Summary
In a gas-lit Budapest where absinthe glints like liquid jade, Dorian Gray—Ella Hollán’s androgynous sybarite—signs a devil’s pact not in blood but in laughter, a silvery peal that ricochets through marbled salons and echoing catacombs alike. Beneath the varnish of perpetual youth, his sins incubate: opium-clouded orgies, knife-edged seductions, the casual ruination of Annie Góth’s Sibyl-esque chanteuse, whose drowning gaze still accuses from the Danube’s murk. Off-screen, Wilde’s epigrams become Pakots’s intertitles—razor-thin, ironic—while Béla Lugosi’s hypnotic cameo as a proto-Dracula caricaturist injects morphine straight into the film’s Gothic heart. The cursed canvas, slashed yet regenerating, oozes ochre rot in stop-motion bursts; each brushstroke is a heartbeat skipped, a moral ledger scrawled in vermilion. By the finale, Dorian confronts the portrait under flickering tungsten: his face a marmoreal mask, the picture a basilisk of suppurating flesh. One stab, and age avalanches upon him—skin sagging like melted wax—while the painting reverts to unblemished ivory. Curtains close on a mirror cracked in seven places, each shard reflecting a different century of debauchery.
Synopsis
A corrupt young man somehow keeps his youthful beauty, but a special painting gradually reveals his inner ugliness to all.
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