Leni Riefenstahl was a pariah. By the 1960s, the woman who had served as Hitler’s primary cinematic propagandist—the visionary behind Triumph of the Will—was effectively blacklisted from the film industry. She was desperate for a second act. She found it in the Nuba Mountains of Sudan. When her photography book The Last of the Nuba finally hit the shelves in 1973, it didn't just relaunch her career; it ignited a firestorm of aesthetic and ethical debate that hasn't really stopped since.
Honestly, the photos are stunning. There is no point in pretending otherwise. They capture the Kau, Nyaro, and Masakin Nuba people in ways that feel both intimate and impossibly distant. You’ve got these incredible images of wrestlers covered in white ash, young men with intricate cicatrization, and dancers who look like living sculptures. But beneath the surface of these glossy pages lies a massive problem that critics like Susan Sontag famously tore apart.
Is it art? Is it anthropological documentation? Or is it something much more uncomfortable?
What Most People Get Wrong About The Last of the Nuba
A lot of people think The Last of the Nuba was a simple documentary project. It wasn't. Riefenstahl wasn't just observing these tribes; she was curating a specific vision of "purity" that aligned dangerously well with her earlier work in Nazi Germany. She spent years living among the Nuba, specifically the Masakin, and later the more "remote" Southeast Nuba.
The misconception is that she was capturing a culture exactly as it was. In reality, she was highly selective. She looked for the "unspoiled." She wanted the athletes, the beautiful, and the strong. You won't find many photos of the sick, the elderly, or the mundane struggles of Sudanese life in that book.
The Sontag Critique
In 1975, the cultural critic Susan Sontag wrote a blistering essay titled "Fascinating Fascism." It’s basically the gold standard for understanding why The Last of the Nuba is so controversial. Sontag argued that Riefenstahl’s obsession with the Nuba was just a continuation of the "nazi aesthetic."
What does that mean? Basically, it’s the glorification of the physical body, the idealization of "primitive" strength, and the preoccupation with ritual and submission. Sontag pointed out that Riefenstahl’s move from filming blonde Aryans in Nuremberg to photographing ash-covered wrestlers in Sudan wasn't a change in philosophy—it was just a change in subject.
It’s a heavy realization. You look at these photos of the Nuba wrestling matches—men locked in combat, muscles taut—and it's hard not to see the echoes of the 1936 Berlin Olympics that Riefenstahl captured in Olympia. The framing is almost identical.
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The Reality of the Nuba Mountains
The Nuba are not a single monolith. They are a diverse group of over 50 different ethnic groups speaking dozens of languages. When Riefenstahl arrived, she was focusing on very specific communities.
The Nuba people have a history that is far more complex than a coffee table book suggests. They’ve survived centuries of slave raids, colonial pressures, and, more recently, decades of brutal civil war. By the time Riefenstahl was "discovering" them for a Western audience, the Nuba were already grappling with the encroachment of modern Sudanese politics and religion.
The ash they wore? It wasn't just for show. For the Nuba, wrestling was a deeply spiritual and social event. It was about prestige, but it was also about communal identity. Riefenstahl, however, tended to strip away the social context to focus on the "purity" of the form.
What Happened After the Book?
Success has a price. After The Last of the Nuba became a global bestseller, the Nuba Mountains saw an influx of tourists and other photographers. This is the classic "observer's paradox." By documenting what she called a "dying culture," Riefenstahl arguably accelerated the very changes she lamented.
Suddenly, the Nuba were aware of the camera. They were aware of their own "exoticism." Money started flowing in, and the traditional social structures—which were already under pressure from the Khartoum government—began to shift even faster.
Then came the wars.
The 1980s and 90s were devastating for the Nuba people. They were caught between the Sudanese government and the SPLA (Sudan People's Liberation Army). Forced displacement, famine, and systemic violence became the new reality. The "paradise" Riefenstahl photographed was effectively dismantled by geopolitics.
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The Ethics of the Lens
Is it okay to appreciate the beauty of these photos knowing who took them? That’s the question that keeps art historians up at night.
