The family dinner at Stephan and Elisabeth could have been wonderful. But when Thomas announces that he and his pregnant girlfriend Anna are going to call their son Adolf, the hosts and the family friend René are stuck in the throat.
Fritz, Walter and Andi are caught red-handed in the event of a burglary. But are the three friends in Santa Claus costume really a wanted gang of criminals? Commissioner Bremer is supposed to find that out on Christmas Eve. While her family is already waiting at home, she has to listen to more unusual confessions than she would like. But the interrogation won't go, because your intrigued colleague is just waiting to take over the prestigious case.
Julian, Yasin and Addi learn from the executor of their deceased mother's will that the three men, who had previously been complete strangers, are brothers. The news hits like a bomb. A German family man with a penchant for tricks, a spoiled, ambitious Turk and a rapping African – the three siblings immediately hate each other and it would all be nice if their paths were to separate again soon.
In rural Westphalia, Franz Berger struggles to keep his inn open. On this day, a bluff, overbearing bully, Hermann Walzer, has booked the dining room for a wedding banquet for his son Mark. There's bad blood between Berger and Walzer, so when the first course, shrimp cocktail, is off, Hermann storms out with the wedding party vowing not to pay. Franz locks the loo door, taking prisoners of the bride and Hermann's wife while he also locks the estate's outer gates, leaving Hermann and the rest outside. Walzer, a pheasant hunter, lays siege; shotguns, rifles, grenades, a shovel, and other weapons leave no one safe. Will it take death to bring these men to their senses?
Das Experiment is a shocking psycho thriller about the potential for brutality that humans hide. Even more shocking is the fact that it’s based on an actual occurrence — a 1971 psychological experiment at Stanford University that was aborted prematurely when the experimenters lost control.
