In 1995, Peter Abraham – a moderately popular and successful suspense author – would publish “The Fan.” The book must've been well received and popular, as the film rights were immediately gobbled up. The producers offered the job to Tony Scott twice and he turned them down both times. The third time they asked him to direct, it was with the added bonus that Robert De Niro was now attached to star. Eager to work with De Niro, Scott would finally agree to direct the movie. How many mediocre movies have been willed into existence just because someone wanted to work with Robert De Niro? Regardless, “The Fan” would be pitched into theaters less than a year after the book was first published.
Gil Renard is unhappy. The knife company that his father founded, where he works as a lowly salesman, is threatening to oust him. His ex-wife has remarried and is increasingly regulating his time with their son. The only thing giving Gil any joy is his love of the San Francisco Giants. Gil is obsessed with baseball. Specifically, he's obsessed with Bobby Rayburn, a hot shot slugger who recently signed a 40 million dollar contract with the Giants. After abandoning his son at a baseball game to attend a work meeting, Gil's wife signs a restraining order. He gets fired. Worst yet, Rayburn's ball game begins to suffer and he is soon eclipsed by a rival player with the same jersey number. It's not much longer before Gil's obsession turns deadly. Before the love he feels for his favorite ball player turns into an all-consuming hatred.
As you can tell by the fact that there's at least two other thrillers with the exact same title, writers are fascinated by the relationship celebrities have with their fans. The parasocial bonds between the admired and the admirers is a rich source for storytelling. “The Fan” attempts to show how Gil, a sad and isolated man who is loosing control of his life, could latch onto this one particular idol. He doesn't really know Rayburn and has no connection to the man's personality. Instead, he's obsessed with Rayburn because of what he represents to him. Gil sees Rayburn as someone who rose up from nothing to achieve great fame and success in a game he loves. That's the story Gil wanted for himself. Since he can't live that life, obsessing over Bobby is the next best thing.
In our modern world, where the corrosive effect of toxic fandom is really being felt all over the pop culture sphere, observations like this are well understood. But obsessive sports fandom is a bit different from, say, obsessive “Star Wars” fans. Gil really wants his son to be interested in baseball, even though it's apparent the kid doesn't care about it that much. At his little league game, Gil goes off on the coach for not treating his son fairly. Later, we learn that Gil was in little league himself. That he still carries resentment from stuff that happened to him back then, even though he's in his fifties now. It's a stereotype that some dads force their kids into sports in order to live vicariously through their children's success. And, yeah, there's some truth to this stereotype. But “The Fan” seems to think that this observation is witty and clever enough on its own, without really digging into it too much. Frankly, the film probably should've explored Gil's relationship with his own dad if it was going to go down this path.
Ultimately, that's the real reason “The Fan” doesn't really work. I have a certain fondness for the violent loner subgenre. The best examples of that story type are successful because they really put you in the mindset of an obsessed, lonely, broken person driven to violent acts by whatever reason. In “The Fan,” we never get much of a sense of Gil's inner life. We get brief glimpses of his home, which is decorated with Giants memorabilia, knives, and Rolling Stone posters. He's so obviously crazy, from the first scene where calls in to a radio sports show to rant on the air, that it's hard to believe he's a real person. There's not much depth to Gil's obsession or the twisted, broken mind that birthed it. Stories like this work because you feel an equal degree of sympathy and fear towards the obsessive weirdos. Gil is such an obvious creep from the get-go, that you can't get that invested.
In fact, there's a part of me that suspects camp was the intended goal here. You can certainly see this in Tony Scott's visual trademarks, which are beginning to approach the point of self-parody. Many of “The Fan's” scenes seem to be set at sundown or sunrise, the San Francisco skyline frequently being cast against the glowing amber clouds. The night scenes are set in the same sort of steamy back allies or colorful interior locations that are, by now, common sights in Scott's films. The longer the film goes on, the more helicopter shots of the city it starts to include. The editing gets increasingly frantic, during the first murder sequence or a scene devoted to Gil rescuing Bobby's son from drowning. The director's style is beginning to be stretched pass its breaking point here.
Truthfully, this might not be a bad thing. The more “The Fan” leans into its campy atmosphere, the more entertaining it becomes. The film gets increasingly lurid in its final act. Gil kidnaps Bobby's son and tells him that he'll kill the boy unless he hits a home run and dedicates it to him. The film attempts to stretch the suspense of this climatic baseball game out as long as possible, by repeatedly delaying the final pitch with sudden bursts of rain. This leads to a big confrontation on the baseball diamond, the movie growing increasingly overwrought. The last few acts of violence are so melodramatic that you just have to smile a little bit. I'm not sure if “The Fan” was trying to be overheated and trashy but the movie is still at its most amusing when heading in that direction.
As a character and a performance, De Niro's Gil is most effective when paired with less outrageous people. The only time “The Fan” veers towards actual suspense is when Gil ingratiates himself to Bobby Ryback long enough to get into his home. Watching the ball player go from appreciating this stranger to slowly realizing he's unhinged is effective. That's largely thanks to Wesley Snipes, who gives a genuinely good performance. Snipes plays a batter who has a lot of pressure on him. Whether that's living up to a massively expensive contract or the wishes of a dying child fan, he's overwhelmed by expectations. That only makes it worst when he screws up and the fans turn on him. Snipes takes the overheated material seriously, managing to create an interesting character at a crisis point in his own life, trying to find peace between his professional obligations and his family life. A low-key drama about this same subject probably would've been more rewarding than “The Fan.”
If the lead role feels underwritten, there was no hope that the supporting parts in “The Fan” would have any depth to them. In order to compensate, the movie slots a number of familiar faces into these roles. John Leguizamo, re-appearing from “Revenge,” shows up as Bobby's agent. Leguizamo brings some soft sarcasm and amusing color to a nothing part. An incredibly overqualified Ellen Barkin shows up as a sports talk-radio host, adding far more energy and humor than was necessary to an unimportant role. Barkin is so delightfully bitchy that the movie makes repeated excuses to include her in scenes, even when there's no reason for her character to be there. Benicio del Toro is largely wasted as the rival ballplayer that takes Ryburn's number though. Also watch out for a smarmy bit part from Kurt Fuller and a blink-and-miss-it appearance from Jack Black.
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