Paradise Lost: ‘The Pagan’ and the Shadowy Birth of Exotic Horror Tropes

In the sultry shadows of 1929’s silent screens, a tale of tropical temptation revealed the primal fears that would haunt horror’s exotic underbelly for decades.

As cinema’s golden age dawned, few films captured the intoxicating blend of desire and dread quite like The Pagan (1929). Directed by W.S. Van Dyke, this South Seas romance starring Ramon Novarro and Renee Adoree thrust audiences into a world of lush lagoons and forbidden passions, where the line between paradise and peril blurred into something profoundly unsettling. What begins as an escapist fantasy soon unmasks the era’s anxieties about race, civilisation, and the ‘savage’ other, laying groundwork for the exotic horrors that would later populate screens from voodoo rituals to cannibal cults.

  • How The Pagan‘s portrayal of Polynesian life exoticised and demonised the primitive, prefiguring horror’s monstrous natives.
  • The film’s use of brownface and white saviour narratives as harbingers of colonial dread in genre cinema.
  • Its enduring influence on horror tropes, from King Kong to modern found-footage island terrors.

The Allure of the Untamed South Seas

At its core, The Pagan unfolds on a fictionalised Tahitian island, where plantation heir Terence ‘Terry’ O’Day (Ramon Novarro) reigns over a world of copra fields and native labourers. The plot ignites when Terry rescues the alluring dancer Tito (Renee Adoree, in heavy brownface makeup) from a lecherous trader, sparking a romance that defies social taboos. As their bond deepens amid volcanic landscapes and tribal ceremonies, external forces—embodied by the scheming plantation manager—threaten to tear them apart, culminating in tragedy born of jealousy and cultural clash.

Van Dyke’s direction, shot largely on location in the South Seas following his success with White Shadows in the South Seas (1928), immerses viewers in an ethnographic fantasy. The narrative draws from real missionary accounts and travelogues of the era, romanticising Polynesia as a pre-lapsarian Eden corrupted by Western greed. Yet this idyll harbours horror elements: the islanders’ rhythmic dances evoke primal rituals, their devotion to ancient gods hints at pagan idolatry, and the lurking volcano symbolises nature’s vengeful fury. These motifs prefigure horror’s fascination with exotic lands as sites of regression, where civilised men confront their baser instincts.

Key scenes amplify this tension. In one, Tito performs a hypnotic hula under moonlight, her body painted and adorned with leis, drawing Terry into a trance-like state that borders on possession. The camera lingers on her undulating form, intercut with close-ups of Terry’s rapt face, creating a visual symphony of erotic hypnosis. Such sequences recall the era’s ‘hula craze’, but Van Dyke infuses them with unease, foreshadowing horror’s use of dance as a gateway to the uncanny, seen later in films like The Ghost Breakers (1940) with its voodoo ceremonies.

The film’s climax escalates this dread when Tito, spurned and desperate, invokes the volcano goddess Pele in a ritualistic plea. Flames erupt, the ground trembles, and destruction engulfs the lovers—a cataclysmic payoff that transforms romance into apocalypse. This fusion of natural disaster and supernatural retribution mirrors horror’s disaster-porn precursors, blending spectacle with moral judgement on interracial desire.

Primitivism’s Double Edge: Civilisation Versus the Savage

The Pagan embodies the primitivist ideology rampant in 1920s culture, where industrial fatigue drove fantasies of ‘noble savages’ untainted by modernity. Terry, a half-Irish, half-native heir, straddles worlds: educated in San Francisco yet attuned to island rhythms. His arc critiques yet indulges the white saviour trope, positioning him as mediator between ‘backward’ natives and encroaching colonisers. This duality sows seeds of horror, as the primitive allure proves corrosive, eroding Terry’s restraint and inviting chaos.

