Customer Reviews

House of Flesh

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Many of the books from the Gold Medal glory days of the 1950's deal with the strong sexual attraction and the tension that exists between the protagonist and a woman he meets early in the story. Gil Brewer's A Taste For Sin, Ellilot Chaze's Black Wings Has My Angel, and Charles Williams' River Girl are classics in this style, and must-reads for noir lovers. Add House of Flesh to this list. It simmers with a sexual tension that is missing from much of today's writing that is overt and explicit. But to say this book is only about passion and lust, sells it short. In the end, it is a morality play.

I've heard people say that Bruno Fischer was not much of a stylist, but in first person narrator stories, the important thing is to find the voice of the character. And I think Fischer captures Harry quite well. Fischer sells the character as real, and then Harry sells the story. Harry, a pro basketball player, is spending the off-season in a little town in upstate New York, laying low and licking his wounds after a subpar season and a recent divorce. One day, out for a stroll with his young dog, Harry discovers some bones. Are they human? He later hears village stories about a missing woman, and strange happenings at a mansion in the hills where a vet lives with his wife Lela, and a brood of dogs. Then Harry meets Lela, and the story hits a higher gear, sucking Harry and the reader along.

Consider this passage: She filled a glass at the tap and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed. She stepped back into a splash of sunlight pouring though an unobstructed window and her dark eyes watched me drink. "You're tall," she said. But there was no animation, almost no interest---a flat statement of fact as if I were some knid of animal to be appraised.
"So is your husband, " I said dryly. "And he's bigger and handsomer."
At last her eyes showed something, a momentary flash like two sparks deep in the black pupils. "I don't like you," she said.
Grinning, I finished the water. We were becoming practically intimate. I started to place the empty glass on the table. She took it from me and carried it to the sink and said without turning: "I was sure you would comeback."
"Are you glad I did?"
"Yes." She faced me, her hands held spread on either side of the sink apron as she stood against it. "I was afraid you'd come when my husband was here. You mustn't ever. Even to see your dog."
"What would he do if he found me here?"
"Kill you perhaps," she said negligently, as if it would be a small matter.
I felt my mouth twist. Words came out by themselves. "And then what --- feed me to those dogs outside?" She was stiller than the sink behind her. "Now I like you even less," she said petulantly --- the first time her voice had carried any sort of emotion.

Later, Lela vists Harry at his cottage on a rainy night:
Lela extended her feet. "Take off my boots."
No please went with that request. And it wasn't a request; it was an order in a colorless, impersonal tone. I resented her attitude, resented her presence, resented the fact tht I wanted her here and was kneeling at her feet as if in supplication.
I pulled the boots off. Kneeling, holding her foot, I looked up at her. Her face was turned sideways to the fire. Her profile was static, but not now empty; it seemed to be holding emotion in suspension, and there were purple shadows at the corners of her eyes.
"Undress me," she said hoarsely. "But slowly. Very Slowly."
She remained standing in front of the fire. I found the zipper at the side of her knitted dress. She didn't help me at all. Slowly, she had said --- an order, a ritual, like taking off her boots. The little she had on under the dress was simpler, but I made this slower still, lingering, caressing. Then I stepped back and looked at her in the gentle and mellow glow of the flames.

Party mystery, part love story, each chapter ramps up the suspense. It starts slow, like a match on kindling, but builds to a blaze. At the end of the book, I wondered, if I were in Harry's situation, would I make the same decision he does? I'm not so sure. Read it, and see what you think.

I bought this based on the strength of the reviews and author David (Nightworld) Bischoff's recommendation. This is my first time reading Bruno Fischer, although I am familiar with many of his pulp and paperback original contemporaries such as Hugh B. Cave, David Goodis and Jim Thompson. House of Flesh is solid but no five-star masterpiece; despite a strong beginning and middle, the story is ultimately let down a bit by the predictable ending. The book is remarkably erotic and atmospheric for its time, although after such hot build-ups and afterglows, it is unfortunate that the sex scenes themselves are abbreviated--but what else can you expect from 1950s censorship? Anyway, I liked House of Flesh enough that I would be interested in reading more books by Bruno Fischer. The Lady Kills, So Wicked My Love and A Mate For Murder (the latter of which collects his shudder pulp horror stories) all seem like good bets.

