Dear
Miss Ross,
I
am your greatest fan because unlike the others, I want nothing from you. The
only thing that matters to me is your happiness. I have posters, playbills, and
a closet jam packed with photographs covering every stage of your magnificent career.
Your presence alone makes every one of your films a true cinema classic. I
don't care what time they show on television. I will gladly stay awake until
any hour in the morning. I bought a gorgeous new Lucite frame for one of your
most famous pictures...the one of you singing while President Truman plays the
piano. I despise those desperate, pathetic people who intrude upon your
privacy. Your happiness and piece of mind must be protected. I know of all the
famous men in your life, but I adore you as no other ever has or ever will.
Thank you for the inspiration you have given me. You are the greatest star of
all.
Your
friend,
Douglas
Breen
P.S.
Could
you send me your most recent photograph as soon as possible?"
When
asked, I always claim I’ve been a writer since age 8, for it was around that
time I recall penning my earliest works of fiction (and by “works of fiction,”
I mean hastily scrawled recreations of whatever my favorite horror movie or
episode of HBO’s Tales from the Crypt happened to be at the time). I
was, however, putting pen to paper purely for the joy it brought some time
before that.
Prior
to crafting stories, I’d write letters to pen pals, cousins out of state, and
yes, celebrities I admired, one of whom happened to star on the sickeningly
wholesome lip sync fest known as Kids Incorporated, a music-oriented
television series made popular in the mid-‘80s. Please don’t ask which cast
member, admitting I’d written was humiliating enough.
And
no, it wasn’t Fergie. Or Martika.
In
the years that followed, I continued this hobby, ever hopeful that one of these
idols would take the time out of their busy schedules to draft a personalized
response. On occasion, I’d receive an autographed headshot (pictures of these
can be found in the memorabilia section) or an automatic subscription to
newsletters and/or free fan clubs. Most of the time, though, I’d receive
nothing at all.
I’d
wait for the postman’s arrival day after day, hoping he’d come bearing a
letter-sized envelope personally addressed to me. Much to my disappointment and
dismay, he’d come bearing bills, circulars, and mail-order catalogues more than
anything else.
Not
every experience was a negative one, however. To the best of my
recollection, I received the personalized response I so desired on two seperate
occasions. The first was a typed letter from an author of mystery/suspense
paperbacks no one’s heard of and, not long after that was a handwritten card
from none other than Joe Bob Briggs. The rest couldn’t be bothered. Luckily, my
coping skills were a little stronger than Douglas Breen’s.
The
Fan, based on the novel by Bob
Randall, was a very controversial film for 1981. These days, you can easily
find a handful of movies or television shows centered around the same theme.
Much like 1960’s Peeping Tom or 1965’s The Collector, The Fan explored
subject matters audiences wouldn’t be desensitized by for many years, making it
a unique premise for this particular era in cinema.
Though
there are definite pacing issues and the musical numbers are downright painful
(if Lauren Bacall was ever a decent singer, she sure as hell wasn’t at this
point in her career), The Fan is a compelling thriller with moments of
nail-biting suspense driven by a stabbing violin score by Pino Dinaggio, mostly
known for lending his talents to the films of Brian DePalma. In many jnstances,
it tweaks character and plot development originally printed on the pages of Bob
Randall’s novel, something I found rather frustrating, but nevertheless, it
remains a worthwhile contribution to the genre.
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