Time, space and mortality work to no earthly schedule in the half-lit, hand-made twilight world of “ Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass ” — so it’s appropriate that this vertiginous stop-motion vision seems to operate by temporal laws of its own. The first feature film in nearly 20 years from cult animators the Quay Brothers runs just 76 minutes, though in the process of watching it, it feels both infinitely longer than that and over in the blink of an eye, like a dream of epic proportions that you forget seconds after waking. This dark, densely nested fairytale of life, death and what comes in between is inspired by the writings of Polish literary titan Bruno Schulz, but with entirely its own collapsing, free-form model of storytelling — driven less by logic than intuitive feeling and ambience, which is where the Quays’ distinctively ethereal visuals come in.

The enigmatic nature of “Sanatorium” might frustrate viewers who, drawn in by the film’s vividly distressed gothic fantasy, find themselves lost in a fluid narrative. Characters multiply, timelines bend and merge, and even death loses its finality. Those familiar with the Quays’ work — especially their influential 1986 short “Street of Crocodiles,” also adapted from Schulz — will be better prepared for the baroque quirks and mysteries of their latest film. Premiering at this year’s Venice Days sidebar, it is destined for festival appearances, limited arthouse distribution, and a dedicated following. Now in their late seventies, with celebrated figures like Christopher Nolan among their supporters, the Pennsylvania-born, London-based twins show no interest in mainstream appeal.

Gorgeously antique-style title cards announce the setting as Sanatorium Karpaty, a mysterious hospice nestled in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, in 1937 – the same year Schulz published the novel that shares the film's title, a Kafkaesque spirit, and more thematic connections than plot points. However, we must reach this setting through a convoluted framing device involving a sinister auction house. Here, rare and intriguing items are up for bid, including the petrified ribs of a sea siren, the warm blood of bees, and, crucial to the film's focus, a "Maquette for the Sepulchre of a Dead Retina" – a kind of shadow box animated by a shaft of sunlight on the preserved eye of its former owner. This eye has seven viewing lenses, which provide the film's seven ornate chapter titles. (The grandiloquence of language throughout feels like the film's most enduring running joke.)

The story unfolds within the Maquette, focusing on Jozef (voiced by Andrzej Kłak), a somber young man on a winding train journey through a remote region of Eastern Europe to the Sanatorium. His elderly father is either dying or already dead, depending on the perspective. As the shadowy overseeing doctor Gotard explains, the facility exists in a temporal anomaly, out of sync with the rest of the universe, somewhere between reality and a dream state. Jozef might find his father alive in one dimension or another, but only through the agonizing exploration of the building's labyrinthine corridors. Even this description makes "Sanatorium" sound more straightforward than it actually is, as Jozef's journey increasingly dissolves into a psychological vortex where memories, nightmares, and waking reality become indistinguishable, while the film's structure and imagery begin to loop back on themselves.

Despite becoming increasingly challenging to follow at a narrative level, the film continues to evoke a profound emotional response. Intense grief, terror, and desire are all palpable as Jozef descends into the abyss. These emotions are conveyed through the claustrophobic beauty of the animation – all exquisitely delicate, fragile puppet forms in aged shades of pewter and dust, each frame resembling a long-forgotten steampunk diorama, reflected in a tarnished mirror – and the brittle, haunting quality of the score by Timothy Nelson (credited with "music and soundscapes"). Dim lighting and a gauzy, cobwebbed aesthetic demand our focused attention, both on the visuals and the intricate, disjointed plot. This approach enhances the film's uncanny quality, as if it were a strange artifact retrieved from an unfamiliar time and place.

The animation is seamlessly blended with live-action sequences, creating an equally surreal experience. These live-action shots are intentionally blurred and distorted, evoking fragments of silent cinema or vintage erotica. The way these passages integrate into the film's enigmatic narrative is open to interpretation. Perhaps the human faces represent disturbing, untethered imaginations for "Sanatorium's" puppet characters, who somehow appear bruised, wounded, and corporeal despite being crafted from wood, clay, and guinea-fowl feathers. Seductive and perplexing in equal measure, the Quays' latest work is a journey that leaves our world feeling a bit stranger when we return to it, blinking and disoriented, after the lights come up.