Film Review: The Indian Tomb (Das indische grabmal, 1938)
Richard Eichberg’s 1938 cinematic rendition of The Indian Tomb, the second instalment adapting Thea von Harbou’s 1918 fantasy adventure novel, presents a fascinating historical footnote in narrative problem-solving. Confronted with the perennial challenge of audiences potentially missing the preceding chapter, The Tiger of Eschnapur, Eichberg employs a remarkably straightforward solution: a concise yet comprehensive plot recap delivered via opening title cards. This efficient, if narratively blunt, device bypasses the need for subtle exposition or character reintroduction, thrusting viewers directly into the continuation with the assumed knowledge imparted through text. It stands as a stark reminder of a pre-television, pre-streaming era where filmmakers operated under different assumptions about audience continuity, prioritising immediate immersion over sophisticated narrative weaving for the uninitiated.
The plot resumes with German architect Peter Fürbinger (Hans Stüwe), having accepted the commission from Maharaja Chandra of Eschnapur (Frits van Dongen), arriving in India alongside his perpetually flustered assistant Emil Sperling (Theo Lingen) and Emil’s wife Lotte (Gisella Schlüter). Simultaneously, Fürbinger’s fiancée, Irene Traven (Kitty Jantzen), voyages to Bombay aboard a luxury liner in the Maharaja’s company. Bombay introduces the central conflict: Irene, exploring the city’s nightlife, encounters the enigmatic dancer "Indira" (La Jana) at a nightclub, who is dramatically revealed as Sita, the Maharaja’s escaped wife, performing under the management of her lover, the resourceful Sascha Demidoff (Gustav Diessl). This fragile equilibrium shatters when Prince Ramigani (Alexander Golling), the Maharaja’s treacherous cousin, orchestrates Sita’s abduction, spiriting her away to Eschnapur to face execution for her defiance. Fürbinger, initially oblivious to this intrigue, finds himself drawn into the maelstrom when Demidoff, adopting the guise of a displaced engineer, secures a position on the construction project. Irene, granted privileged access by the Maharaja during her tour, pleads futilely for Sita’s life. Ramigani, however, harbours a more insidious plan; he transports Sita to a remote mountain fortress, intending to offer her to Sadhu (Olaf Bach), the formidable chieftain of mountain tribes, in exchange for manpower to fuel a rebellion against the Maharaja. This uprising is meticulously timed to coincide with a major religious festival, aiming to sabotage a crucial canal whose failure would flood the palace and cripple Chandra’s rule. Upon uncovering this conspiracy, Fürbinger, Sperling, and the desperate Demidoff form an uneasy alliance to thwart Ramigani’s scheme. Their intervention proves successful, though tragically, Sita sacrifices herself during the festival’s ritual dance, shielding the Maharaja from Sadhu’s fatal bullet. Ramigani perishes in the chaos, Sadhu is captured, and a grief-stricken Chandra commissions Fürbinger to construct a mausoleum for his beloved wife – the titular Indian Tomb.
Unlike its immediate predecessor, The Indian Tomb benefits significantly from Thea von Harbou’s direct involvement in the screenplay. This explains the stronger narrative fidelity to the core plot structure of the 1921 silent version, which she co-wrote with Fritz Lang. Yet, the 1938 adaptation consciously diverges, shedding much of the earlier film’s pervasive mysticism and darker psychological undercurrents. Eichberg and von Harbou pivot decisively towards unadulterated escapist spectacle. This shift is embodied by the lavish production, filmed on location in Udaipur (then part of the princely state of Mewar, now Rajasthan) with the generous patronage of Maharaja Bhupal Singh. His contribution was immense: granting access to the City Palace complex, providing elephants, hundreds of extras, and even troops for the brief but energetic battle sequences. Film buffs will readily recognise these opulent settings decades later as the backdrop for James Bond’s escapades in Octopussy (1983). The Maharaja’s crucial role was duly acknowledged within the film’s credits, a testament to the symbiotic relationship between colonial-era filmmaking and local princely power.
This commitment to spectacle extends beyond location. Theo Lingen’s seasoned comedic talents provide broad, almost slapstick relief as the hapless Emil Sperling, whose endearing interactions with a pet chimpanzee and an elephant offer moments of levity amidst the high drama. Action sequences, while generally functional rather than groundbreaking, feature one genuinely impressive sequence: Fürbinger’s desperate, acrobatic climb from a dungeon, showcasing commendable stunt work for the period. Yet, the film’s most indelible element remains the performance of La Jana as Sita. A colossal star of German theatre and film in the 1930s, renowned for her exotic dancing, La Jana imbues Sita with a potent blend of vulnerability and tragic grandeur. The pathos of her character’s melodramatic demise is profoundly amplified by the cruel knowledge that the actress herself succumbed to pneumonia just two years after the film’s premiere, her death tragically eclipsed by the engulfing storm of the Second World War.
Despite its visual splendour and moments of genuine excitement, The Indian Tomb falters under the weight of its own ambitions within the constraints of a standard 90-minute feature. The narrative, particularly in the final act, feels noticeably rushed, sacrificing character development and logical progression for the sake of concluding the adventure. Peter Fürbinger emerges as a particularly bland protagonist; Hans Stüwe struggles to project compelling charisma, and his purported romantic connection with Kitty Jantzen’s Irene lacks palpable chemistry. Consequently, Irene herself often functions as the de facto protagonist, her agency and concern for Sita driving much of the latter half’s momentum. A more intriguing, albeit historically fraught, dynamic exists between Jantzen’s Irene and Frits van Dongen’s Maharaja Chandra. Their subtle hints of mutual respect and potential attraction possess a quiet intensity, yet this very element likely constituted dangerous territory under the Nazi regime. The notion of a romanticised connection between a blonde Aryan woman and an Indian ruler – even one portrayed by a Dutch actor in conventional dark makeup – would almost certainly have drawn the ire of Joseph Goebbels and the Ministry of Propaganda, guardians of the regime’s rigid racial ideology.
This political tension arguably underpins the film’s complex legacy and Eichberg’s own trajectory. Despite the commercial success of both The Tiger of Eschnapur and The Indian Tomb, the director seemingly sensed the precariousness of his position. The subtle transgressions inherent in the narrative may have convinced him that official disfavour was imminent. Consequently, Eichberg departed Germany shortly before the outbreak of war in 1939. His subsequent attempt to establish himself in Hollywood proved unsuccessful, leading him to return to post-war West Germany, where he directed his final film, The Journey to Marrakech, in 1949. The film also existed within the industrial practices of its time, being simultaneously shot as a French-language version, Le Tombeau hindou, directed by Eichberg and starring Alice Field and Pola Illéry, catering to continental European markets.
The Indian Tomb thus remains a compelling artifact of Nazi-era German cinema – a film caught between the demands of popular escapism, the lingering influence of its literary source, and the suffocating political realities of its time. It delivers on spectacle and adventure, showcasing impressive location work and featuring a star-making tragic performance from La Jana, yet it is ultimately constrained by narrative shortcuts, uneven characterisation, and the unspoken anxieties of its creators operating under a regime that viewed such exotic fantasies with deep suspicion. Its significance is in the shadow it casts over the careers it touched and the cultural moment it imperfectly, yet vividly, encapsulates. The story’s enduring power, however, ensured its resurrection decades later in Fritz Lang’s own two-part 1959 adaptation, starring Debra Paget, proving the timeless allure of von Harbou’s Indian fantasy.
RATING: 5/10 (++)
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