Summary
A brittle Berlin night exhales fog over the shell-shocked cobbles of 1918; inside a candle-gutted antiquarian’s shop, a sarcophagus lid, cracked like a cathedral window, releases a mummy whose bandages flutter like moth-wings. The resurrected prince—half memory, half mildew—drifts through Expressionist streets where prostitutes wear death-masks of powder and bureaucrats sport top-hats shaped like coffin lids. A trembling archivist (Karl Platen) unspools papyrus that maps guilt across three millennia; a vaudeville comedian turned detective (Victor Janson) pirouettes through parlors of cocaine laughter, chasing a silhouette that evaporates at every gas-lamp flicker. Marga Köhler’s countess, pupils dilated with morphine and prophecy, bargains her ruby choker for a single night of conversation with the desiccated stranger, only to discover her own silhouette stitched inside his burial cloth. Meanwhile Harry Nestor’s anarchist projector beams hieroglyphs onto bombed-out façades, turning ruins into parchment; Kurt Rottenburg’s cadaverous police surgeon dissects love letters extracted from a corpse’s throat. The narrative folds like origami in a furnace: centuries collapse into one winter evening, the mummy learns desire, the city forgets its name, and every character discovers they are merely echoes painted on a sarcophagus that is itself dreaming. When dawn arrives, it is not light but a white phosphorous flare that erases faces, leaving only the scent of myrrh and celluloid burning.
