The fan (1995)

- The fan. Peter Abrahams. Bobby Rayburn, baseball superstar. Just starting the season at a new team. A baseball god. Too bad he’s about to hit a slump. Gil Renard, ardent fan. Merrily reminiscing the glories of the past. Too bad he’s about to be faced with the harsh realities of his life. Star and fan, the cycle of celebrity life —too bad it’s about to become a kiss of death. 

When I got “The fan”, the 70’s thriller by Bob Randall, in a used bookstore, this one was right next to it —and on a whim I decided to get both. Two books with the same title and premise, but decades apart. In one the celebrity being stalked is an actress, in the other a sportsman. Coincidence, or rather, it’s a theme that persists because boy, bad fandom behavior has been around for so much longer than we think. It’s the specifics that vary. Perhaps it would make a good comparison exercise, I thought, reading these two thrillers back to back. See what if anything changes from 70’s to 90’s mass market thrillers. 

Oh, of note: Both books were adapted to a movie. The 70’s one was a flop upon release, but has since gained cult status. The 90’s one was pretty terrible by all reports. But I have seen neither movie, so I really can’t confirm or deny their respective quality. 

What I can say is this: Abrahams' thriller is in so many ways on par with Randall’s and in so many ways far less effective. 

Let’s start with the ‘less’: Where Randall’s use of the epistolary format helped keep his tale moving at a brisk pace and to cram in a ton of subtle character development in only a few choice paragraphs, Abrahams takes his sweet time. Not sure if this counts as a spoiler, but: The two main characters do not really cross paths until we’re past the 300-page mark. Before that it’s just the briefest of interactions. As a thriller, it would be easy to dismiss this book as having far too much buildup for far too little pay-off and just not enough suspense.

And yet. 

And yet —it is still quite a surprise, and the patience necessary to navigate this book does pay off. Truth be told the book is much more of a character study with chilling suggestions than a suspense novel per se. But what a character study! Bobby and Gil are both horribly detached people, just one far more sunk into delusion than the other. Admittedly this risks making the novel entirely unsympathetic —it is saved by the late arrival of a third protagonist. Jewel, a middle-aged reporter, and a fairly unusual heroine for this kind of story (I hear the movie basically cut this character’s heroic deeds, which might explain why it bombed). 

It’s a story with a very high bodycount, but the narrative eye is not interested in the carnage —it’s interested in the psychological violence. In Gil’s thorough clinging to his dreams, his insistence of blaming everybody in his life for his own failures except himself, his borderline homoerotic fascination with Rayburn. He doesn’t just get physically close to his baseball star on a few occasions, he makes sure to be close enough to smell him. He remembers his glory days so vividly that when we learn exactly how old he was at the time, it’s a genuine kick in the gut. He is the nightmare that the myth of the ‘American Dream’ produces —a boiling cauldron of white male entitlement that every so often explodes in the most humiliating ways. Then there is Rayburn, the celebrity consumed by superstitions, considered too old for his profession at thirty-one. The super-player who dearly wishes that his equally talented son will never, ever, become a baseball player like himself. He has seen the reality behind the glamorous mask of sports celebrity and it is horrific. Yet Rayburn himself can be quite unlikeable as well —not very bright, far less compassionate and sensitive than he thinks he is —and baffled when his encounter with Jewel makes him see a fundamental flaw: She is a woman; he is in so many ways still a boy. 

Jewel (nee Janine) has less page time, yet her character resonates even more today. A woman in a ‘boy’s profession’, not only is she permanently second-guessed by her young male co-workers and editors —her relatives so wish she’d trade her awards for a husband, and the police see no reason her research into a dangerous fan should be taken seriously. Why, she’s just a… a… cheerleader with a frump, they think! But Jewel has little time for nonsense like that. She has a story to find and by god, she’ll follow it where she must —even all the way to a dangerous confrontation at night in a cemetery…

This is not a perfect novel, but it is more than worth a look —far better than one might expect, really.

The Fan (1977)

- The Fan. Bob Randall. Broadway star Sally Ross is at the height of her career —some might suggest, about to start declining. As she’s getting ready for a new show, she keeps herself entertained with the antics of her lively secretary, her witty ex-husband, a new boy-toy… oh, yeah, and that really devoted fan who writes almost daily. This fan does seem to think he’s actually more intimate with Sally than he could possibly be. But surely that’s just exaggeration. He can’t possibly be one of those deranged fanatics you hear about on the news… right..?

Excellent epistolary thriller. While the story is something you have heard a million times, it’s all in the execution. Vivid characters, taut suspense, and the author’s talent for playing with the readers’ expectations all keep it afloat. Randall is no Ira Levin but boy, does he come close in the best moments. 

What stays with one about this book, reading it in 2020, is not only how the subject remains sadly relevant, but how this late 70’s book completely destroys certain clichés we have come to expect from the genre. But it’s not because of subversions: It’s because the story feels grounded in reality. Specifically, this stalker is no evil genius constantly out-smarting the police. He is an ordinary entitled, hateful man. Even his earlier letters already hint at the level of delusion he’s submerged in, and as the story advances he quickly reveals all of the prejudices one has come to expect from his type —he is violently homophobic, quite racist, the kind of young white man who is convinced he is owed everything by women, and flies off the handle every time he’s reminded that they do not. 

He does keep escaping —because the police, also like in real life, simply do not take threats (particularly against women and minorities) all that seriously until it is far too late and too much damage has already been done. It can be at once humorous and chilling to see how much time they spend combing New York for a “Douglas Green” when he signs his letters “Douglas Breen” and his early letters came with his full address!! 

But also like in a Levin thriller, the dark comedy of manners slowly becomes a chiller, all the way to the kind of brutal kick-in-the-gut twist ending that is so characteristic of 70’s genre fiction. 

This was Randall’s debut novel (it’s so well crafted, you really couldn’t tell), and hopefully the start of a good career (he has a few other genre titles, but I have yet to read any of them). Quite recommended.