A tizennegyedik

A tizennegyedik unfurls like a fever dream on the Danube’s edge: a Budapest boarding-house in 1919, where the concierge numbers each guest like a specimen, and the fourteenth key—always missing—opens a room that swallows identities. Paula Bera’s silhouette, half-glimpsed through frosted glass, drifts between Géza Raskó’s shell-shocked journalist and Árpád Latabár’s monocled con man who sells futures that evaporate at dawn. Emil Fenyö’s anarchist printer inks pamphlets that bloom into paper cranes, while Iván Petrovich’s White Russian officer plays Rachmaninoff on a detuned piano, each note a confession. Thea Worth’s cabaret chanteuse rehearses a song whose lyrics keep rewriting themselves; Magda Posner’s war widow hoards letters never posted; Annie Gaál’s child medium chalks doorways that lead into earlier scenes. When the fourteenth occupant finally arrives—faceless, nameless—the corridors contract, mirrors exhale dust, and the city’s clocks strike thirteen twice. By the time the celluloid dissolves into a close-up of the Danube at night, every character has become someone else, and the audience realizes the film itself is the fourteenth tenant, quietly pocketing our reflections.