“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.
