Best of Writer Vixen
I feel strangely sad about Farrah Fawcett's death. She was such a huge star during a formative period of my life. Growing up in the south, in the 1970’s, there were no feminine role models showing us how
not to turn into our stay-at-home moms.
When Charlie’s Angels exploded on the scene it was a revelation to adolescent girls everywhere. Silly as the premise was, it showed women living on their own terms, creating independent lives born of their own desires and abilities. If that sounds a bit overblown for a typically implausible, air-headed Aaron Spelling creation, that just shows you how desperately we were seeking road maps to the women we sensed we could become, if only we could chart the route.
Farrah’s character, Jill Munroe, was successful in two male-dominated careers. Okay, so they were auto racing and boutique private investigation, but at least she wasn’t languishing in the pink ghetto. She held her own in her chosen profession, without clinging to a man or sacrificing her femininity. And if you think that’s no big deal, it’s because you didn’t grow up looking at Gloria Steinem, and then at your depressed, angry mother, thinking, These are my choices?
We forget (or never knew) that Farrah embarked on her career nearly a decade before Charlie turned her into a giggly, jiggly P.I. Seeing her turn up, unexpectedly, on the odd rerun of
I Dream of Jeannie,
Three’s a Crowd, or
Mayberry R.F.D. is like spotting Marilyn Monroe as a party-scene extra in
All About Eve. Surprising. Delightful. A little disconcerting.
She constantly surprised. First, we were surprised at how much we liked this bubbly, blonde confection who somehow radiated sizzling sex appeal right along with wholesome girl-next-door-itude. Then, in her late 30’s and early 40’s—when we thought we already knew all that she was—she delivered the biggest surprise of all. It turned out she could actually act!
In The Burning Bed, Extremities (after performing it on Broadway), and Small Sacrifices we couldn’t take our eyes off her. Portraying characters—monsters, even—whom we thought we had nothing in common with, she somehow located their essential humanity and then vicariously took us to places we hoped never to visit in person.
She had her problems. Although Farrah clearly loved her son, she wasn’t a very good mother. She had lousy taste in men. She had violent relationships. In recent years she frequently turned up in odd places doing bizarre things. There were rumors of drug addiction, alcoholism and mental illness, all attempts to explain her odd behavior. Like us all, she was a mixed bag of charm, talent, and personal challenges. Unlike the rest of us, her issues were played out too publicly, reminding us, as she often said, “I’m no angel.”
I wish I could say, “Farrah, we hardly knew ye.” But the fact is, our paparazzi-driven pop culture ensured that we knew way too much about her. Chatting it up with David Letterman a few years ago, he noted her age and then remarked how surprised he was that she didn’t lie about it.
“Why don’t you lie about it?” he asked.
“Because it’s too late to start,” she ruefully replied. “Everybody already knows.”
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UPDATE: Check out Sean Kinsell's excellent and insightful exploration of Farrah's impact on pop culture over at Deep Glamour: "Farrah Fawcett and the All-American Illusion"
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