Das verwunschene Schloß

Stone gargoyles hiss steam above a crumbling Bavarian keep where time itself has rheumatism: midnight sunflowers bloom, suits of armor waltz without pages, and a forgotten Baron (Max Ruhbeck) gambles his dwindling shadow against a grinning notary (Werner Krauss) who keeps the castle’s deeds in a hollowed-out violin. Lina Paulsen’s governess arrives to tutor two spectral children whose laughter arrives a beat before their mouths move; she discovers diaries that write their reader, corridors that elongate when sighed at, and a mirror in which every reflection proposes marriage then commits suicide. Josef Coenen’s consumptive librarian believes the building is a dyspeptic god: when it hungers, frescoes perspire wine; when lonely, statues lactate mercury. Hella Moja’s maid stitches maps into tablecloths so fleeing guests always end up in the banquet hall swallowing their own obituaries. Erra Bognar’s opera fugitive sings a single note that liquefies bone; Magnus Stifter’s blacksmith forges horseshoes from grandfather clocks, shoeing eternity so it gallops in circles. Carl Auen’s painter keeps painting the same doorway until the paint eats the wall and the doorway inhales him. By the time dawn remembers its vocation, the castle has traded places with the sky: prisoners drift among constellations while stars squat in dungeons, poking fun at mortals who still believe escape is a spatial transaction.