Summary
Against a velvet night sky that seems to inhale and exhale, Lotte Reiniger’s paper-thin silhouettes pirouette like memories caught between candle-flame and shadow. A donkey’s ear flicks; a king’s cloak unfurls into a comet; the Star itself, a lacework lantern, pulses as though stitched from extinct constellations. Ruick’s lullaby voice coils through the gaps, turning parchment camels into breathing aches for home. The Nativity becomes, in this 11-minute prism, not docile pageant but migratory vertigo—every snip of Reiniger’s scissors a footstep across centuries of exile, every back-lit profile a refugee stamp. When the blade-shaped angel hovers above the crib, the paper negative space glows hotter than the figures themselves, as if holiness were less presence than perforation.
Synopsis
Lotte Reiniger's version of the Star of Betlehem story.
