Peel style jumpsuits. Mind you I was only about ten when I encountered the series and doubtless imagination elaborated accordingly upon what was actually depicted.
Curious thing about Marvel in the 70s is that all their artistic triumphs were adaptations of licensed literary properties: Master of Kung Fu, Tomb of Dracula and Conan the Barbarian. Each title extolling the benefit in having a writer with a personal interest in and commitment to the material.
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Post by helrunar on Jan 27, 2020 0:29:33 GMT
I somehow amazingly still have the issue of Masters of Kung Fu that introduced Fah Lo Suee... I excavated it a couple of years ago, and was astounded. Her look had kind of a mid to late Sixties espionage glam edge, with hints of a more up to date Asian cult cinema kung fu epic kind of detail. I liked it.
I had no memory at all of ever buying the issue and no memory of having read the book that far. Fah Lo Suee was one of my favorite characters in the series, so that may be how I did wind up acquiring this issue way back when.
H.
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Post by andydecker on Jan 27, 2020 9:38:25 GMT
I seem to recall that Paul Gulacy delivered a particularly alluring Fah Lo Suee who favoured buttock high slits to her gowns and neck lines that didn't so much plunge as plummet. Whereas Leiko Wu prefered more sensible Emma Peel style jumpsuits. Mind you I was only about ten when I encountered the series and doubtless imagination elaborated accordingly upon what was actually depicted. Curious thing about Marvel in the 70s is that all their artistic triumphs were adaptations of licensed literary properties: Master of Kung Fu, Tomb of Dracula and Conan the Barbarian. Each title extolling the benefit in having a writer with a personal interest in and commitment to the material. Not at all. Your memory is correct. Here she is in all her splendour. Making an entrance. And here is Miss Wu in one of the many dream sequences on a splash page. And last but not least the introduction of the Doctor himself. This is Jim Starlin on the art and Steve Englehart as the creator/writer. (A word to the scans. These are screenshots from the my Kindle Fire of the digital version of Marvel Epic Collection. The picture quality is so sharp that you can cut your meat with it. For my purposes I downsized them to 1/4 size and transformed them to jpgs. And now they look pretty terrible.) You are right. The commitment to those three series was very high, and the artwork was above the usual level. I guess MoKF was the most uneven. The digital format with its guided view, where every panel is blown up to screen size, can be kind of unforgiving to the quality of the art. Gulacy still is wonderful to look at, the fill-in artists like Al Milgrom - not so much.
For a Comic Code book Gulacy sure drew sexy woman. Fah Lo Suee was introduced a couple of issues earlier in No.26 with Keith Pollard art, and this is not comparable.
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Post by cromagnonman on Jan 27, 2020 21:05:10 GMT
Really enjoyed seeing these again Andy. Thanks. A real trip down mammary lane, you might say.
No discussion of Master of Kung Fu would be complete without mention of Gene Day. A superb Shang-Chi artist in his own right. But in my opinion even more important as the dynamo at the very heart of the 70s fantasy fanzine culture. Not only did he himself publish the best fanzine of the period - the seminal Dark Fantasy - but he contributed artwork to just about everybody else's. A real patron of the small press and one we lost far far too early.
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Post by helrunar on Oct 21, 2020 21:00:07 GMT
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