The main problem with this edition of House of Flesh is the publisher, Black Mask, who I've railed against in other reviews. The book is horribly formatted and riddled with typos throughout, including misspelling the femme fatale's name on the back cover blurb. Most irritating, however, is the way they continually cram together different characters dialogue into the same paragraph, making you have to stop and wonder who is speaking! I am sure that this is not the way the book was written or originally published. It appears to be a cost-cutting measure by the publisher so they can cram the book into as few pages as possible and thus maximize their profits. There aren't even any spaces between the beginnings and endings of the chapters, for crying out loud! Deplorable. Another gripe is the blurry washed-out jpg "cover art" which is a terrible scan of a previously published edition. I don't think I've bought a single title from Black Mask that is professional in appearance inside or out. Yet I keep buying them, if only because it is often the only or most convenient (and cheapest) way to get these titles. I just wish they'd do a good or even halfway competent job for once!

Very atmospheric and memorable work by a truly talented writer. Don't be misled by the description on the cover - it greatly misrepresents the story, as is typical of these types of books. I'm referring to the 1950s version - the more current reprint probably describes the book more accurately. In any case, Fischer tells a compelling story of a pro basketball player who gets mixed up with a true femme fatale during an off-season "rest" in a small town. It's good that the title character is definitely flawed both morally and in his judgment. The only false note is the offer of a possible conventional happy ending on the last page - but that seems so inconsistent with the dark tone of the rest of the book, that I'm just choosing to ignore it. The leading character isn't a bad guy, but he hasn't earned his happiness quite yet.

It was horror writer David Bischoff, writing in Jones & Newman's excellent overview volume "Horror: Another 100 Best Books," who first turned me on to Bruno Fischer's "House of Flesh" (1950). In his essay, Bischoff mentions that "House of Flesh" is a "Gothic novel for males," reveals that it is his favorite "shudder pulp horror" story, and tells us that this little novel surprisingly sold over 2 million copies in North America alone. The edition that I just finished is the hard-to-find original Fawcett "Gold Medal," but I'm very happy to see that the fine folks at Blackmask have released a new edition for a 21st century audience, as "House of Flesh" is an exciting page-turner that should please most readers...and not just males. While not exactly horror per se, it does contain some gruesome elements, and can be said to be more of a noirish tale with decidedly shuddery overtones. Told in first person, it reveals the story of Harry Wilde, a pro basketball player on the N.Y. Gothams, whose summer vacation in the upstate burg of North Set turns out to be a very hairy and wild time indeed. Harry has barely been ensconced in his summer bungalow for a few weeks before becoming involved in a torrid love affair with Lela Doane, the wife of the local veterinarian who had supposedly killed his first wife and fed her to his pack of dogs. Harry's summer idyll takes a very sinister turn after he discovers what may be human bones on the Doanes' property; when his and Lela's affair spins out of control; and when a crowbar murder shakes the sleepy town, with Harry as the only suspect. Fischer, an old hand at pulp writing, keeps the wheels spinning deftly in this suspenseful tale, and while anyone who has had some small experience with film noir should be able to foresee the solution to the murder mystery fairly easily, he/she should still be surprised at the numerous curveballs that the author dishes out. Fischer engenders a mood of encroaching angst not only through the use of disinterred bones and packs of menacing dogs, but through his description of the crumbling old Doane house and of Lela Doane herself, a film noir siren in the classic mold if ever there was one. While not exactly beautiful, apparently, Lela turns out to be a woman of overwhelming passions and mysterious, taciturn moods. Fischer also manages to contrive an aura of sultry eroticism throughout his tale, what with the July setting and the numerous scenes depicting female nudity and lovemaking in general. While certainly nothing graphic--surely not by modern standards--these scenes still have an impact today; how risque they must have seemed 57 years ago! (The novel's numerous passages noting the similarity between humans and dogs in heat are not at all misplaced!) Ultimately, by the time most readers turn the last page of Fischer's novel, they will probably be wondering why this one was never adapted for the big screen. What a wonderfully creepy film noir it might have made; I can almost picture Alida Valli playing the part of Lela....