It’s hard not to think about wanting to just give up, or, as Stefan Zweig would put it, imagining oneself as the central figure—a cartoon character, essentially—in one of only 300 copies of a novel published after his death (a book that neither he nor anyone else in Germany will ever be able to read). We should acknowledge Gerd Oswald’s careful and respectful adaptation of the story, even though it leaves out details about how Balaam's donkey, Mr. Czentovich, and the priest unexpectedly found themselves with a chess genius lodged inside the head of that pompous and unpleasant man; a man who then became world champion and happened to be traveling alongside Zweig’s stand-in, Werner von Bisal, on an ocean liner. Already out at sea, Von Bisal suddenly recalled Aljechin's game against Bogoljub—a match he recognized from the countless games he’d studied, playing along without actually playing, shut off in a room filled with the sound of his own breathing and the occasional drip from a leaky sink. It’s surprising to realize that he nearly lost to Hans Berger that afternoon, and then, while anticipating an encounter with the head of the Gestapo, discovered a chess book tucked into the man's leather jacket like a sudden bolt of light. It is understood that dramatic performances allow both writers and audiences to release their nightmares or hidden longings, and this is particularly true for Zweig and his "Chess Novel." Through Von Bisal, Zweig indulged in a kind of innocence he didn’t permit himself in real life. Despite the warnings from Bishop Ambros and even the dancer and friend Irene Andreny, von Bisal still thought he would be released after only four Sundays in prison when the time came for his arrest. Gerd Oswald manages to create an astonishing sequence with a remarkable expressionistic touch during the final 15 minutes of the story's resolution, as Von Bisal laughs like a trickster and becomes his own opponent while lying in bed or on the ceiling of his cell.

Source on TMDB