Cleansing the doors of cinematic perception... for a better now

Sunday, December 09, 2012


In the early pre-code 1930s the Asian menace was a hot topic. China was in a bloody civil war; newsreel scenes of exotic people in various states of distress brought the mystery of the orient into movie audience's laps; 'miscegenation' fantasies popped up, always proportionate in intensity to the the fantasizing culture's racism. The white male viewer was presumably all alight with lust for the beautiful Asian ladies they saw, whether via the exotica-betrothed Theda Bara or Myrna Loy in Asian make-up. Before she hit it big in The Thin Man Loy was the go-to girl for scheming Asian honeys, in pre-codes like Mask of Fu Manchu, Thirteen Women, and The Barbarian (where she often got around the miscegenation by being half-"Other"). Even today audiences who should know better, like myself, are ever-aswoon over Loy a-shimmer in shining silks, but she's reflecting an evil double standard: white man + Asian girl = sexy; Asian man + white girl = censors and southern markets no likee!

With every double standard like this comes suspicion. If the entitled American white straight male viewer is all agog over the (Hollywood amped) exotica of this beautiful half-Asian girl, imagining her Sadean-skill in inflicting kinky pleasure-pain and her complete freedom from the suffocation of western bourgeois 'morality,' he must naturally, inescapably, worry his wife is being seduced in turn by some handsome, smooth-skinned, erudite Asian man, like Nils Asther in Asian make-up in the complex, beautiful yet ultimately frustrating Bitter Tea of General Yen (1933). Without that corresponding anxiety over the vice versa, the white man's fantasy is inert, and so the spiral tightens, autoerotically, to blackout.

The celestial Hal Eriksen notes of Bitter Tea:
"The one scene that everyone remembers takes place during one of Stanwyck's fevered dreams, in which she imagines Yen as a Fu Manchu-type rapist, who then melts into a gentle, courtly suitor. Directed with the exotic aplomb of a Josef von Sternberg by the usually down-to-earth Frank Capra, The Bitter Tea of General Yen was unfortunately a box office failure, due in great part to its miscegenation theme (this was still 1933). Even so, the film was chosen as the first attraction at the new Radio City Music Hall."
Yes, what about that miscegenation theme? Speaking of 1933 (arguably the greatest year ever for Hollywood) one can feel in its prohibition-repealed euphoria that the racist angle is being stretched to its limits in Yen, backing the censor up just a few inches with each assault, until gradually, if not for the damned Breen-enforced new code in 1934, Capra might have slowly been pushed racism back across state lines. At least in his film you can feel the sheer stupidity of miscegenation codes come full flower, practically baiting the intolerant bourgeois 'moralists' into getting pundit-level furious. Capra's film dares to present the forbidden love of Stanwyck and Manchu general Asther as preferable to the disposable British missionary fiancee, even if said forbidden love 'can never be.'

Abducted and given a beautiful room in his summer palace, Babs becomes enamored of the spring moon and the sight of Chinese lovers frolicking in the fronds, even if they are just soldiers and concubines (in order to not be shocked, she probably presumes they're all legally married before vanishing into the bushes together). Meanwhile her own sexuality is at stake; her letters back to her fiancee are misdirected by the treacherous Mai-Li (the Japanese actress Toshia Mori), Asher's young local girl lover, who resents having to sit lower than everyone else at the dinner table. Yen is foolish enough to listen to Bab's pleas of mercy for Mai-Lin's life when a different betrayal is discovered, and its this mercy that costs Yen his kingdom, fortune and leads to his bitter tea-drinking. A white woman's naive pro-life soap boxing is the end of him, like Joseph Breen looming over Asther with a glass of poison, like they did to poor Elisha Cook Jr. in THE BIG SLEEP!

