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Rainer Werner Fassbinder, who died twenty years ago, was not an easy man to interview. Sometime in the late seventies, I sat with my back to a pink damask wall in one of the public rooms of the Algonquin Hotel while Fassbinder, dressed in his uniform of frayed white shirt, black leather jacket, and jeans, paced and darted in front of me. Then in his early thirties, he was pale and soft, with a patchy brown beard and mustache and matted hair, and he was smoking furiously. At one point, he lunged at me, arm outstretched, and I flinched. It turned out that he was reaching for a pack of cigarettes on a ledge behind my head. He lit a new cigarette with the one he was finishing, ...