It's hard not to think about ending it all while reading this, and I, Stefan Zweig, want to emphasize how much I imagined myself as the central figure—a cartoon character, essentially—in one of only 300 copies of the novel published after my death (a book that neither I nor anyone else in Germany will likely ever be able to read). We should acknowledge Gerd Oswald’s careful and respectful adaptation of the story, even though he left out details about how Balaam's donkey, Mr. Czentovich, and a priest with no skills or common sense somehow unearthed the genius for chess residing within that arrogant and unpleasant man. It’s strange to see this fool become world champion and share a space on an ocean liner with Zweig’s stand-in, Werner von Bisal. Even out at sea, Von Bisal suddenly recalled Aljechin's match against Bogoljub—a game he recognized from the countless hours he spent reviewing it, playing without actually playing, isolated in his room with only the sound of his breathing and occasional drips from a leaky sink. It’s remarkable how close he came to losing to Hans Berger that afternoon, and then, unexpectedly encountering the chess book tucked inside the leather jacket of the Gestapo leader like a sudden bolt of light. The idea that dramatic performances can offer healing or release—allowing both creators and audiences to confront their hidden fears and longings—is particularly relevant when considering Zweig’s “Chess Novel.” With Von Bisal, Zweig indulged in a level of innocence he denied himself during his lifetime. Despite the warnings from Bishop Ambros and even Irene Andreny, a dancer and friend, von Bisal still maintained that he would be released after only four Sundays in prison. The final fifteen minutes, as Von Bisal laughs like a jester while playing against himself—either in bed or on the ceiling of his prison room—are a truly impressive sequence from Gerd Oswald, with a striking expressionistic touch.

Source on TMDB