Sax Rohmer was the pen name of the English writer Arthur Henry Sarsfield Ward (1883-1959), a prolific producer of pulp fiction and comedy sketches for music hall performers. He was one of the highest paid and most successful writers of the twenties and thirties, due largely to his Fu Manchu series.
Reissued in two fat volumes by Allison & Busby after being out of print for years, the Fu Manchu stories have taken on an unexpected new edge recently. Give Osama bin Laden long, tapering fingernails, rearrange his facial hair, slant his eyes and shove him into a flowing Chinese silk number, and you have the beast from the East in person. It’s all there: the evil genius bent on world domination, the armies of deadheads whose only dream in life is to incinerate themselves and others at his slightest command, all the fanaticism and ruthlessness. And to top it all, nobody knows where or how he’ll strike next. Déjà vu or what? After footage of the latest terrorist atrocity, I half expect to see credits rolling, and a sinister image of Fu Manchu intoning ‘The world has not seen the last of me!’ just like in the old Hammer films with Christopher Lee.
It’s the early years of the twentieth century, then, and Fu Manchu has been busily setting up what we would now call his terrorist cell in London, heart of Empire, its object being to destabilise the government by bumping off key ministers and top civil servants. He is assisted by his beautiful but deadly daughter Fa Lo See. Only the stiff-upper-lipped Nayland Smith, an Orientalist recently returned from under-cover work in Burma, and his sidekick Dr Petrie are in a position to foil his plans. The official state machinery is hopelessly inadequate against such skulduggery.
The ‘Yellow Peril’ had a high profile at the time, with China being regarded as a relentlessly expanding power, wrapped in mystery and unfamiliar with cricket. It was Yellows rather than Reds under the bed in those days, and the Western intelligence agencies were sorely ignorant as to the nature and intentions of the new threat. China was a land of Dowager Empresses and exotic dynasties, a parallel civilisation that the British Empire was rubbing up the wrong way. The British had been making the familiar Superpower mistake of believing that opposition to their rule was incomprehensible and utterly unacceptable, and had been recently shaken (but not stirred) by the Boxer Rebellion of 1900, a popular uprising against foreign influence, in which Western goods were destroyed and missionaries slaughtered. There’s just no pleasing some people.
Nayland Smith has a handful of Scotland Yard’s finest to sporadically assist him, but they retain a sense of fair play that has no place against such an adversary. Think of Dixon of Dock Green telling an al Qaeda suicide bomber he’s been nicked, or suggesting to the Taliban that they move along now. Fu Manchu uses unknown poisons, deadly insects, oriental beauties and glamorous drugs in pursuit of his goals. But despite the odds, you just know who’s going to come out on top in the end, and that for all his bloody little victories Fu Manchu will eventually come a cropper. He, like bin Laden, like Hitler, like Saddam, has no sense of humour. He takes himself far too seriously. Like despots, actors and rock stars believing in their own publicity, he is clearly riding for a fall, and Nayland Smith will be there to give him the final push, before strolling off to his London club with Dr Petrie for a well-deserved whisky and soda.