Farrah Fawcett II
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.
P.S. Last night I dreamt of Farrah Fawcett. (She was in my thoughts after I’d read that she’d been taken to a hospital.) I can’t recall what we talked about in the dream, but she, myself, and a few other people — a couple of friends; a couple of strangers — were having dinner at a small restaurant. Although I remember a somewhat gloomy atmosphere, I also remember that she didn’t look sick and that I was thrilled to have her there, actually talking to me.
Also, I should add that however campy, however inane, however poorly written and acted, I am thankful for Charlie’s Angels. One evening each week, while watching that show, I was able to forget the dreary Catholic school I was attending, the fact that I had few friends and spent most of my time alone, and even the growing — and disturbing — awareness that my burgeoning sexual orientation would be no passing phase. And crazy as it may sound, it was also at that time I decided that one day I’d move to Los Angeles, where the show was set and where I now live.
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Tags: Charlie's Angels, Farrah Fawcett, Ryan O'Neal, The Apostle, The Burning Bed
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