Now Showing: Thus Dreamed Zarathustra

 

Thus Dreamed Zarathustra

Genre: Drama

Director: Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck

Writer: Meirad Tako

Cast: Franz Rogowski, Christoph Waltz, Liv Lisa Fries, Alina Levshin, August Diehl, Meirad Tako (cameo)

Plot:

Prologue – The Shadow Sermon

In a church sculpted from bones and fog, young Friedrich Nietzsche stood trembling beneath a chandelier of skulls that swayed without wind, its shadows writhing like serpents across pews carved from petrified wood. The air was dense with ash, molten wax, and the musk of decay laced with divinity, pressing against his small frame like a living thing. The walls, veined with marrow, pulsed faintly, their surfaces crawling with runes that glowed amber, then faded into whispers—half-formed prayers in a language older than stone. The floor was a mirror of black glass, reflecting not the boy but a man with a lion’s mane, his eyes twin furnaces burning with madness or genius, his laughter a blade that split the heavens. Stained-glass saints wept blood, their fractured light painting Friedrich’s pale skin in streaks of crimson, azure, and gold, as if marking him for a fate he couldn’t yet grasp.

His father, Carl Ludwig, ascended the pulpit, a figure of fire and shadow, his cassock rippling like liquid obsidian, swallowing the dim glow of the skull-lanterns. His voice was thunder, splitting the air with riddles that burrowed into Friedrich’s skull: Will. Power. God is dead, yet lives in you. The congregation melted into a flock of crows, their caws weaving a hymn that clawed at the boy’s ears, their wings brushing his cheeks with frost. Their eyes—black, unblinking—judged him, stripping his soul bare. His heart pounded like a moth trapped in a jar, each beat a question: What is God? What am I? The chandelier flared, skulls glowing like moons, their sockets staring down with silent accusation, and the fog thickened, coiling around his legs like a serpent, its touch cold and deliberate.

Carl’s sermon grew wilder, his hands clawing the air as if to tear the sky apart. “God is the wound that heals!” he roared, and the church shuddered, its bones grinding like teeth, its walls closing in as if to crush Friedrich alive. He gripped a pew, his fingers sinking into wood that pulsed with sap and sorrow, whispering of ancient forests felled by divine wrath. The words poured forth—Create. Destroy. Become.—each a hammer forging his soul on an anvil of dread and wonder. The mirror-floor cracked, revealing an abyss where stars spun in chaos, their light cold and merciless. Friedrich saw himself—older, bearded, standing on a mountain, shouting to the void as lightning crowned his head. The vision burned, flooding his mind with images: books bleeding ink, skies torn open, a man who was more than man, his shadow swallowing the world.

The crows surged, their wings beating a rhythm that matched his pulse, and the fog swallowed the pulpit, Carl’s voice lingering like a ghost: You are the wound. You are the healing. The chandelier exploded into sparks, miniature suns raining down, and the church warped—walls breathing, ceiling a dome of blinking eyes. Friedrich stumbled toward the mirror-floor, his reflection flickering—now the boy, now the lion-maned stranger, now a shadow without form, a will without flesh. The stranger’s laughter echoed, planting a seed of prophecy in his bones, a fire destined to burn the world.

But the scene didn’t end there. The fog parted, revealing a cloaked figure perched atop the pulpit—a skeletal preacher with eyes of coal, its bony fingers clutching a staff of twisted ivory. “Boy,” it rasped, its voice a wind through crypts, “you will bury God, but first you must dig His grave.” Friedrich froze as the figure raised its staff, and the church trembled, the bones in the walls snapping free to form a cage around him. The crows dove, their talons raking his arms, drawing blood that dripped onto the mirror-floor, each drop birthing a ripple—a vision of a battlefield strewn with shattered idols, of a desert where mirrors reflected his fractured soul, of a horse weeping in a city of stone.

