100 Years of Solitude
The Indian Tomb (1921)
directed by Joe May
rating: 2 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Netflix
However ignorant or malicious the inhabitants of German directors' equatorial fantasies, the magic possessed by yogis of the Indian subcontinent is a real force presumed from the beginning to be taken at face value by German audiences. The rest is enormous sets and exotic tigers, though not all early silent epics are equal. With the exception of the penitents' cave (tortured men on beds of nails, buried to their necks in sand, hanging by their feet over searing open flames), May can't manage a sustained vision long enough to justify the subplots and side affairs that more often that not detour minor characters down half-hour dead ends, leaving us (well, me, anyway), stuck in a frank rut.
"What was he/she doing there in the first place?" was the question I kept asking the dog. Such inquiry inevitably turns inward, and as I racked my brains for the source of my stubborn persistence, morning passed irretrievably into afternoon. Even standard British bigot "MacAllan," the love of the Indian princess's heart, wanders lost through a palm tree-potted wilderness and promptly dies when fed to the tigers two hours down the line. The protagonists' willingness to be lulled into a superficial appreciation of courtly luxury was the one consistency, and a little-needed reminder that rich people will happily cross any distance to congratulate each other on their unearned prerogatives of entitlement. Any servant who looks to high society for protection from tyrants knows the terminal cobra bite is just a matter of time.
The evil maharajah, of course, was the only sympathetic character, and the only one worthy of the movie's name. "You shall build the tomb of a great love, that I squandered like a god or like a fool." Behind the "wall of the living dead," where lepers lurch sickeningly at any healthy passersby - surely one of the medium's first depictions of a zombie invasion - we find solace in shared rot.
directed by Joe May
rating: 2 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Netflix
However ignorant or malicious the inhabitants of German directors' equatorial fantasies, the magic possessed by yogis of the Indian subcontinent is a real force presumed from the beginning to be taken at face value by German audiences. The rest is enormous sets and exotic tigers, though not all early silent epics are equal. With the exception of the penitents' cave (tortured men on beds of nails, buried to their necks in sand, hanging by their feet over searing open flames), May can't manage a sustained vision long enough to justify the subplots and side affairs that more often that not detour minor characters down half-hour dead ends, leaving us (well, me, anyway), stuck in a frank rut.
"What was he/she doing there in the first place?" was the question I kept asking the dog. Such inquiry inevitably turns inward, and as I racked my brains for the source of my stubborn persistence, morning passed irretrievably into afternoon. Even standard British bigot "MacAllan," the love of the Indian princess's heart, wanders lost through a palm tree-potted wilderness and promptly dies when fed to the tigers two hours down the line. The protagonists' willingness to be lulled into a superficial appreciation of courtly luxury was the one consistency, and a little-needed reminder that rich people will happily cross any distance to congratulate each other on their unearned prerogatives of entitlement. Any servant who looks to high society for protection from tyrants knows the terminal cobra bite is just a matter of time.
The evil maharajah, of course, was the only sympathetic character, and the only one worthy of the movie's name. "You shall build the tomb of a great love, that I squandered like a god or like a fool." Behind the "wall of the living dead," where lepers lurch sickeningly at any healthy passersby - surely one of the medium's first depictions of a zombie invasion - we find solace in shared rot.
posted by NPK at 10:51 AM
<< Home