Summary
A spectral newsreel palace, the Weltspiegel Kino, rises beside the Spree in 1920 like a glass ribcage; inside, light itself is a shapeshifter. Fritz Richard’s nameless projectionist—part Charon, part circus ringmaster—threads news footage, erotic day-reels, and execution postcards into a single, breathing ribbon. Gertrude Welcker’s enigmatic usherette drifts between rows selling illusions instead of programs: for a pfennig she’ll sell you your own childhood, for a mark your death mask. Reinhold Schünzel’s bankrupt banker buys a reel that shows tomorrow’s stock page; when the celluloid melts in the gate, the future combusts into confetti of burning numbers. A starving boy (Bertold Reissig) discovers a lost can containing an alternate Berlin where the war never happened; each time the reel loops, his face ages a decade until he becomes the old janitor who sweeps the lobby, closing a Möbius strip of identity. Meanwhile, Bernd Aldor’s police inspector pursues a phantom anarchist whose bomb is hidden somewhere in the newsreel itself—every frame a possible detonator. Adolf Klein’s tycoon commissions a private screening, only to watch his own factory strike and fire consume his silhouette in the same frame. The projectionist finally splices every reel into one endless ribbon, cranks the lamp to solar intensity, and the images burst into white ash that drifts over the city; Berliners wake to find the sky a flickering silver screen, their shadows replaced by flickering captions.
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