The Fanatic is a 2019 film directed by Limp Biscuit (I refuse to spell it like that) frontman Fred Durst. Working behind the camera and off the stage, Durst embodies the roving spirit of changing career lanes, turning him into the thinking man’s Rob Zombie.
That being said, he is a terrible director and his movie, The Fanatic, is worse.
Sadly not based on The Fan, the Wesley Snipes/Robert De Niro baseball fandom-film from 1996, the movie is all about the crazed fandom (femidom?) of movie nerds, comic-book geeks and very stinky horror fans in general.
It depicts L.A. as a land of celluloid dreams caustic shithole that drearily gleams in the broken spotlight. John Travolta, on his third or fourth comeback, is Moose, a street performer with Hollywood’s version of autism. In his bad haircut, he is a “celebrity” impersonator as a London “bobby” policeman.
But, in reality, he’s the No. 1 fan of genre actor Hunter Dunbar (Devon Sawa). He is fanatical about him, if you will.
Moose meets Dunbar at a Hollywood memorabilia store for an autograph that, in Moose’s mind, is a meet-cute moment. Wiping the fantasies away, he is a truly pushy fan — but Dunbar is just as worse as a B-grade celebrity.
They have words, which end with Dunbar saying he will autograph a dejected Moose “with his fists.” Ow. Wanting a do-over, Moose starts stalking him, using a star map to find his house.
Eventually, after attempting to strangle a dirty magician, he accidentally kills Dunbar’s maid. Though sad about it, Moose — or, perhaps, Travolta — runs around with fake antlers, takes a dump, uses Dunbar’s toothbrush and takes a selfie while kissing Dunbar’s sleeping head, which I guess is kind of sweet.
Realizing that Moose has been in his house, Dunbar pumps the Limp Biscuit (once again, I refuse to spell it like that) in his car. Much like one of Durst’s unlistenable songs, the finale is well-done trash, but in the end, it’s still trash.
This film was made with the association of Redbox. Not wanting to spend the $1.99 for a rental, I saw this on Amazon Prime for free and, well, it was interesting to revisit Travolta’s career … Durst’s, not so much.
Either way, someone owes me $1.99.
While most of the actors are grocery-store brand, Travolta is a big name brand, but one on the clearance shelf. His unwanted performance is a hilarious to both the clinically sane and mentally ill people, feeling like one long joke that no one gets.
But as a director, Durst is dangerously terrible to all people. The movie plays like it were Durst’s vapid handshake to the “meaningful” world of prestige pictures, yet everything about it takes it to broken levels of comic derision because, well, it’s Fred fucking Durst.
In other words, this Fanatic needs to go back to his mom’s basement and shut the door, playing “Break Stuff” while ferociously masturbating. —Louis Fowler