Film Review: The Indian Tomb (Das indische Grabmal, 1921)

One could persuasively argue that cinema underwent its most profound transformation almost a century ago, when within less than a decade filmgoers were introduced to both sound and colour—a technological revolution that fundamentally altered the art form. This pivotal evolution can be effectively illustrated by examining three vastly different film adaptations drawn from a single literary source, produced across roughly four decades, two of which were authored or co-authored by Fritz Lang, arguably one of the most talented and influential filmmakers of the twentieth century. The earliest of these cinematic interpretations was The Indian Tomb, the 1921 German silent fantasy adventure film produced and directed by Joe May. This sprawling production emerged during the silent cinema's golden age, before the seismic shift brought about by The Jazz Singer (1927) would render silent filmmaking commercially obsolete within a few short years. The transition from silent to sound cinema was not merely technological but represented a complete reimagining of cinematic language, narrative construction, and audience engagement—a transformation that makes viewing early silent epics like The Indian Tomb particularly revealing for understanding cinema's evolutionary trajectory.

The Indian Tomb is based on Thea von Harbou's 1918 eponymous novel, the author who would later become Fritz Lang's wife and frequent collaborator. The film was released in two distinct parts—The Mission of the Yogi and The Tiger of Eschnapur (marketed as Tiger of Bengal in English-language versions)—with the first part premiering in Berlin on 22 October 1921 and the second following on 17 November of the same year. The narrative opens with a prologue set in the fictional Indian princely state of Eschanpur, where the ruler, Prince Ayan III, the Maharajah of Eschnapur (played by Conrad Veidt in one of his earliest major roles), has the yogi Ramigani ("Rami") (Bernhard Goetzke) exhumed from his grave and revived. The Prince demands that Rami perform various services in return for this resurrection, though he is ominously warned that by accepting this bargain, he will ultimately be deprived of all his desires.

The story continues with the yogi being dispatched to Europe where he recruits architect Herbert Rowland (Olaf Fønss), convincing him to immediately travel to India to construct an elaborate Taj Mahal-style mausoleum for the Prince's supposedly deceased wife. Rowland departs without explanation, leaving his fiancée Irene Amundsen (Mia May, Joe May's wife) bewildered by his sudden disappearance. Irene consequently tracks him down and journeys to India herself. Upon arrival, Rowland discovers the Prince is not a widower as he had been led to believe, and that Princess Savitri (Erna Morena) is very much alive. Consumed by jealousy over his wife's adulterous affair with English official MacAllan (Paul Richter), the Prince plans to capture MacAllan and feed him to his pet tigers. Meanwhile, both Herbert and Irene become guests in the Prince's palace, but before they can reunite, they must attempt to escape with the assistance of Savitri's loyal maidservant Mirrjha (Lya de Putti).

The epic scope of The Indian Tomb, with its two parts totalling approximately three and a half hours of runtime, should not be particularly surprising given the cinematic landscape of the time. Fritz Lang had recently completed the similarly ambitious film serial The Spiders, demonstrating that lengthy, multi-part productions were becoming increasingly common in Weimar cinema. Notably, Lang had originally intended to direct The Indian Tomb himself, but producer Joe May insisted on taking the director's chair—a decision that also saw May cast his wife Mia in the role of Irene, a move that reportedly disappointed Lang.

Despite Joe May being a less prominent figure in film history than his fellow Austrian Fritz Lang, The Indian Tomb looks remarkably impressive by silent cinema standards of the era. May reportedly invested an enormous budget—approximately 25 million Reichsmarks—and this financial commitment is readily apparent on screen. The film successfully transports viewers to exotic Indian locales through inventive production design, elaborate sets, and botanical gardens cleverly standing in for jungle environments. Even more impressively, May incorporated actual exotic animals including tigers, elephants, and crocodiles, lending an authentic sense of danger and spectacle that would have been breathtaking for contemporary audiences. With its potent combination of high melodrama, exoticism, and Oriental mysticism, The Indian Tomb delivered precisely the sort of escapist entertainment that German audiences craved during the economically and politically turbulent post-WWI period, offering temporary respite from the harsh realities of the Weimar Republic.