It's fascinating and kind of appalling that even though the general is played by a white man, even a kiss on the lips with the white Babs is forbidden. Similarly, a later Stanwyck vehicle, the Furies' (1950), presents a romance between a Mexican man and Barbara that leads to a bitter hanging early on even though he's Gilbert Roland, a white man given the most meagre of tan make-ups and nothing happens between them, either.  In Yen a kiss happens kind of but only in the Fu Manchu-cum-handsome prince monster dream sequence. "They found a love they dared not touch," read the tag line, but it's rather Columbia who dared not; Yen is down to touch that love BUT is also a gentleman, so she has to want to come to him, and then even if she does she's eventually unable to actually kiss more than his hand in fealty. When Babs even thinks about kissing him, dream or no, she's repulsed

One of my favorite critics, David Thomson, gives the film the benefit of the doubt, racism-wise, interpreting Stanwyck's missionary coldness as the result of external metatextual echoes of Capra's smitten advances. They had dated for their first three Columbia pictures and she had broken it off and he remained lovelorn. Thompson thinks he cast her in Yen to try and win her back:
"So Stanwyck tries to be the missionary when everything in the film calls for a creeping abandon in Megan. When I say everything I mean above all Nils Asther's Yen, one of the most attractive figures in early sound cinema--witty, fatalistic, and very smart." ("Have You Seen..." p. 99)
Of course Yen can't be that smart if he lets his attraction for another man's naive bride get in the way of his war, since it means he'll lose it. His fascination is a slow suicide from the moment she first offers him a handkerchief after he runs over her rickshaw driver. He doesn't care about the rickshaw driver because "life, even at it's best, is hardly endurable" - a great line he delivers with the perfect mix of ennui and breeziness - but he's moved she gives him a handkerchief even after berating him for his callousness. He sees in her something that if he follows it through will lead to his death, but hey, life's hardly endurable. Yen adopts her forgiving attitude towards the treacherous Mai Lin almost on a dare and, while he handles the subsequent loss of his fortunes with Zen aplomb, he can't really handle the strait-jacket of the production code (who could?) which results in Babs' surrendering to Yen in penance yet still unable to think about kissing him without recoiling as if he was still the leering Fu Manchu character from her dream. She loves him but his non-whiteness ensures she'll never convert him back into that masked prince.

This repulsion and lust see-saw between beautiful white women and hormonal Chinese warlords was prevalent all over the years 1930-33, and so it's no surprise one shows up in a 1932 Josef Von Sternberg-Marlene Dietrich film: Shanghai Express. White actor Warner Oland (who also played both Charlie Chan and Fu Manchu in the same approx. era) hijacks the title train and won't let her man, a stodgy Brit officer played by sleepy Clive Brook go until Dietrich agrees to becomes his mistress. She will, because she's heroic, but it's implied that this would be a fate worse than death. Luckily Anna May Wong stabs him in a race-appropriate act of post-rape retribution before this miscegenation fantasia gets any farther. And the censor wipes his brow in relief.

Shangai Express by Erich Kuersten - 2008 
Wong and Dietrich are upscale prostitutes in the film, so it's presumed Dietrich has slept with Chinese generals before, but as long as we don't have to see it, or know about it, I guess it's okay (don't ask don't tell). She says she's reformed. But Oland takes Anna May Wong into his makeshift train station boudoir as consolation, not asking permission, thus justifying her deux ex machina stabbing as he's packing to leave. Apparently sex with an Asian man is hardly endurable... even if he's actually white and you're the only female star in Hollywood who's actually Asian!

Anna May Wong played another 'entertainer' who felt this way, the previous year, in in the 1931 Fu Manchu sequel Daughter of the Dragon. Japanese actor Sessue Hayakawa plays a smitten detective who starts presuming that, since he's young and Asian and so is she, he can dictate who her friends are and make all sorts of won't-take-the-hint advances. Wong prefers the rich white guy, of course, even if she means to kill him eventually and even if he's played by Bramwell Fletcher, an Englishman so twee he makes David Manners seem like Marlon Brando. We're meant, I think, to be a little repulsed by Haywakawa and simultaneously to secretly root for Wong's plans of vengeance agains the Petries, and to identify with the sense of love and duty she feels for her infamous father. We'd hate to see her throw away her happiness with this stiff Uncle Tom of an Asian detective, and Fletcher's even worse, a slice of limp white bread falling over on itself. Anna meanwhile can have any white man she wants, as they're all beguiled, though of course its understood none of them would ever marry her, other than the dregs of the dance card, a man of her own race, and a cop no less.

