Adam a Eva

In a Czechoslovakian dreamscape where porcelain faces mirror each other like twin moons, Adam and Eva—boy-girl siblings born under an identical mask—carve childhood scars into the village’s collective memory; she swaps communion wine for ink, he is caned; she loosens the bell-tower ladder, he limps through winter. Years condense into sepia dusk: Eva’s mischief has metastasized into urbane cruelty, Adam’s silence calcifies into obsidian resolve. Discovering that Dr. Prokop Novotný—white-coated emblem of rational order—has mailed velvet letters to his sister, Adam razors off his masculinity in the candlelit gloom of a defunct theater: greasepaint, corset, auburn wig. The metamorphosis is surgical; in the mirror, Eve stares back at Eve. Masquerading as his sister, Adam intercepts the doctor beneath horse-chestnut chandeliers, whispers scandalous absurdities, dismantles courtship with surgical glee, then vanishes, leaving the real Eva to cradle the shards of a suitor who flees into the Carpathian night. Guilt ricochets; identities blur like wet charcoal; the final reel freezes on a single silhouette—half Adam, half Eva—unable to step out of the split frame.