Contrast this with horror’s evolution: early exotic films like The Pagan softened savagery into allure, but by the 1930s, it hardened into monstrosity. King Kong (1933) escalates the islander trope into skull-faced brutes worshipping a giant ape, echoing The Pagan‘s volcano cult but amplifying threat. Similarly, Universal’s monster cycle imported exotic dread—Imhotep in The Mummy (1932) as a cursed Egyptian resurrecting via ancient rites, his ‘primitive’ magic clashing with British rationalism.

In The Pagan, representation falters through Adoree’s portrayal of Tito. The French-American actress, slathered in makeup to approximate Polynesian features, embodies Hollywood’s yellowface/brownface epidemic. Her performance, though earnest, caricatures native sensuality: wide eyes, exaggerated gestures, and pidgin English intertitles reduce Tito to a fetishised object. This dehumanisation prefigures horror’s exotic villains, from I Walked with a Zombie (1943)’s voodoo priestess to The Serpent and the Rainbow (1988)’s drugged zombies, where non-Western bodies become vessels for terror.

Yet the film offers nuance. Native extras, many actual Tahitians, infuse authenticity; their communal scenes—feasts, chants—evoke ethnographic films like Robert Flaherty’s Moana (1926). Van Dyke’s location shooting captured genuine customs, lending credibility that later horror often faked with stock footage. Still, the narrative’s tragic end reinforces primitivism’s peril: interracial love dooms all, affirming civilisation’s supremacy.

Brownface and the Gaze: Visual Economies of Fear

Cinematography by Clyde De Vinna masterfully exploits tropical mise-en-scène. High-contrast lighting bathes lagoons in silvery glows, while torchlit nights cast elongated shadows, turning palms into clawing fingers. Composition favours low angles on dancers, dwarfing white characters and subliminally asserting native power—a technique horror would weaponise in Apocalypto (2006)’s Mayan chases.

Special effects, rudimentary by today’s standards, shine in the volcano sequence. Miniatures and matte paintings simulate eruption, with practical pyrotechnics adding peril. Intertitles heighten drama: “The wrath of Pele!” proclaims as lava flows, blending Christian hellfire with Polynesian myth. These elements craft a proto-horror atmosphere, where exotic spectacle veils ideological horror.

Gender dynamics intensify the unease. Tito’s agency—initiating seduction, defying her betrothed—subverts damsel tropes, yet her brownface confines her to erotic peril. Terry’s virility, bare-chested and bronzed, aligns with Novarro’s Latin lover persona, but his descent into jealousy evokes the beast within, a staple of werewolf lore adapted to colonial contexts.

Production lore adds layers: shot amid real typhoons, the film faced mutinies from native crew mistreated by MGM. Censorship boards trimmed ‘salacious’ dances, reflecting era’s moral panic over miscegenation—a fear horror would exploit in Island of Lost Souls (1932)’s hybrid beasts.

Echoes in the Canon: Legacy of Exotic Dread

The Pagan‘s influence ripples through horror. Its island paradise corrupted by outsiders inspired The Most Dangerous Game (1932), transmuting romance to hunt. Post-war, Hammer’s The Wicker Man (1973) pagan revival nods to its rituals, while 1980s slasher-islands like Friday the 13th Part VII recycle isolated dread.

Modern critiques highlight its flaws: scholars note how it perpetuates ‘coconut shell’ stereotypes, yet praise its lush visuals as anti-studio escapism. Remakes eluded it, but tropes endure in Annihilation (2018)’s mutating ecosystems, where exotic biology births body horror.

Class politics simmer beneath: Terry’s wealth shields him initially, but native solidarity triumphs briefly, hinting at anti-imperial undercurrents Van Dyke explored in White Shadows. Horror amplifies this into revolt, as in The People That Time Forgot (1977)’s savage tribes.

Sound design, via live orchestral cues, amplified tension; imagined diegetic drums pulse like heartbeats, a tactic echoed in Jaws (1975)’s motifs but rooted here in exotic percussion.

