The Fifth Horseman Is Fear

Prague is under German occupation, setting a climate of fear from the very start. Dr. Braun, a Jewish doctor, is forbidden to practice medicine and is instead forced to work for German officials cataloging confiscated Jewish property. He clings to survival, navigating moral compromises in a world that strips him of autonomy.

An injured resistance fighter stumbles into his building, shattering Braun's carefully guarded routine. The encounter forces Braun to confront a choice between helping a fellow human being and risking his own precarious safety. The fighter's presence injects moral complexity into Braun's pragmatic world.

Braun begins a desperate quest for morphine, threading through Prague's dangerous streets. The pursuit exposes him to layers of the city that few outsiders see, from official spaces to shadowy back alleys. Each step tests his resolve and blurs the line between survival and compassion.

His search carries him through the seedy undergrounds and back up a long, winding staircase that connects the building's residents. The staircase becomes a symbolic conduit linking disparate lives and fates. The exposure redefines Braun's sense of community and his willingness to take risks.

A wide variety of neighbors are introduced, each tormented by the occupation in their own way. Their anxious gestures and terse exchanges reveal moral ambiguities and desperation. Through these interactions, the film sketches a society on the brink.

Superficially, the city seems normal, but hallucinations and nervous behaviors reveal a deeper social rot. The atmosphere underscores a creeping sense of doom that never fully yields to comfort or relief. The film's pacing and restrained dialogue intensify this mood.

In a striking scene, Braun stands before a wall of ticking confiscated clocks. The clocks symbolize time stolen from Jews and the life that was cut short or redirected by the occupation. The image reinforces the sense that time itself is being repossessed and that memory is fragmenting.

Short, choppy shots of Braun's home life sketch poverty and suppressed creativity. A pile of books and an empty jar of milk hint at deprivation, while a neglected violin suggests a passion suppressed by circumstance. These details reveal a mind trying to keep humanity alive in harsh conditions.

Crying babies, heavy shadows, and broken records create a sonic tapestry of fear that permeates the city. The audience feels the constant tension as danger lurks in every corner. The sense of impending doom remains a persistent undercurrent throughout the film.

Scenes shift from the dancehall, where couples bob and champagne litter the tables, to the apartment of a former piano teacher stacked with sheet music. The juxtaposition contrasts moments of fragile joy with the claustrophobic weight of occupation. Together they illustrate how beauty and memory survive amidst oppression.

A monotone radio voice proclaims that the longer the war lasts, the greater is faith in final victory. The line feels hollow and erodes any sense of real hope, reinforcing the film's austere mood. It marks a turning point toward despair rather than reassurance.

Towards the end, the film closes with a pervasive sense of despair rather than any hopeful note. The city remains haunted by fear, and the looming shadows of the Holocaust are implied through destitution rather than shown. Brynych's restrained storytelling leaves the audience with a lingering dread.