On a recent warm evening in August, I settled into the lush gardens of the Agung Rai Museum of Art in Ubud, in Bali’s hill country, for screenings of two remarkable films: “Island of Demons” from 1933 and “Headhunters of Borneo” from 1936. Directed by Friedrich Dalsheim with Victor Baron von Plessen and, for the first, Walter Spies, these works capture Bali and Borneo under Dutch colonial rule, a decade before Indonesia’s independence in 1945. As the films unfolded in ARMA’s serene setting, their vivid footage transported me to a bygone era. A talk before the Q&A session revealed the filmmakers’ tragic lives, weaving their personal stories into the broader tapestry of the films’ ethnographic significance. Together, these elements painted a poignant contrast between the past and today’s rapidly shifting landscapes.
These films are more than historical snapshots; they preserve cultures at a turning point. Shot in the 1930s with local non-actors and minimal Western influence, they showcase Bali and Borneo as they once were, untouched by modern tourism, haphazard development or deforestation. At ARMA, a hub for Balinese tradition, their clear visuals highlight how much has changed, from Bali’s crowded tourist sites to Borneo’s eroded Dayak heritage. Together with ARMA’s work, the films remind us how art can hold onto cultural roots amid rapid change.
These films are more than historical snapshots; they preserve cultures at a turning point.
In “Island of Demons”, filmed in 1931-32 in Bedulu village, a fictional love story intertwines with vivid slices of Balinese life. Wajan, the son of Nodonk, a village witch accused of unleashing a deadly curse that brings illness and death, falls in love with Sari, daughter of the merchant Lombos. The villagers, gripped by fear of spiritual imbalance, pressure Lombos to marry Sari to another suitor to appease the spirits. A tense scene unfolds in the village temple, where whispered debates among elders reveal their dread of the leyak, malevolent spirits believed to cause misfortune. A priest’s elaborate ritual, filled with offerings of rice and flowers, lifts the curse, allowing Wajan and Sari to unite.
The film brims with Balinese rituals, particularly trance dances like the Barong and Rangda, where dancers, possessed by spirits, embody the eternal struggle between good and evil. In one striking sequence, the Barong, a lion-like guardian, faces off against Rangda, the demonic witch, their movements fluid yet frenzied, accompanied by the rhythmic clanging of gamelan. The Kecak dance, choreographed by Spies and Wayan Limbak, features dozens of men chanting “cak-cak” in hypnotic unison, their swaying torsos forming a human stage for a solo dancer. Hans Scheib and Dalsheim’s black-and-white cinematography, with its sharp contrasts, frames Bali’s rice fields, carved temples, and sacred ceremonies, pulling viewers into a pre-modern world. Balinese cosmology, blending animism with Hindu-Buddhist beliefs, shapes the narrative, with rituals balancing human and spiritual realms. Nodonk’s role as a witch reflects deep-seated fears of leyak, spirits tied to chaos and illness.
“Headhunters of Borneo”, filmed in 1936 along the Kayan River, feels like stepping into another untouched world. This film centers on Dayak and Punan communities, following a slave girl named Lani and a chief’s son, Kajan, childhood friends whose love is tested by tribal rivalries. A blood brotherhood pact between their villages complicates matters, as Kajan is promised to the daughter of a rival chief to seal the alliance. A gripping scene shows Kajan and Lani meeting secretly by the river, their whispered promises overshadowed by the looming pact. The tension peaks during a tattooing ritual, where elders mark warriors with intricate patterns, symbolizing loyalty to the tribe over personal desires. The story, drawn from a Dayak saga, resolves through a council meeting where reconciliation triumphs. Richard Angst’s cinematography captures the longhouses’ communal sprawl, river fishing with woven nets, and trance-like dances where Dayak shamans, swaying to drumbeats, commune with ancestors to guide the tribe. One vivid dance sequence shows performers in feathered headdresses, their movements sharp and deliberate, invoking spirits to bless a harvest. Both films skip voiceovers or non-local actors, letting local voices shine.
These colonial-era films document rather than idealize.
What makes these films resonate is their authenticity. In “Island of Demons”, Balinese villagers, guided by Spies’s deep cultural knowledge, perform daily tasks—offering flowers at altars, weaving palm leaves—and a scripted romance with natural ease, their joy, fear, and devotion writ large on screen. In “Headhunters”, Dayak and Punan locals, shaped by community input, bring rituals and stories to life with the same sincerity, whether fishing or dancing in a trance. This careful collaboration avoids the forced exoticism of other ethnographic films, keeping the cultures’ essence pure.
Some might argue these colonial-era films risked romanticizing their subjects. Yet their approach, working closely with locals and avoiding heavy narration, counters that concern. They document rather than idealize, offering a clear view of what’s been lost to Bali’s tourist surge or Borneo’s environmental challenges, making their preservation all the more vital.
The talk before the Q&A brought the filmmakers’ stories to life. Walter Spies, born in 1895 in Moscow to a German family, settled in Ubud in 1927. A painter and musician, he immersed himself in Balinese art, collaborating with artists like I Gusti Nyoman Lempad. His ARMA paintings, blending European impressionism with Balinese motifs, echo his dreamlike quality. His Kecak choreography, with its chanting chorus, shaped the film’s standout scenes. Tragically, Spies was interned by the Dutch during World War II and died in 1942 when a prisoner ship was bombed. Dalsheim, being Jewish, was barred from German cinema after “Island of Demons”; he took his life in 1936, shortly after the premiere of “Headhunters” premiere. The Deutsche Kinemathek’s restorations now honor his work.
These films feel like a bridge to a lost Indonesia.
ARMA, opened in 1996 by Agung Rai, a Balinese merchant who connected local art to global buyers, feels like a living tribute to Bali’s spirit. Its open pavilions, adorned with intricate stone reliefs depicting gods and mythical creatures, sit among fragrant frangipani and lotus ponds, blending art with nature. The collection, from Kamasan paintings on tree bark to 1930s Batuan works, vibrant textiles, detailed wood carvings, and Spies’s canvases, pulses with Bali’s spirit. A recent exhibit I visited mourned Bali’s overdevelopment, with paintings and installations showing crowded landscapes, concrete overtaking rice fields, and rituals staged for tourists—a far cry from the films’ unspoiled Bali. ARMA’s workshops, gamelan classes, and dance performances nurture young artists, keeping traditions alive.
Bali today strains under tourism, with sacred temples packed and rituals performed for visitors’ cameras. In Borneo, Dayak communities in Kalimantan face deforestation, mining, and urban migration, weakening practices like rice farming and spiritual ceremonies. Local efforts, like NGOs and cultural festivals, strive to preserve Dayak languages, dances, and crafts, but the unspoiled and isolated world of “Headhunters” is slipping away.
As I watched these films in ARMA’s gardens, they felt like a bridge to a lost Indonesia. Spies’ artistry, Dalsheim’s vision, and ARMA’s work subtly remind us that art can preserve what time and change threaten to transform beyond recognition.
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