Uncut and X rated (Kinski Uncut - Klaus Kinski)

Member Name: edie

Product:	Kinski Uncut - Klaus Kinski
Date:	22/02/01 (87 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: A rarely honest account of one actor's life

Disadvantages: Not a life-affirming read

I’ve read quite a few showbiz autobiographies and they follow a fairly predictable format: back-slapping recollections of luvvie pals, notable omissions of misdemeanours, glittering acting triumphs and finally onto well-earned retirement. Klaus Kinski’s post-humously published memoirs are slightly different. When Klaus’ early years involve serving on the Eastern Front with the German army during WW2, you know you’re in for a difficult read. But mainly Klaus liked to write about what he liked: which was sex and lots of it. So Kinski Uncut is full of X-rated, more-information-than-was-needed records of his exhaustive sexual encounters (he seems to have worked his way through Berlin’s entire prostitute population.) In between, there’s accounts of his unsurprisingly difficult relationship with his wives and children, including the actress Natassja.

After just a few chapters Klaus comes across as a selfish and unpleasant individual but by the end you realise he obviously had some serious personality disorder. He seems completely narcissistic, unable to consider other people and the world apart from how they affected him directly. From Kinski Uncut you’d hardly know that Klaus was making movies during all this time, including his much-acclaimed performances in Fitzcarraldo and Aguire, Wrath of God. Most references to his acting career are vitriolic, libellous assessments of the actors and directors he worked with, seemingly for the heinous crime of failing to match Klaus’ towering genius. Even his fanatical love for his young son which at first seems rather touching (his one redeeming feature) eventually comes across as obsessive and unhealthy.

Kinski Uncut is a certainly a one-off , and in a way you’ve got to commend him for his honesty and lack of censure. It’s part of that rare selection of memoirs, Djinsky’s diaries being the most recent example (and Anthea Turner’s autobi
ography too, if I was being facetious) where the writer had quite obvious lost their marbles but was still compus mentis enough to pour their fevered minds out on paper. As such its never less than an entertaining read even if its brings you slightly closer to insanity than you’d really want to get.

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