The fear of course was that seeing a love scene involving a young Asian male with another woman, even an Asian woman, would lead to riots and lynchings and burning of the nitrate in the southern markets. Censorship pre-empted the crackers' pre-emptive strike against nonwhites, lest as Fu Manchu urges his throngs in Mask of Fu Manchu (1933), they "kill the white man, and take his women!" It's the sort of roundabout self-hatred that makes the white people in that film so much more contemptible than even Fu Manchu and his evil daughter. One can't fault the latter for having a grudge against the white race if only from the contemptible racism displayed by the character within the film itself (their feeling that Asians have no right to their own art treasures, for example, because Britishers "like to look at them on holidays." Sure Fu and company want the treasures to rally the 'yellow' race against white civilization, but to deny him access to them is not unlike the censors' own denying of any possible riot stirring imagery.  At the end of Fu Manchu, Nayland Smith throws the riot stirring sword into the middle of the ocean rather than bringing it back for the museum and one can't help but draw the comparison with the burial of Osama bin Laden in the exact same way for for a very similar reason. One thinks too of all the edited film footage that was burned or otherwise destroyed for similar reasons too, things too progressive for their era (Paul Robeson's striking of the white cop in Emperor Jones (1933) for example, though that's been partially restored).

As someone who was almost lynched in a South Carolina two-dollar theater on a 1998 Xmas day, just for wearing a yellow sweater (the movie being In-Out and my brother and I being the only ones laughing) I can vouch that a lot of that intolerance in certain states is still very real. To these racist swine Asians are almost scarier than Hispanics, Latinos, African-Americans or Native Americans, because the derogatory phrase 'yellow' doesn't really fit. Asians are in fact 'whiter than white' - more refined than the white racist thinks even himself capable of. That's why for every exquisitely cruel and cultured monster like Manchu there must be hordes of leering Chinese soldiers or grinning, moronic cooks, often played by the versatile character Willie Fung, to make whitey feel all master race-y again.

I write this post not to stir up racist trouble.  In fact quite the opposite. I'm fascinated by the tropes of exotica, of chinoiserie -- I can't help it. The art directors involved in these 1933 films took the Asian milieu as a license to go nuts with ornate doorways, sparkling, slinky black dresses with dragons glistening down the slit skirt, Hindi deity statuary casting monstrous shadows over exquisite torture devices. I've never thought these cine-fantasias represented the real Asia, but I love their beauty and weirdness, the liberation from the sticky wickets of drab western symmetry when an art designer is allowed to go full out on the Asian opulence.

Who wouldn't lose their head over this... "possession"?
In The Cheat (1931) for example (see my review of The Universal Pre-code Collection on Bright Lights), Irving Pichel's character isn't Asian at all but a British diplomat or something ensconced in Japan or wherever for the last three years but now back at his old club, bearing tiger scars and emitting vile comments like "the oriental woman isn't a slave, she's simply been well-trained." So he's vaguely Asian if only by association with his sculpture collection, penchant for sadism, black silk pajamas, and statues branded with his seal of ownership for every sexual conquest like little awards, giving his whole playa thing a sickly sheen of reptilian self-sabotage. Bankhead promises to sleep with him if he pays her gambling debts but then when she no longer needs the cash, backs out of the deal. Pichel is plenty creepy sure, but Bankhead's stoop-shouldered, cigarette-voiced, gambling addicted, overspending old broad dowdiness isn't exactly the stuff that dreams are made of either. When he gets the spurn he brands her in reprisal. In the 1915 original film by the way, the miscegenation angle was clearer as the Pichel character was played by a real Asian, Sessue Hayakawa. By the time of this remake, even the thought of owing a real Asian any sexual favors was too loathsome to, apparently, contemplate.

The overriding motif throughout these films is that Asians are treated with some respect if they are cultured and can speak English, though they tend to go all to blazes when they get a load of any white chick. Apparently even if played by whites, and given British names, guys into Asian culture are still so repulsive that being literally branded on the breast is better than putting out, regardless of your word of honor.