Director in the Spotlight

Woodbridge Strong Van Dyke II, known professionally as W.S. Van Dyke, was born on March 21, 1889, in San Diego, California, to a theatrical family. His mother, Laura Winston, a prominent actress, immersed him in vaudeville from childhood, fostering his flair for spectacle. By age 10, he acted in stock companies, transitioning to film in 1915 as an extra for D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation. Van Dyke’s directorial debut came in 1917 with Slander, but stardom beckoned with exotic adventures.

MGM’s ‘One Take Woody’ moniker stemmed from his rapid style, honed directing silent two-reelers. White Shadows in the South Seas (1928), co-directed with Robert Flaherty, won an Oscar for its South Seas odyssey, launching his Polynesian phase. The Pagan (1929) followed, blending romance with location authenticity. His versatility shone in Trader Horn (1931), an African epic marred by animal cruelty scandals, and Tarzan, the Ape Man (1932), introducing Johnny Weissmuller.

The 1930s brought screwball triumphs: The Thin Man (1934) spawned a hit series with William Powell and Myrna Loy, blending mystery and marital banter. San Francisco (1936) earned nods for its quake climax, while Marie Antoinette (1938) showcased lavish Norma Shearer. Van Dyke influenced screwball’s pace, drawing from theatre roots.

Health declined amid heavy drinking; his final films, I Love You Again (1940) and Dr. Kildare’s Wedding Day (1941 unfinished), reflected fatigue. He died by suicide on February 5, 1943, at 53, leaving 80+ credits. Influences included Griffith’s epic scale and Flaherty’s documentary realism; his legacy endures in fast-paced genre hybrids.

Filmography highlights: White Shadows in the South Seas (1928, Oscar-winning South Seas drama); The Pagan (1929, tropical romance); Trader Horn (1931, jungle adventure); Tarzan, the Ape Man (1932, iconic swinger origin); The Thin Man (1934, detective comedy series starter); Naughty Marietta (1935, operetta with Jeanette MacDonald); San Francisco (1936, disaster epic); Rosalie (1937, musical); Marie Antoinette (1938, historical spectacle); It’s a Wonderful World (1939, screwball mystery); I Love You Again (1940, Powell-Loy comedy).

Actor in the Spotlight

Ramon Novarro, born Ramón Gil Samaniego on February 6, 1899, in Durango, Mexico, fled revolution with his family to Los Angeles in 1913. Piano lessons and church choir honed his baritone; silent films beckoned via bit parts. Director Rex Ingram cast him as Rupert in The Prisoner of Zenda (1922), but Scaramouche (1923) exploded his fame as the swashbuckling hero.

MGM’s ‘Latin lover’ after Valentino, Novarro headlined Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ (1925), his chariot race iconic. The Pagan (1929) showcased his physique in exotic climes. Talkies challenged his accent, yet Call of the Flesh (1930) and Mata Hari (1931) with Greta Garbo thrived. Typecasting persisted; The Barbarian (1933) recycled sheikh roles.

Freelancing post-MGM, he starred in The Night Is Young (1935) and British The Sheik Steps Out (1937). Television and stage followed; bisexuality led private struggles amid Hays Code repression. Wealth from real estate cushioned semi-retirement. Tragically, robbed and murdered in his Hollywood Hills home on October 31, 1968, at 69, by hustlers—his death spotlighted gay vulnerability.

Awards eluded him, but stardom endures. Influences: Valentino’s passion, Ingram’s mentorship. Filmography: Mr. Barnes of New York (1922, early lead); Scaramouche (1923, swashbuckler); Ben-Hur (1925, biblical epic); The Student Prince (1927, operetta); The Pagan (1929, South Seas romance); Call of the Flesh (1930, musical drama); Mata Hari (1931, spy thriller); Huddle (1932, football romance); The Barbarian (1933, desert adventure); The Cat and the Fiddle (1934, musical); The Night Is Young (1935, Viennese romance); Contra la Corriente (1936, Spanish-language); We Were Strangers (1949, revolution drama); The Big Steal (1949, noir); Crisis (1950, thriller).

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