Fassbinder lived life, as the French say, ventre a terre -- with his belly to the ground. And what a belly it was. By the end, that enormous gut was the repository of more lusts and appetites than can be found in all the circles of Dante's hell. Fassbinder was, if not the 20th century's greatest filmmaker, certainly the 20th century's greatest film FIGURE. Unlike most directors, you can't whittle down his body of work to one or two masterpieces -- all his films must be seen, and a working knowledge of his corrupt and abrupt life is necessary.

Christian Thomsen's biography is no masterpiece, but it is the most complete Portrait of the Artist as a Young Monster yet written, and for that reason alone commands attention. Of course Thomsen can't explain how one man was able, in the course of 15 years, to write and direct 41 films, one of them 15 hours long. But who can? Such a driven personality can only be cautiously approached, never apprehended. Thomsen can't be blamed for what, after all, amounts to little more than a very understandable mystification.

Much less forgivable is his slipshod commentary on the films themselves. Fox and His Friends, in particular, is given annoyingly short shrift. This movie, Fassbinder's most far-seeing and revolutionary, is sort of a gay Double Indemnity, with what I believe to be the cinema's first instance of an homme fatale -- it is a truly fascinating update of 40's film noirs, brilliant in its hyperrealistic and poker-faced depiction of Germany's gay underground. But Thomsen passes right over all this, preferring instead to attack the editing, which isn't "tight" enough for his tastes. This is very lazy criticism and not even close to being accurate. I fear Thomsen is influenced by some of Fassbinder's own disdainful comments on the film, even though the director was clearly indulging in a little Hitchcockian false modesty. The point is, Thomsen knew Fassbinder personally, and may still be a little too gobsmacked by his subject to write the unbiased and considered biography he deserves.

Again -- quibbles. Here, for the first time, we learn just how fast Fassbinder could write a feature-length script ( four days ), what he needed to do it ( cocaine ), and which of his projects he held nearest and dearest to his grossly enlarged heart ( Effi Briest, Berlin Alexanderplatz ). Nor does Thomsen quail before the awesome task of explicating each and every one of Fassbinder's many films -- they're all here, every last one of them, even those not available in the U.S. The definitive biography is still to come, but in the interim, this is more than enough to tide over any but the most insatiable Fassbinder freaks.