Riefenstahl was a genius of composition. Her use of low angles makes her subjects look heroic, almost god-like. But that same technique was used to make Hitler look like a messiah. When you see a Nuba man framed against a stark blue sky, looking powerful and "untamed," are you seeing the man, or are you seeing Riefenstahl’s fantasy of what a "noble savage" should look like?
George Rodger, a co-founder of Magnum Photos, had actually photographed the Nuba years before Riefenstahl. His photos were different. They felt more grounded, less... stage-managed. He eventually gave up combat photography because he felt he was becoming a "ghoul." Riefenstahl, on the other hand, never seemed to have those qualms. She leaned into the spectacle.
Nuance in the Narrative
We have to be careful not to completely erase the Nuba's agency here. Many Nuba people who met Riefenstahl remembered her fondly. To them, she was a wealthy eccentric who brought gifts and stayed for long periods. They weren't passive victims of her lens; they were participants in a transaction.
But the power dynamic was wildly skewed.
Riefenstahl could leave. She could fly back to Munich and sell her books for huge sums. The Nuba remained, facing a government in Khartoum that wanted to "Arabize" them and strip them of the very traditions Riefenstahl was fetishizing.
Why We Still Care Today
The reason The Last of the Nuba stays relevant isn't just because of the "canceled" artist behind it. It’s because it represents a pivotal moment in how the West consumes African cultures.
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It set a template for "ethno-photography" that still exists in National Geographic or on high-end travel Instagram accounts. It’s that desire to find something "authentic" and "untouched." But as we've learned, "untouched" usually just means "people we haven't bothered to understand on their own terms yet."
The Nuba Now
If you look at the Nuba Mountains today, you’ll find a resilient, politically active, and incredibly diverse population. They aren't the "frozen in time" figures from a 1973 book. They are doctors, soldiers, farmers, and activists. They use the internet. They fight for their rights in a complex modern state.
The tragedy of Riefenstahl’s work is that it made the Nuba famous for being "primitive" just as they were fighting to survive in the modern world.
Insights for the Curious
If you’re looking at The Last of the Nuba for the first time, or revisiting it, here is how to process it without getting sucked into the propaganda:
- Look at the framing. Notice how Riefenstahl avoids anything modern. No plastic bottles, no modern fabrics, no signs of the outside world. This is a deliberate choice to create a "lost world" narrative.
- Compare and contrast. Look up the work of George Rodger or contemporary Sudanese photographers. See how they capture the same people without the "heroic" Nazi-style lighting.
- Read the history. Don't just look at the pictures. Research the Nuba's struggle against the Bashir regime and their ongoing fight for autonomy. The "beauty" in the photos shouldn't distract from the actual human rights issues they've faced.
- Question the "Last" in the title. Why is it always "The Last" of something? It’s a marketing tactic. It creates a sense of urgency and tragedy that serves the seller more than the subject. The Nuba didn't disappear; they changed.
The book is a masterpiece of photography and a disaster of ethics. It’s a reminder that a camera is never neutral. It’s a weapon, a tool, and a mirror all at once. When Leni Riefenstahl pointed her lens at the Nuba, she wasn't just showing us who they were—she was showing us who she wanted them to be.
To really understand the Nuba, you have to look past the white ash and the dramatic shadows. You have to see the people as they are now: survivors of a century that tried to turn them into either a myth or a memory.
To further your understanding of this complex intersection of art and history, you should seek out "Fascinating Fascism" by Susan Sontag and the documentary The Wonderful, Horrible Life of Leni Riefenstahl. These works provide the necessary friction to the smooth, aesthetic surface of Riefenstahl’s photography, allowing for a more critical and honest engagement with her legacy and the people she portrayed.
If you want to support the Nuba people directly, look into organizations like Nuba Reports, which features journalism produced by Nuba people themselves, telling their own stories on their own terms. This shifts the focus from being the objects of a foreign lens to being the authors of their own contemporary narrative.