The periodical tong war of the Chinese are undertaken with a disgraceful seriousness and a criminal disregard of the dramatic possibilities. With all the assets of romantic wrongdoing at his disposal for publicity, Mr. Brisbape's benevolent press agenting of the yellow peril, for weapon, the long, slim dagger of the Orient, for place of execution, a mysterious opium den, the tong-man most prosaically shoots his enemy in a hot laundry or at best chops off his head with a meat cleaver in a hall bedroom. Such lack of consideration for reporters, such neglect of the movie career lying open to the artistic murderer brings one to the conclusion that the author of "Fu Manchu", anxious for his monopoly of mystery, has bribed the vengeful Chinese to be deliberately dull. If this guess be true, the tong member who so prostitutes his art, richly deserves the deportation awaiting him.
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