If you're in any doubt that the movie world spawns, every now and then, a monster of unmitigated awfulness, check this out. You'll need a strong stomach, though, especially if you're a woman; for a lifetime's work and difficult childhood are dismissed in a few lines, along with colleagues of the order of Jean Cocteau and Werner Herzog, as Kinski indulges his obsession with body fluids and parades a relentless and largely anonymous procession of conquered female torsos before the reader's disbelieving eyes. And if you think that's nauseating, wait till you get to the sanctimonious nonsense about his precious son. Yuck.
