Even if this scene related in Robert Katz’s scurrilous biography Love Is Colder Than Death (1987) is cultish apocrypha, there is something in its freeze-framed combination of unbelievable fact, mythic allure and disclosure of a desolate fall that serves to encapsulate Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s life. on June 10, his heart stopped by the fatal interaction between a mixture of cocaine and sleeping pills. The postmortem would later reveal that Rainer Werner Fassbinder, aged thirty-seven, had died around four A.M. “Ah,” said the policeman studying the corpse on that summer morning in 1982, “even Fassbinder is mortal.” The German filmmaker lay on his bed in a swank benefactor’s penthouse, flesh cold, blood snaking from one nostril and the script for a new project-a spaced-out biopic of the communist heroine Rosa Luxemburg-lying next to his body.

Goetheĭeath stands there with its thing sticking out. FAUST: Joy is not the issue, I give myself to frenzy, to pleasure that hurts most.

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