Ártatlan vagyok!

In a Carpathian backwater where dusk smells of wet pine and ancestral guilt, the wealthy but morally insolvent Kolonics clan brandish their last heirloom—an unblemished name—like a rusted sabre. Ilonka Nagy’s radiant orphan Klára arrives to restore the family’s squandered fortune through a marriage as arid as parchment; she is pawn, prize, and reluctant Madonna rolled into one silk-lined parcel. Yet the household’s frescoed walls echo with whispers: a son, Elemér Hetényi’s haunted Pál, has vanished after forging cheques, and his spectre seems to seep through every crack. József Berky’s leering notary, Marcsa Simon’s serpentine aunt, and Gyula Nagy’s cocksure cousin form a triumvirate of creditors and voyeurs, all hungry for scandal. Klára’s dowry becomes bait; Pál’s shadow resurfaces disguised as a coachman, then as a monk, then as her own reflection in a tarnished mirror. When a moonlit ledger reveals that innocence itself is collateral, the estate’s chapel bell tolls twelve times for truth. Betrayal ricochets through secret staircases; love letters combust; a stiletto meant for honour finds flesh instead. By the time Vanda Berlányi’s consumptive heiress exhales her final aria, the audience has tasted the metallic tang of complicity. Balzac’s cynicism, filtered through Mérey’s Hungarian bile, leaves only one character unscathed—the snow that blankets the closing shot, mercifully erasing footprints, sins, and the very possibility of exoneration.