The sordid Asian lustiness was all over the silent era, while the earliest and most influential chaste interracial romance of them all is surely that between horribly abused Lillian Gish and the disillusioned Asian curio shop owner played by white man Richard Barthelmess in Broken Blossoms (1919). Chris Jacobs writes "it is a delicate story of characters and ideals caught up in an inexorable destiny.  Modern-day critics who acknowledge Griffith's contribution to cinema also find the eloquent plea for racial tolerance less embarrassing to embrace than the controversial The Birth of a Nation." Yeah but as I recall they never even kiss or embrace despite this poster:

Nowadays of course racism is still a problem. But may I suggest that a part of this is the prevalence of the attitude that we are all the same? I applaud kids who get way into the minutiae of another culture, even ironically... this is how racism is healed, through admittance into one's own lexicon. The purpose of making fun of something can be to join it, to playfully analyze and encompass it. How many best friends didn't like each other at first, indeed mocked each other's mannerisms? But drawn to the unique complimentary energy the other provided during their inevitable fights, insults, or misunderstandings, special bonds are formed? It's well known now that, contrary to racist ideology, mixed race children are actually genetically superior to many purebreds. The bigger the gene pool for your DNA to work from the less likely you are to have birth defects and the more likely you are to be beautiful, as per books on the subject, such as Breeding Between the Lines.

We should rejoice when our children start dating someone of a different race. The best thing we can do is to mix our genes and absorb all the details of each other's culture, celebrating each other's unique perspectives, the prelude to which is nearly always to mock, probe, and burlesque said differences. The sooner we're all one glorious carmel-skinned, mildly epicanthically-folded race the better... as far as our genes are concerned, especially. In the meantime we should try on each other's cultures like robes at a costume party, and in the process de-demonize ourselves to each other. Films like Bitter Tea can be accused of racism or copping out on miscegenation but they also open up the dialogue. They point out the withering hypocrisy at the core of the anti-miscegenation code and its ultimate damage to world culture the same way homophobia in later stretches of Brokeback Mountain later would.

When we feel denied the right to objectify, imitate, adopt or consume a differing culture, isn't that also a kind of racism? Instead it's more likely we react and form opinions based on personal experience: we may go through a faux-Rastafari phase as a college kid then get mugged on a trip to Jamaica for spring break and get all racist all of a sudden, burning our Peter Tosh albums in moot reprisal, as if the two had anything to do with one another. Let's learn the lesson of our fascination with exotica, and let's let the tortured sprits of conveniently killed characters like General Yen point out the absurdity of Hollywood's censor system, an outmoded code which encourages Montague-Capulet divisiveness even as it portends to delve into sensitive issues of star-crossed lovers separated by chasms of culture who are destroyed by the very divisiveness the code encourages. Demanding credit for putting out a fire they themselves lit is no more than Munchausen by-proxy racism.

The devil falls in love with those that won't be tempted.


  1. Agree on everything here, Erich. The strangest, or simply dumbest riff on these themes I've seen recently is Son of the Gods which exploits memories of Broken Blossoms by casting Barthelmess -- without makeup for the eventually revealed reason (ugh!) that he's an adopted white boy -- as someone ostracized by society because he's a "Chinaman," even though he looks utterly un-Asian. But I suppose a film like that does the most to highlight the absurdity of race prejudice. I've been reading a lot of pulp and magazine fiction from the 30s lately and that obsession with China is all over the place -- oddly more so that you might expect now with the Chinese supposedly poised to dominate the world. But it's as you say: despite some propaganda the Chinese of 2012 are less "Other" and obviously less forbidden than the Chinese of 80 years earlier, and it's a less exotic world overall when the Asian phenomenon of the moment is Gangnam Style!

  2. Thanks Samuel - it's true, and back in the day of pulps and pre-codes 'the Orient' seemed a lot farther away, while meanwhile Chinatowns were right there in all the major cities, full of Tong wars, opium dens, evil Chinese masterminds bent on world domination, and the mix of graceful sadomasochistic women and Tong thugs that a figure like the Shadow could freely blast to ribbons with his twin .45s... never worrying he was offing someone who might be missed: "In the East, where life is cheap." - As Oland's general puts it in Shanghai Express - "you are in China now, sir, where time and life have no value."


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