Querelle

More a dream about than a dramatisation of Genet's novel, this is glorious and infuriating in equal parts. The port of Brest is built and lit more like one of Burroughs' Cities of the Red Night, murderous deity Querelle's ambisexual encounters are suffused with a sweaty, tangible eroticism, and Fassbinder's 'version' stays faithful to Genet's nightmare poetry. But its narrative detachment, weighty monologues, Resnais-like anachronisms, and (most irritating of all) listless rationale turn it into a lurid hymn to teenybop nihilism. All in all, perhaps an entirely appropriate parting shot from the wild German.