He fought back, small fists pounding the bone-bars, his screams swallowed by the crows’ cacophony. The skeletal preacher laughed, its skull splitting to reveal a second face—his father’s, serene yet stern. “Fear is your forge,” Carl’s voice intoned, and the cage dissolved, leaving Friedrich sprawled on the mirror-floor, gasping. The fog thickened again, and a new sound emerged—a low growl from the abyss below. A beast of shadow and flame rose, its body a tapestry of stars, its jaws wide. It spoke his name, “Friedrich,” and lunged, but before it could strike, the church dissolved into mist, leaving only the drip of wax and the weight of the sermon—a chain and a crown binding him to an unseen fate.

He wandered into the night, the village of Röcken warped by the vision—houses bending like wax, trees whispering his name. A lone crow perched on a fence, its eye a mirror showing the lion-maned man again, now holding a book that bled light. Friedrich reached for it, but the crow took flight, and the spark in his chest flared—a fire of will, power, and the death of God, destined to grow.

The Boy of Ghosts

In the meadows of Röcken, Friedrich chased shadows that danced beyond sunlight’s reach—now a stag with antlers of flame, now a man with no face, now a spiral of smoke that sang in a tongue he almost knew. The fields bled gold under a sky humming with unseen presences, clouds curling into runes that echoed the bone-church. The wind carried whispers older than stone, and the grass bowed to gods unseen. Apollo emerged from the wheat, radiant and stern, his lyre strung with starlight, its notes slicing the air like knives. “Order is your cage,” he declared, his voice carving truth into Friedrich’s bones. His eyes were mirrors reflecting a world of cold symmetry, but Friedrich recoiled, sensing the sterility beneath—the lie that choked the soul.

Dionysus staggered from the forest’s edge, wine-soaked and wild, his laughter a drumbeat shaking the earth. His hair was a snarl of vines, his skin stained with forbidden fruit, his eyes glinting with chaos. “Chaos is your freedom,” he slurred, offering a chalice of black liquid smelling of time and oblivion. Friedrich touched it, and visions flooded him: a mountain crowned with fire, a serpent eating its tail, a man whose shadow stretched across the stars. The chalice shattered, its contents seeping into the earth, staining the roots with prophecies that whispered his name.

That night, a book-beast haunted his attic—a creature of parchment and shadow, its pages flapping like wings, its spine creaking like a coffin. Its eyes were voids, its breath ink and dust. “You will write me,” it growled, its voice a chorus of futures. “You will break the sky and birth the abyss.” Friedrich woke, hands stained with ink, heart pounding with prophecy. The beast showed him glimpses—pages bleeding his words, a cover mirroring his fractured soul. His sister Elisabeth watched from the doorway, her face porcelain, her voice a whisper: “Fritz, you dream too much.” But Apollo and Dionysus wrestled within him, tearing at his small frame.

He wandered the meadows by moonlight, the grass whispering secrets, the stars pulsing like hearts. He found a stone carved with a spiral, warm to the touch. It tilted the world: he saw himself, older, pen in hand, writing words that burned, each sentence a spark, each paragraph a flame. The vision faded, but the spiral branded his mind—a map to destiny. One evening, Apollo and Dionysus returned, no longer separate but clashing in the fields. Apollo’s lyre sang of reason, its notes chains; Dionysus danced, his steps a storm of freedom and madness. They argued over Friedrich’s soul, their voices a tempest: “He will order the world!” “He will shatter it!” The boy stood between them, his will a spark refusing to die.

A new scene unfolded: the meadow split, revealing a chasm where the book-beast waited, larger now, its pages a whirlwind. It seized Friedrich, pulling him into a dream within a dream—a library of bones where books screamed his future. One tome opened, and he saw his father preaching in the bone-church, but the sermon was his own: God is dead. Another showed a desert of mirrors, a man with his face laughing at the stars. The beast roared, “Choose!” and Friedrich tore a page, the ink burning his hands, the words his own yet unwritten. He awoke in the meadow, the stone gone, but its spiral glowed in his palm.

