Just in time for Halloween, particularly old spirits rise in this one Police call 110 from MDR. A police chief speaks the sentence “We have a problem with a witch” into his service telephone and that is a special feature, even in the Harz Mountains, where witches are ubiquitous – at least in the souvenir shop. In the witch shop there are bats made of glowing rubber on display, in the tavern the regulars order another bottle of herbal elixir: to eternal life! What Udo Jürgens already knew: the devil made the schnapps. And over in the kitchen the skinny assistant cook warms up his witch soup – this hangover lunch fits the overall mood in terms of taste. Was there anything special about the day of the murder? Oh, what, wails the assistant cook, who is also the dead man’s brother: “As always. Always the same, like every evening. Always the same shit.”
Superintendent Doreen Brasch (Claudia Michelsen) looks appropriately jaded and cold on the hunt for the killer as she trudges through a scenario that’s too over-the-top to be actually threatening. The blackbird brought to life knows the way to the fire. And there are always two revenants of the shining-Twins in the panorama around. “Burning witches” by Ute Wieland (Wolfgang Stauch book) is a whodunit and a shocker and at the same time, with its many exaggerated characters, also the parody of a shocker, with best regards from the medieval market. But that’s not all: he also wants to shed light on the complicated relationship between middle-aged men and their women, who have become more self-confident. “Suddenly everything is different. Everything that was good should be bad,” says the family doctor, who can no longer even rely on his wife to provide him with the good liverwurst bite-sized.
Another Sunday night thriller that wants a lot – that is, too much. The fact that Franz, the shitty mutt, finally starts to talk, if only to himself – that’s definitely too much. However, when people talk to each other, the Halloween play gets going, the dialogues are, as always, particularly beautiful when they trust the laconic. The assistant cook again, describing the false homeliness of the province: “There’s nobody here who does that.” Then the commissioner: “There’s nowhere.” And the father of the witch shop owner comes up with his own animal jokes: “Where do dogs like to live? On the Bell Floor.”
In any case, you can tell it again.
The first, Sunday, 8:15 p.m.
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