Farrah Fawcett Tribute: Part I
For a while, she had better luck on the small screen. Among her generally acclaimed performances in made-for-TV movies were those in The Burning Bed (1984, right), as a battered wife who sets her sleeping husband on fire (hence the title); Nazi Hunter: The Beate Klarsfeld Story (1986), opposite Tom Conti; Poor Little Rich Girl: The Barbara Hutton Story (1987), as the unhappy millionairess; Margaret Bourke-White, in which she plays the renowned Life photographer; and Small Sacrifices (1989), incarnating a real-life murdering mom.
My obsession with all things Farrah diminished as I became an adult (and developed other obsessions). In the 1990s, I only saw her on screen once: as the wife of Robert Duvall's scuzzy but (supposedly) charismatic pastor in The Apostle, released in 1997. I cared neither for the film nor for the Academy Award-nominated Duvall, but I was mesmerized by Fawcett's unglamorized screen presence, which, however brief, left a lasting impression on me. (I wasn't the only one, as Fawcett received an Independent Spirit Award nomination as best supporting actress. During the course of her career, she was also nominated for three Emmys and six Golden Globes.)
Despite my renewed interest on her, I never watched her infamous 1997 interview with David Letterman, missed her two Playboy spreads in the mid-1990s, didn't follow her ups-and-downs with Ryan O'Neal or her problems with her son's drug addiction, and never bothered to watch her 2005 reality show Chasing Farrah.
I also skipped the recent Farrah's Story, but for a different reason: it would have been too disturbing, for it sounded like a grueling peek into another person's excruciating suffering. It would also have been a blunt reminder of the passage of time. And of the fact that rich or poor, beautiful or ugly, famous or anonymous, we must all face death. (I should add that barring abstinence and perhaps condom use, the HPV vaccine — radical Christians have fought against it — is quite possibly the most reliable form of protection against Fawcett's type of cancer, which is generally acquired through sexual intercourse.)
Now, I find it ironic that after her battle with cancer became tabloid fodder for months (thanks in part to leaks coming straight out of the UCLA Medical Center, where the actress was being treated at one point), Farrah Fawcett had her death partially eclipsed by that of an even bigger pop icon, one with the element of surprise added to the morbid mix to create more drama, suspense, and higher ratings and online hits.
That turn of events may seem unfair, but I believe that Farrah Fawcett would have liked it that way. After being so long in the spotlight — frequently against her will — she can now get her hard-earned and much-deserved rest.