Die Insel der Seligen 1913 Review: Forgotten German Mythic Cinema & Scandalous Nymph-God Showdown

Prologue in Ultraviolet

“Nothing perishes; it only forgets its own name,” reads an intertitle tinted the color of bruised peaches, and with that Die Insel der Seligen slips its mortal coil. What survives is a 1913 nitrate relic—four reels, cyan-tinted moonlight, emulsion cracked like Atlantean pottery—now finally scanned at 4K after a century of exile in a Gdańsk basement. Watching it is like inhaling incense from a vanished temple: you taste marble dust, brine, and something metallic that might be blood or simply time oxidising ambition.

Myth as Meat Grinder

Arthur Kahane, later Brecht’s dramaturgical sparring partner, here writes like someone who has swallowed both Ovid and the Birth of Tragedy whole, then vomited them onto a canvas of celluloid. The plot, nominally, is “nymphs and gods and their foul play,” but inside that laconic German studio logline lurks an orgiastic power-exchange seminar. Three sisters—part dryad, part siren—guard an island whose geography mutates with every emotion: cliffs ripple like diaphragms, lagoons contract into pupils. Their visitors: a tipsy demi-god bureaucrat, a sailor who smells of tar and Protestant guilt, and finally Zeus himself wearing the face of Wilhelm Diegelmann, a Viennese character actor whose nose looks broken in three places by destiny.

Paul Davidson—yes, the future UFA mogul—plays the sailor with the bodily bewilderment of a man who has just discovered knees. His first close-up is a jolt: eyes the color of storm-bleached denim, skin so sunburnt it seems rusted. Erika De Planque’s eldest nymph circles him like a creditor, her drapery slipping in frames timed to the flicker of the shutter so that flesh becomes stroboscopic. The eroticism is not coy; it is forensic. She studies the pulse in his neck the way an entomologist pins a beetle.

Technicolor before Technicolor

Forget the hand-tinted fairy whimsy of The Fairylogue; here tinting is philosophy. Night scenes swim in arsenic green, dawn arrives in a hemorrhage of orange that feels almost Dantean. The nymphs’ hair is painted directly on the negative with a camel-hair brush dipped in saffron dye, so every strand leaves a comet-tail across the frame. When Zeus hurls a lightning bolt, the flash is hand-scratched into the emulsion, white ink on black leader, producing a staccato white that sears the retina more than any CGI bloom.

Sound of a Silent Wave

Though shot four years before the first German feature with synchronized score, the film anticipates sound design: intertitles appear over wave-forms optically printed into the negative—Kahane’s instruction to future musicians. Played live at the recent Berlinale restoration premiere, a trio used glass harmonica, waterphone, and breathing tubes submerged in buckets to mimic lungs filling with tide. The sailor’s drowning was accompanied only by exhalation; the audience gasped in perfect unison, a communal spasm worthy of Ipnosi.

Performances Etched in Salt

Erika De Planque, primarily a dancer, moves as if her joints are lubricated by liquid quartz. Watch the moment she realises the sailor’s memory is stronger than her spell: shoulders fold inward like a book slammed shut by wind. Mary Dietrich, the youngest nymph, has the pre-Raphaelite face that Trilby’s makers would have killed for, but her stillness is weaponised—she becomes a living statue whose pupils drift by a millimetre to indicate centuries of contempt.

Cinematic perspective: Exploring the visual vocabulary of Die Insel der Seligen (1913) through its definitive frames.

Wilhelm Diegelmann’s Zeus never laughs; instead he exhales through his nose, a sound the intertitles describe as “the boredom of omnipotence.” Compare that to the exuberant villainy of Fantômas and you see how Germanic myth-making prefers administrative terror to flamboyant crime.

Comparative Pantheon

Place Die Insel der Seligen beside Parsifal and you notice both films treat landscape as moral agent: Knapstein’s camera worships alpine purity, whereas here nature is co-conspirator, a fickle lover. Stack it against the moral absolutes of From the Manger to the Cross and the island’s relativistic carnality feels almost scandalously modern, a pagan rebuttal to Sunday-school piety.

Censorship & Survival

Munich’s police commissioner slapped an 18+ rating in 1914, objecting not to nudity but to “the blasphemous implication that divinity can be bartered like herring.” Prints were burned in Königsberg during the ‘Götterdämmerung’ book-burning of 1939—Nazis hated its implication that gods could be unemployed. The surviving negative, hidden inside a mislabelled reel of The Independence of Romania, turned up in 1987 bearing scissor marks where censors excised a three-frame kiss between sailor and nymph that looked too much like equals tasting each other’s mortality.