His mother called him home, but the ghosts followed. At night, the attic became a stage: Apollo sculpted statues of Friedrich, each perfect and lifeless; Dionysus smashed them, laughing, “Live!” The book-beast joined them, its pages now a script of his life, each line a wound, a promise. Friedrich grabbed a quill, slashing the air, and the ghosts froze—his will asserting itself, fragile but fierce. The meadows became a labyrinth, their paths riddled with visions: a crow with his father’s voice, a vine that bled wine, a shadow with his face. He emerged, clutching the spiral’s memory, his soul a battleground, his destiny a flame.

The Scholar’s Mirage

In Leipzig’s halls, Nietzsche’s mind was a furnace, forging ideas from the ashes of dead gods. Lecture rooms shimmered like a desert haze, walls dissolving into crystal forests or obsidian caves, ceilings dripping stars. Colleagues spoke riddles echoing the bone-church, their faces flickering—human, stone, beast. His pen was a sword, carving truths, each word a rebellion. Reality frayed, time bending, space singing. Richard Wagner appeared as a centaur, hooves sparking on cobblestones, torso draped in velvet reeking of smoke and myrrh. “Music is the eternal’s pulse,” he bellowed, his voice drowning Nietzsche’s doubts. They drank in a grove where trees bled sap, Wagner’s notes weaving gods and heroes from mist. But the music soured—hooves crushed earth, demanding worship. Nietzsche saw chains in Wagner’s art, turned away, his will a blade cutting the mirage, his heart chanting: I will not kneel.

Lou Salomé entered as a sphinx, eyes obsidian, smile a riddle unraveling time. In a garden of thorns, roses wept blood, the air thick with musk and destiny. “What is man without God?” she asked, her voice a whip. “What is love without chains?” Nietzsche answered with fire, weaving Thus Spoke Zarathustra on a loom of starlight, its pages bleeding ink smelling of eternity. Lou laughed, her claws grazing his heart, then vanished, leaving him with a book pulsing like a living thing. The world blurred—classrooms became caverns, walls carved with spirals, colleagues statues with marble eyes screaming silently. His pen scratched: God is dead. The Übermensch rises.

New drama emerged: Wagner returned, his centaur-form towering, demanding Nietzsche’s allegiance. “Join me, or be forgotten!” he roared, conjuring a choir of shadows singing his operas, their voices chains. Nietzsche countered with Zarathustra’s voice, a wind tearing the shadows apart, and Wagner retreated, his hooves striking sparks that became stars. Lou reappeared, her sphinx-form now winged, leading him to a cliff where the sea roared like a beast. “Leap,” she hissed, “or drown in your own soul.” He leapt, falling into a vision: a mountain where he wrote alone, words igniting the stone, a serpent coiling around his wrist whispering eternal return.

Back in Leipzig, streets twisted into labyrinths, shadows whispering his name, air heavy with myrrh. He saw Wagner galloping across a bone-bridge, Lou’s eyes glinting from a flaming window. His mind stormed, Apollo’s order clashing with Dionysus’ chaos, Zarathustra urging him upward. He wrote by candlelight, his room a cave, desk a battlefield. The book-beast perched nearby, pages filled with his words, eyes approving. “You are becoming,” it whispered, and Nietzsche’s soul stretched, ideas tearing through him—mountains, serpents, men beyond men.

A confrontation erupted: colleagues, now masked inquisitors, cornered him in a hall of mirrors, accusing, “You defy God!” Nietzsche laughed, shattering the mirrors with a shout, each shard reflecting his defiance. The hall collapsed, revealing a sky of fire where Apollo and Dionysus battled anew, their clash birthing a dawn that crowned him. He emerged, clutching Zarathustra, its weight a promise, his will a sun rising over a world he’d reshape.

