With an auteurist reputation entirely hinging on the quite dated King of New York and Bad Lieutennant (Herzog’s take is the far greater achievement), he depicts cruel, unlikable men in an effort to dig into the western psyche. Pasolini is no different, drawing parallels between the artist and the criminal. Dafoe is enigmatic, unreliant on the ticks which define his earlier performances. He is here the very opposite of his turn in Boondock Saints, a signal of a stronger director, or more faith in the material. Pasolini’s homosexuality is presented as a link to the underworld, one which sadly leads to his story being cut short. This results in an unsatisfying narrative but one which explores the psychology of its subject with unflinching interest.