Gerard Petrus Fieret took plenty of pictures with his beloved East German Praktica cameras in the Netherlands’ go-go 1960s. Evocative and charming footage from his heyday shows that he lived large despite a horrific childhood, stirring up controversy with his singular aesthetic. Fieret’s now-older female models seem delighted by the racy images he captured. Fieret himself wasn’t so lucky. His life seemed to spin out of control, as reflected in his careless treatment of his prints and negatives (“Fieret is the only artist where you wear gloves to avoid getting dirty,” says a museum conservator picking through stacks of newly discovered photographs). His appreciative if clueless collectors (Fieret’s landlady has better insights into his character than the art market does) now pay thousands of dollars for one of his photographs, even as the artist, captured here in the final two years of his life, shuffles around his shockingly squalid house, alternately defiant and defeated, muddled and sharp-witted, the rise in his stock coming too late to do him much good.  NK