Unfortunately, May's direction lacks consistent inspiration throughout the film's considerable runtime. The cinematography is predominantly static, with minimal use of dynamic camera movements or innovative special effects that could have elevated the material. Particularly problematic are the repetitive flashback sequences that often feel like padding designed merely to extend the running time rather than advance the narrative meaningfully. These structural weaknesses become increasingly apparent during the film's more protracted sequences, testing the patience of even the most dedicated silent film enthusiast.

On the positive side, the acting performances are generally superb, particularly Conrad Veidt's portrayal of the semi-tragic villain Prince Ayan III, which showcases the emotional depth and physical expressiveness that would later make him an international star. Bernhard Goetzke delivers an effectively sinister yet nuanced performance as the yogi Ramigani, his distinctive features and deliberate movements perfectly embodying the mystical character. Olaf Fønss, the leading star of Danish silent cinema, provides a serviceable performance as the architect Rowland, though his character lacks the complexity of the more villainous roles. Mia May, while not the most visually striking actress in the production, brings a certain grounded realism to her role as Irene. Hungarian actress Lya de Putti, who would later build a "vampish" reputation in 1920s cinema, provides the film with a modest dose of eroticism, though this is achieved primarily through skimpy costumes rather than any particularly vampish characterisation, as her role as Mirrjha remains distinctly subservient.

What ultimately elevates The Indian Tomb beyond its technical limitations is the strength of Lang and von Harbou's screenplay, which manages to transcend some of the more excessive melodrama and Orientalist tropes that might raise contemporary eyebrows. The narrative avoids being merely exploitative through its psychological complexity and moral ambiguity. Most notably, the film's unconventional epilogue provides a surprising philosophical resolution that gives meaning to the preceding violence and tragedy by granting each main character precisely what they had desired—though not necessarily in the manner they had anticipated. This clever narrative device transforms what might have been merely sensationalist entertainment into something approaching mythic storytelling.

Following its initial release, The Indian Tomb was neither a critical nor commercial success and remained relatively obscure until recent restoration efforts. However, the story's enduring appeal is evidenced by its subsequent adaptations. In 1938, Richard Eichberg directed a sound remake released as a two-part film starring Philip Dorn and La Jana. Then, in 1959, Fritz Lang finally realised his long-held ambition to adapt the material himself, creating what has become the best-known version—a colour production again divided into two parts (The Tiger of Eschnapur and The Indian Tomb) starring Debra Paget and Paul Hubschmid.

Viewed today, Joe May's The Indian Tomb is as a fascinating artifact of Weimar cinema's ambition and limitations. While flawed in execution, it represents an important transitional work that captures German filmmaking at a moment of tremendous creative possibility, just before the technological revolution of sound would irrevocably alter cinematic storytelling. Its lavish production values, compelling performances, and mythic narrative structure make it worthy of reconsideration as more than merely a cinematic curiosity, but as a significant contribution to the silent era's rich legacy—a legacy that would soon be overshadowed but never entirely erased by the coming of sound.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

Blog in Croatian https://draxblog.com
Blog in English https://draxreview.wordpress.com/
InLeo blog https://inleo.io/@drax.leo

InLeo: https://inleo.io/signup?referral=drax.leo
Leodex: https://leodex.io/?ref=drax
Hiveonboard: https://hiveonboard.com?ref=drax
Rising Star game: https://www.risingstargame.com?referrer=drax
1Inch: https://1inch.exchange/#/r/0x83823d8CCB74F828148258BB4457642124b1328e

BTC donations: 1EWxiMiP6iiG9rger3NuUSd6HByaxQWafG
ETH donations: 0xB305F144323b99e6f8b1d66f5D7DE78B498C32A7
BCH donations: qpvxw0jax79lhmvlgcldkzpqanf03r9cjv8y6gtmk9