In the Desert of Mirrors

Nietzsche wandered a desert of glass sand, each grain a mirror reflecting his face—boy, prophet, beast with fiery eyes. The sky burned violet, clouds spiraling like Röcken’s runes, the horizon pulsing like a wound. The air smelled of ash and myrrh, dunes shifting into faces—his father, Wagner, Lou, the lion-maned stranger—dissolving as he approached. Three figures emerged: Eternal Recurrence, a serpent with a clock-heart, its scales moments of his life—bone-church, meadows, ink-stained nights. “All this—again, again, again,” it hissed, showing his existence looped: every pain, triumph, an infinite spiral. Its coils tightened, whispering, Can you bear it? Can you love it? Nietzsche laughed, his will a torch, but the serpent forced him to see his fractured self.

The Übermensch rose, a colossus of bronze and lightning, body forged from unborn futures. “I am your shadow made flesh,” it roared, shaking the desert, eyes blazing possibilities. Nietzsche’s soul strained to bridge man and more, accepting a crown of thorns dripping blood and starlight, its pain a hymn to becoming. The mirrors sang his thoughts, the desert cracking like veins. Zarathustra appeared, cloaked in dawn, staff a spine of stars. “You are my echo,” he said, his words burning doubt away, lifting Nietzsche to the infinite. The desert shattered, mirrors flying like birds, singing his name in flame and shadow.

New scenes unfolded: the serpent led him to a pit where his past replayed—Carl’s sermon, Wagner’s demands, Lou’s riddles—each moment a choice to affirm or deny. He affirmed, his laughter a storm, but the pit deepened, voices of doubt rising: You will fail. He climbed, hands bleeding on glass, emerging to face the Übermensch again. It challenged him, “Prove your will!” and Nietzsche wrestled it, their clash splitting the desert, mirrors exploding into constellations. Victorious, he stood, shadow stretching across dunes.

Zarathustra then guided him to a tower of mirrors, each reflecting a philosophy—God’s death, will to power, eternal return. He entered one, reliving Turin: the horse’s eyes, his breakdown, time looping. He exited, stronger, choosing every pain anew. The book-beast appeared, pages infinite, eyes his own. “You have written me,” it said, and Nietzsche nodded, his will a sun. The desert reformed, a labyrinth of mirrors, each a door he walked through, reshaping his soul with every step, his laughter a challenge to the stars.

The Madness of God & Epilogue

In Turin, the world was a wound—colors blinding, sounds piercing, air thick with blood and myrrh. Nietzsche walked labyrinthine streets, cobblestones pulsing like veins. He saw the horse, scarred by a whip, its eyes eternal sorrow. He embraced it, weeping, “Brother, I killed God, and you suffer!” The crowd’s faces melted into wax and bone, voices judging, but he saw only the horse, its silence a sermon. His mind snapped, tongues spilling—Zarathustra’s prophecies, Dionysus’ laughter, Apollo’s riddles, Carl’s words—each a spark, each a flame. Streets became the desert, horse the colossus, crowd the serpent. He danced, laughter defying the abyss, seeing Lou’s eyes in the sky, Wagner’s hooves in the earth, the book-beast in shadows.

Time looped: he was a boy in the bone-church, chandelier swaying, Carl preaching, God is the wound. The pews emptied, mirror-floor cracked, and he touched light, dissolving into radiance, thoughts scattering like stars. The desert returned, mirrors blank, book-beast beside him, pages empty. “Again,” it whispered, and he laughed, thunder shaking the stars. He saw Röcken, Leipzig, Turin—each a note in an eternal symphony. He was all—boy, scholar, madman, prophet—consumed by light, everywhere and nowhere.

A final scene: he stood before a void, the horse beside him, its eyes his own. The book-beast offered a quill, and he wrote, ink bleeding into the void, birthing a new sky. “Thus dreamed Zarathustra,” he said, and the light flared, promising return, creation, dreams unending.