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In The Fan (1981), Lauren Bacall plays Sally Ross, a veteran actress being stalked by a loner record-store clerk. The stalker, 20-something Douglas (Michael Biehn), starts off the movie simply a slightly worrisomely devoted follower, regularly writing overly heartfelt letters to his favorite actress in his cramped apartment littered with decades-spanning Ross memorabilia. His letters, though, go ignored by his idol — any fan mail goes to her secretary, Belle (Maureen Stapleton), who typically responds with a cookie-cutter reply and a signed photo — and the more he goes unacknowledged the angrier he gets. He fancies himself “different” from a regular fan; he considers himself too special for this “treatment.” 

His fury doesn’t evolve harmlessly, like, say, throwing out his many photos of Ross and slowly drifting from his fixation. Instead, the shunning unlocks dormant murderousness. He begins tracking down various people in Ross’ life supposedly standing in the way of their getting together (he first comes for Belle while she’s taking the subway home) and confirms his delusional frustrations with a straight razor. 

This all can only lead to a confrontation between Douglas and Ross — whom he by then would rather kill than kiss — though when it comes it lacks a real jolt. The Fan wants to have it a couple of ways. It wants to be a somewhat appreciable character study about an aging actress making do with a career that, while still successful, lacks the hot-to-the-touchness it once had. But it also wants to be a stylish slasher movie. It succeeds as neither; it wraps up feeling incomplete. 

The more traditionally drama-inflected Ross scenes, tending either to find her deeply lonely from her recent divorce from a husband she still clearly loves (James Garner) or putting all her effort into a Broadway show whose song-and-dance numbers are difficult for an actress at her age, is deficient in any real fullness, despite Bacall’s best efforts. (The actress was reportedly unhappy upon learning the movie, pitched to her as a more earnest look at a middle-aged actress’ life, would feature so much sensationalistic violence; you notice, in some moments, disappointment glistering in her eyes.) And when The Fan leans most into horror, there isn’t much suspense anywhere. Director Edward Bianchi guides the requisite stalk-and-slash sequences so perfunctorily you sense an impatience to get them over with. The movie has flashes of inspired style; it’s watchable. But its distinct parts don’t cooperate as one cogent, dramatically fulfilling movie. It plays like prestige and exploitation filmmaking in a tussle. These modes ultimately agree to disagree for now.