One star. Rated R, for violence, gore and profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.30.19
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Seeing John Travolta starring in a tawdry little flick such as The Fanatic is disheartening enough; further noting gifted cinematographer Conrad W. Hall’s involvement qualifies as an out-of-body gob-smack.
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| Moose (John Travolta, left) cannot understand why his proximity to the house belonging to his favorite movie star — Devon Sawa, as Hunter Dunbar — is cause for such a nasty outburst. All he wants is an autograph... |
Fred Durst’s dreary thriller is the sort of ham-fisted junk that once got sold directly to late-night cable. These days, thanks to the rise of indie cinema and vanity production companies with more cash than common sense, such films sometimes get unwarranted movie theater play … as is the case here.
The recent explosion of pre-title production company logos has become a joke, and this lurid fiasco is no exception. Seriously, would you expect anything worthwhile from an effort “presented” collaboratively by MFC, VMI, Wonderful Media, Quiver Distribution and — my favorite — Pretzel Fang?
It has been said that nobody sets out to make a bad movie; things just go wrong along the way. After enduring this one, I’m not so sure. It’s clearly a vanity project for Durst, best known as the face of the rap/rock band Limp Bizkit; he wrote the story, co-scripted (along with Dave Bekerman) and occupied the director’s chair. It’s not his first rodeo; he previously directed a string of music videos and two big-screen features that didn’t make much noise (2007’s The Education of Charlie Banks and 2008 The Longshots).
I’m sure he’s a nice guy, and — in fairness — he has a confident sense of mood and atmosphere (although I suspect Hall deserves the credit for most of that).
But this is his first story/script credit, and let it be said: The man cannot write. He has no feeling for the way people talk to each other; no concept of plot logic; no understanding of the need for a consistent narrative tone; no grasp of the means to develop and maintain suspense. The Fanatic is a clumsy mess, which makes it a terrific model for teachers of film studies classes, on how not to make a movie.
According to pre-release hype, the premise is based on an actual incident from Durst’s music career, when he had to deal with an overly aggressive fan who crossed the line of acceptable behavior. If so, that makes this story’s jaw-droppingly weird and deplorably brutal climax even harder to understand. If it’s wish fulfillment, Durst’s time would be better spent in therapy.
On top of which, we’ve been here many times before. Lauren Bacall was targeted by an obsessively unhinged Michael Biehn, in 1981’s The Fan; all-star baseball player Wesley Snipes ran afoul of the equally deranged Robert De Niro, in 1996’s The Fan. (Not much originality in titles, eh?)
And didn’t Stephen King make the ultimate statement with Misery, which brought Kathy Bates a well-deserved Academy Award for her 1990 portrayal of poor James Caan’s “Number One Fan”?
The Bacall flick is nothing to write home about, but Durst managed to top its deficiencies. No small feat.
Travolta stars as Moose, an arrested-adolescent movie fan who obsesses over autographs, posters and all manner of cinema swag. He’s either a spectrum child or developmentally challenged in some manner, with no concept of boundary issues. All of which is a serious problem while this maladroit story develops, because he remains — at all times — an object of pity, even when he becomes “dangerous.”
Moose has no obvious means of support, aside from his cos-play “job” as a faux London bobby who trolls for tips along the Hollywood Walk of Fame. He has one loyal friend: Leah (Ana Golja), a feisty celebrity photographer. One cannot imagine how this relationship came about, just as one cannot imagine how Moose pays his rent. Durst and Bekerman aren’t big on detail.
More than anything else, Moose wants an autograph from his favorite movie action hero, Hunter Dunbar (Devon Sawa). When two early opportunities go awry, Leah foolishly (read: no way she ever would have done so) shows him how to use a celebrity home search app. Armed now with Dunbar’s address, Moose turns full-blown — if initially pathetic — stalker.
After which, the story proceeds to its bonkers third act.
Travolta, bless his heart, puts everything into this role. He’s a scruffy, shambling wreck with a 5-year-old’s relentless focus on immediate gratification; he also exhibits the twitchy, rocking back and forth stimming that one sees in autistic individuals. We genuinely ache for Moose, when he’s harassed by Todd (Jacob Grodnik), a much more aggressive street performer who specializes in gory geek magic, as a means of supporting his drug habit.
Moose doesn’t approve of drugs; he also disapproves of the fact that Todd’s performance is a distraction, while a confederate picks bystanders’ pockets. (Points to Moose.)
Sawa, in turn, makes Dunbar an arrogant horse’s ass: the epitome of a privileged jerk who has let fame go to his head. He’s clueless and cruel, even at his “better” moments: such as during the few token scenes with his adolescent son, apparently inserted to suggest that the guy has some finer qualities. (Tough sell.)
We can question the wisdom and taste of transforming a character such as Moose into an object of terror, but I guess that’s a judgment call. Other aspects of Durst’s directorial influence are just plain daft, starting with Leah’s randomly inserted narrative voice-overs, which anticipate or emphasize information that’s blindingly obvious from the on-screen action: said-bookism at its worst.
Then there’s the matter of the bizarre “chalk” illustrations that also interrupt events at haphazard moments, like peculiar chapter headings. Durst apparently thinks they’re cool. (They aren’t.)
The biggest howler, though, is the notion that a dead body remains plainly visible for quite some time — at least a day, perhaps two or three — without anybody noticing. One can but laugh.
All of which leads to a concluding couple of scenes apparently intended to be heavily ironic, but instead simply feel stupid and unjustified.
Travolta is luckier than most; his career has survived numerous disasters that would have sidelined most actors. (Exhibit A: Battlefield Earth.) Getting re-discovered by Quentin Tarantino, in Pulp Fiction, was a gift from the Hollywood gods. Of late, though, he has squandered that gift with another string of exploitative stinkers: Old Dogs, Killing Season, The Forger, Life on the Line, Criminal Activities, I Am Wrath and Speed Kills… and that’s just for openers. Travolta clearly has no judgment, or he’s desperate for a paycheck; the best acting in the world can’t compensate for dead-on-arrival scripts.
The Fanatic is the worst yet, and it’s sad to see such a once-glorious career crash and burn so spectacularly.
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