Film Review: The Tiger of Eschnapur (Der Tiger von Eschnapur, 1959)

Fritz Lang’s twilight years in cinema presented a fascinating, almost cyclical, coda to a career that began amidst the fevered creativity of Weimar Germany. His final film, The Thousand Eyes of Dr. Mabuse (1960), served as a sequel to his own 1922 silent classic Dr. Mabuse, the Gambler, revisiting the spectre of manipulative power in a modern context. Yet, preceding this swansong lay his penultimate project: the ambitious, two-part Indian Epic, comprising The Tiger of Eschnapur (1959) and The Indian Tomb (1959). This endeavour represented a profound act of cinematic restitution for Lang. Originally conceived as a screenwriter for the 1921 silent The Indian Tomb, the directorial reins were wrested from him by producer Joe May. A sound remake under the Nazi regime in 1938, directed by Richard Eichberg, further complicated the legacy. Returning to Germany after over a decade in Hollywood exile, Lang seized the opportunity to reclaim and reimagine this exotic saga, now rendered in vibrant colour while retaining the two-part structure of the 1938 version. The Tiger of Eschnapur, therefore, stands not merely as an adventure film, but as a deeply personal attempt by a master filmmaker to finally realise a vision long deferred, viewed through the lens of his own storied past.

The narrative, adapted from the 1918 novel by Lang’s former wife and indispensable early collaborator, Thea von Harbou, plunges us into the opulent, treacherous world of the fictional princely state of Eschnapur. European architect Harald Berger (Paul Hubschmid) arrives to build hospitals for the recently widowed Prince Chandra (Walter Reyer). En route, he encounters the mesmerising temple dancer Seetha (Debra Paget), summoned by Chandra after spotting her in Benares. Berger’s chivalrous intervention against a man-eating tiger during their journey ignites an instant, consuming passion. This sets the stage for inevitable conflict within the palace walls. Chandra, smitten and intending to make Seetha his new maharani, faces vehement opposition from his scheming former brother-in-law Padhu (Jochen Brockmann) and, more dangerously, his power-hungry brother Prince Ramigani (René Deltgen), who sees the dancer’s presence as the perfect catalyst for a coup. The Prince’s fury upon discovering Seetha’s affair with Berger leads to the film’s most iconic sequence: Berger is thrown into a tiger’s den armed only with a spear. His improbable survival and subsequent escape with Seetha through secret passages, followed by their desperate flight across the desert and capture in a ferocious sandstorm, provide the breathless, unresolved climax that defines this first chapter.

Lang’s ambition was palpable. He sought to recapture the sense of exotic wonder that might have greeted the original silent serial, now amplified by colour and the relative authenticity of location shooting in Udaipur (whose palaces would later grace Octopussy). While significant portions were indeed filmed on location in India, lending genuine texture to the landscapes and some exteriors, the grand interiors – the labyrinthine palace, the sacred temple – were meticulously recreated on Berlin soundstages, a blend reflecting both logistical constraints and Lang’s enduring affinity for controlled studio artifice. His direction strives for a potent fusion of action, adventure, and heightened melodrama, attempting to evoke the visceral thrill of his own 1920s epics. In this, he arguably surpasses Richard Eichberg’s competent but stylistically muted 1938 Nazi-era remake. Lang injects moments of genuine tension, particularly in the tiger den sequence and the desert chase, showcasing his mastery of suspense. However, the film’s pacing often falters; key emotional beats feel rushed, and the sheer scale of the narrative sometimes overwhelms the execution, resulting in sequences that lack the profound impact Lang clearly intended. The much-anticipated climax, the sandstorm engulfing the fleeing lovers, while visually striking, ultimately feels narratively abrupt and emotionally underwhelming compared to the more theatrically satisfying conclusion of the 1938 Tiger.

Further diminishing the experience is Michel Michelet’s disappointingly generic and unmemorable musical score, failing to provide the thematic depth or exotic grandeur the spectacle demands. An even more jarring element is the inclusion of an Irish folk song performed by Seetha (Paget), a clumsy narrative device ostensibly explaining her racially ambiguous features – a feature that itself points to the film’s most glaring anachronism for modern sensibilities: the casting of white actors, including Paget and Luciana Paluzzi (barely recognisable as the doomed servant Baharani, a far cry from her later Thunderball prowess), under heavy brownface makeup. While contextualised within the filmmaking norms of 1959 West Germany, this practice is problematic for standards of today’s „political correctness”, undermining the film’s attempts at authenticity and highlighting a cultural insensitivity that distances contemporary audiences.

Yet, within this flawed framework, one element shines with undeniable brilliance: Debra Paget’s performance as Seetha. Paget transcends the limitations of the script and the era’s casting practices. Her portrayal is masterful, radiating a captivating blend of vulnerability, strength, and ethereal grace. Her dance sequences, inspired by authentic South Asian traditions (though inevitably filtered through a 1950s Hollywood lens and rendered in costumes that sparked significant censorship in the US), are the film’s undeniable highlight. They possess a genuine artistry and physicality that commands the screen, making Seetha far more than a passive damsel. Paget proves a more compelling and memorable presence than La Jana in the 1938 version, embodying the film’s soul and its most potent connection to the intended sense of wonder.

Ultimately, The Tiger of Eschnapur remains a curiously unsatisfying experience, particularly for those anticipating a late-career masterpiece worthy of Lang’s towering reputation. While Lang’s direction exhibits flashes of his old mastery and the production values are generally high, the film is hampered by narrative inconsistencies, a weak score, problematic casting, and, crucially, an ending that fails to deliver the cathartic payoff the preceding drama seems to promise. It is less a triumphant return to form and more a poignant, albeit imperfect, act of closure – a veteran auteur meticulously rebuilding a bridge to his past, only to find the path across it partially obscured by the sands of time and compromised by the limitations of its moment. It is a film fascinating for its context and ambition, elevated significantly by Paget’s luminous performance, yet it struggles to fully transcend its status as a well-crafted, deeply personal, but ultimately somewhat disappointing footnote in the legacy of one of cinema’s true titans.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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