Film Review: The Indian Tomb (Das indische grabmal, 1959)

The Indian Tomb, the second instalment of Fritz Lang's so-called Indian Epic, begins with an interesting narrative device to summarise the events of the first part, The Tiger of Eschnapur. Through a combination of narration, quick flashbacks, and even some repetition of the concluding scenes, Lang efficiently reintroduces Dr. Walter Rhode (played by Claus Holm), the architect and protagonist's colleague, alongside his wife Irene (Sabine Bethmann), who is also the protagonist's sister. Their arrival in the Indian princely state of Eschnapur late in the first film serves as a crucial narrative bridge, ensuring viewers are oriented before the story continues its dramatic trajectory.

The plot resumes immediately after the cliffhanger ending of the first film, during which protagonist Harald Berger (Paul Hubschmid) and his lover Seetha (Debra Paget), a temple dancing girl, were caught in a sandstorm while attempting to flee Eschnapur from the wrath of Prince Chandra (Walther Reyer), who was obsessively infatuated with Seetha. Rescued by a caravan and sheltered in a village, the couple is ultimately betrayed and captured by men led by Chandra's brother, Prince Ramigani (René Deltgen), who seeks to exploit the situation for his own political ambitions. Ramigani deceitfully informs Chandra that Harald is dead while using his imprisonment as leverage to force Seetha into agreeing to marry Chandra in order to save Harald's life. His broader scheme involves engineering Chandra's alienation from powerful priests, nobles, and his former brother-in-law Prince Padhu (Jochen Brockmann), thereby facilitating a palace coup. Meanwhile, Rhode and Irene become aware of Harald's imprisonment within the palace and use their cover as construction consultants to seek him out and attempt his rescue.

This 1959 version represents Fritz Lang's determined attempt to realise his artistic vision for The Indian Tomb, a project he had first conceived forty years earlier. Lang had originally co-written the screenplay with his then-wife Thea von Harbou, basing it on her 1918 novel, but was denied the director's chair for the 1921 silent adaptation, which was instead directed by Joe May. A 1938 sound remake directed by Richard Eichberg was produced in Nazi Germany, with both Eichberg and von Harbou acknowledged in the credits of Lang's 1959 version. Produced in West Germany by Artur Brauner, Lang's iteration distinguished itself not only through the addition of colour but, more significantly, by finally aligning with the director's original artistic intentions.

Yet, despite these technical improvements, it is unlikely that modern audiences will be particularly awed or readily recognise the hand of one of cinema's most influential auteurs. While there is evident skill behind the camera, the sense of exoticism and wonder that might have captivated audiences of the 1921 and 1938 versions has largely evaporated. The Indian Tomb, with its restrictive 1.37:1 screen format, appears strangely television-like when compared to the widescreen formats like Cinemascope that dominated Hollywood's escapist cinema during this period. This technical limitation contributes to a viewing experience that feels curiously confined, especially considering the epic subject matter.

Furthermore, The Indian Tomb appears less visually impressive than its predecessor, primarily because much of the action takes place within the confines of Chandra's palace rather than showcasing authentic Indian locations. While the sets designed by Helmut Nentwig and Willy Schatz at Spandau Studios in West Berlin are impressive, the labyrinthine palace interiors eventually become confusing, particularly during the spectacular yet disorienting finale when Ramigani's coup is violently defeated. This interior focus represents a missed opportunity to capitalise on Lang's rare permission to film at locations normally barred to Western crews, including sites later featured in James Bond's Octopussy.

Nevertheless, Lang delivers several compelling sequences. The film features competent swordplay, impressive action scenes, and hand-to-hand combat that, thanks to the colour cinematography and depiction of blood, appears graphically violent by the standards of its time. A particularly striking moment occurs near the film's conclusion when Prince Chandra is flogged by rebels; Walther Reyer's restrained performance in this scene lends it an unexpected pathos that borders on unintentional parody. Additionally, scenes featuring incarcerated lepers threatening the protagonists create genuinely unsettling moments that prefigure the zombie genre.

The film's most memorable sequence, however, undoubtedly belongs to Debra Paget, who performs a ritual dance almost entirely nude in an attempt to appease the god Shiwa and avoid being bitten by a giant cobra. While the special effects involving the reptile appear unconvincing to modern eyes, the scene oozes eroticism and represents arguably the most legendary moment in Paget's career. This sequence, described as "the erotic highlight of the decade", has cemented its place in cinema history, despite the film's otherwise dated elements.

Despite occasional descents into exploitation territory, a somewhat rushed conclusion, and Lang clearly not being in his prime, The Indian Tomb remains a solid piece of escapist cinema. Lang makes a genuine effort to reconcile or correct elements from the previous two adaptations. Most notably, he treats Hindu beliefs with greater seriousness—Seetha is depicted as a true believer, and both her and Harald's fates are shown to depend on whether Shiwa is properly respected. Near the film's conclusion, Chandra experiences genuine remorse, recognises the errors of his ways, relinquishes his claim to Seetha and his princely status, and chooses to spend his remaining days as a penitent. Harald and Seetha are granted the happy ending denied to the lovers in previous versions.

Upon its release, The Indian Tomb, like The Tiger of Eschnapur, received mixed critical reception, with many reviewers deeming it too commercial and unworthy of a cinematic master. The German newspaper Die Welt famously wrote: "Here lies Fritz Lang, once creator of important films like Metropolis and M. The 'Indian tomb' is his own". Its fate was even worse in the United States, where the two films were edited into a single 99-minute version titled Journey to the Lost City, with the "sauciest" scenes removed to comply with the still-enforced MPAA Production Code. This heavily truncated version, which earned a domestic gross of $500,000, further diminished Lang's artistic vision.

In retrospect, Lang's Indian Epic represents a fascinating, if flawed, late-career effort from a director whose earlier silent masterpieces had reshaped cinema. While the film's brownface casting and orientalist perspective are undeniably problematic by contemporary standards, its lush visuals, intricate plotting, and moments of genuine cinematic flair ensure it remains more than merely a curiosity. As contemporary critics have recognised, these films form "a cinematic link between classic silent serials and the modern action thrills of Indiana Jones and The Mummy. Though not Lang's finest work, The Indian Tomb remains a testament to a master filmmaker's determination to realise a decades-old vision, flaws and all.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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