Book Review — "Fit for Consumption" by Steve Berman

You have no idea how thrilled I’d be to attend the premiere of Nosferatu with Peter Kürten. Like a lot of macabre teenagers, I went through a phase when I was obsessed with serial murderers. Unlike some of my peers, however, I never worshipped or glorified their crimes (at least I tried not to). My fascination was simply a morbid curiosity—how could someone do such things, and why? I still have that sense of wonder, but with marginally less angst these days… For years, Harold Schechter’s The A to Z Encyclopedia of Serial Killers was a go-to source, a launch pad for further research. The subject from Schechter’s book whom I found the most engrossing was Peter Kürten, also known as The Vampire of Düsseldorf. So, it was with “The Letter that Doomed Nosferatu,” the sixth short story in this perverse collection, that I knew Steve Berman and I were kindred spirits.

I admire Berman’s confidence as a writer, his willingness to trust the reader. For someone like me, it only took reading “Kürten” and “Düsseldorf” in a post-war gender-bending cabaret setting to know precisely when and where I was—and who the “ordinary” man with “wide-pored skin” was. I don’t recall enough about the actual Peter Kürten to know if he truly was a cinephile, but Berman makes him one, and I 100% accept it. It adds an enchanting layer to his character. And if the so-nicknamed Vampire of Düsseldorf is going to have a “fondness for cinema,” of course it would be expressly for horror. Berman does not glamorize the evilness, but he definitely shares my sense of morbid curiosity. A reader need not be familiar with this confirmed sadist to enjoy the story, though. Berman draws Kürten with the perfect balance of specificity and obscurity to render him an ominous figure for anyone.

What Berman goes on to do with “The Haferbräutigam,” another short story, is proof of that. Before reading it, I was not at all familiar with Guglielmo Plüschow, and it wasn’t until after I’d completed the story that the internet told me he was a legit person. Plüschow was a German photographer famous for his portraits of nude men. When the tale opens, he has just been released from a Roman prison, having been incarcerated over a “tryst.” En route to Germany, he encounters a strapping young man who’s not entirely what he seems. “The Haferbräutigam” gives me Luchino Visconti directing a Bryan Fuller script based on a Daphne Du Maurier story vibes. So, basically, it’s fantastic. And on a thematic level, it’s fucked.

In our heteronormative world, there are a ton of folks who are quicker to denounce consensual queer relationships than they are the sexual abuse of women by men. Plüschow was imprisoned in Italy on the charges of “common procuration” and “seduction of a minor” for eight months. More scandals ensued after that sentence, so Plüschow returned to Berlin, at which point in this fictional version of events he meets this alluring young man who is a bit of a devourer of women. The funny thing is, though, these women’s parents don’t seem to have a problem with it, presumably because he’s male and that’s just how things are? In this grim way, Berman confronts the ways society admonishes romance between two innocents of the same sex, but tolerates harmful bonds between opposite sex partners, especially if it means they won’t have to fork over a dowry. And using a turn-of-the-century pioneer of queer erotic photography with a sordid past is a neat way to do that.

Weaving real-life subjects into his fiction and making them his own seems to be a talent of Berman’s. Also, real-life places: I’ve been to Archbold, Ohio. I grew up about 40 miles from there; we used to have cross country meets there that went around both goddamn reservoirs. And my partner is from another Ohio town that’s only 15 miles from Archbold. So when Archbold is revealed as Terry’s hometown in “Unwelcome Boys,” I let out the biggest huhhh?! The line, “But a fast car won’t help Terry one day escape the meagerness of Archold,” sent me into the tropopause, that safe air of home. But, then again, Ohio is not always a safe place for queer people, in general but especially outside the major cities. That yearning to break free, to be around people like you—even if only for a week or so—is a very relatable feeling…

In high school, I traveled by bus to the University of Nebraska-Lincoln to attend the International Thespian Festival. I was a theatre kid, as you may have surmised from my reference to Angels in America in the previous paragraph (if you didn’t catch it, my feelings aren’t that hurt). Somewhat similarly, Terry travels by bus to the east coast to attend a conference for high school wrestlers. Competitive wrestling is already a horror show in itself. My peers on the wrestling team literally starved themselves to fit into the proper weight class—and there ain’t a gay man alive who can’t connect with the struggle of body image, on or off the mat. I saw young men wither away. So, naturally, this provides Berman with an excellent foundation for some body horror. I love reading about young men exploring each other physically while also dealing with a lurking, malign presence that resides within them.

Men so often voluntarily submit to parasitic, or toxic, situations. “His Mouth Will Taste of Chernobyl,” the penultimate story in this collection, explores the degrees of degradation men are willing to endure for an ersatz sense of fraternity. First of all, that title fucking rules. Second, I never really understood the appeal of Greek life on college campuses. It’s weird, right? Paying for friends? Then making a fool of one’s self in order to belong? Now, I am willing to admit certain depictions of fraternity tomfoolery in movies have been known to tighten my pants. Kevin Bacon uttering, “Thank you, sir! May I have another?” while having his ass smacked repeatedly with a large paddle, for example. Of course, the tone of Animal House is pretty jocular, whereas Berman’s version of Greek life is suitably more horrific. The pledges in “His Mouth Will Taste of Chernobyl” experience a different flavor dehumanization.

When the narrator says in the first paragraph that “pledges are just three-fifths men until we reach initiation,” we the readers know what that’s a reference to. If you don’t, I high recommend seeking out a 5th grade history textbook—preferably one not written by the United Daughters of the Confederacy. And if I’m not mistaken, Berman also makes a brief reference to a deep cut slasher flick called Pledge Night with some of the ways pledges are tested (i.e., humilated and tormented) and questioned about the hometowns of their mates. “His Mouth Will Taste of Chernobyl” ventures into some pretty macabre places. Not only is this story about the horrors of unchecked collegiate misconduct, but there’s a dark fable element to it as well involving a cursed supernatural flask—a perfect item to serve as a catalyst for fraternal delinquency taken to the extreme.

Fit for Consumption at times reads like a queer Night Gallery. Once this idea entered my mind, I found myself picturing a gay Rod Serling-type unveiling a singular ghastly portrait for each tale that “captures on a canvas, suspended in time and space, a frozen moment of a nightmare” whenever Berman painted a memorable mental image, which was often. For instance, to address a few more stories rife with gloomy imagery that I haven’t touched on yet: there’s an entry set amid a post-apocalyptic wasteland, one featuring Edgar Allan Poe himself, and one that takes place on a mysterious estate that actually features the portrait that could be used in the intro to the segment itself… Now I need this show to happen. Hell, it could be hosted by The Boulet Brothers—let’s get Shudder on the line!