After years of being an under-the-radar hidden gem within his illustrious filmography, The King of Comedy is regarded as one of Robert De Niro‘s most impressive feats as an actor. A critical and commercial bomb upon release in 1983, the pitch-black satire by Martin Scorsese about celebrity obsession and the unhealthy drive for notoriety slowly developed mass admiration decades after its release, so much so that it served as the inspiration for a billion-dollar franchise blockbuster in Joker. While cinephiles and casual moviegoers were reclaiming The King of Comedy as a secret masterpiece, another De Niro-starring film by a beloved director about toxic fandom still awaits cultural reappraisal. The Fan, the Tony Scott-directed movie about a depraved baseball fan who stalks an all-star ballplayer, is the tonal opposite of Scorsese’s quiet but potent film, but they both identify fandom as a predatory phenomenon.

‘The Fan’ Stylistically and Tonally Counters ‘The King of Comedy’

If our culture hadn’t taken such an ugly turn in our relationship with the celebrity lifestyle and fame, perhaps The King of Comedy would’ve been remembered as a critically derided misfire by Martin Scorsese. The film’s lasting power is in its prescient commentary, which has only increased in urgency with the rise of parasocial relationships on social media and the instantaneous virality that encourages outlandish behavior. If The King of Comedy was a polite warning of the degradation of society, then The Fan is a reflection of society on the brink of insanity. Rather than stand-up comedy, the 1996 film is set in the world of Major League Baseball in San Francisco and a knife dealer, Gil Renard (De Niro), an ardent supporter of his hometown Giants. Gil becomes enraptured by the Giants’ recent free agent acquisition, Bobby Rayburn (Wesley Snipes), a three-time MVP. Gil goes to extreme measures to receive reverent affection from Rayburn, but when he doesn’t reciprocate, the fanatic spirals into sadism.

We’re getting a completely different side of two Hollywood icons.

The late Tony Scott, denounced during his time as an all-flash and no-substance filmmaker who popularized the slick MTV-inspired visual aesthetic of the 1980s, has been retroactively celebrated as a cinematic master. Perhaps it’s because most modern blockbusters don’t have a fraction of his stylistic panache, but Scott’s films have nonetheless become worthy of thoughtful reconsideration, from Top Gun to Déjà Vu. Still, The Fan, critically panned in its time, hasn’t received its due as a cult classic. Although his body of work is nothing to scoff at, Scott was anything but a subtle director, and subtlety is the key to The King of Comedy‘s brilliance. Scorsese curbs his virtuosic filmmaking seen in Taxi Driver and Raging Bull to emphasize that Rupert Pupkin (De Niro) walks among us in everyday life and exhibits his depraved behavior in plain sight.

Tony Scott’s Maximalist Style Emphasizes the Toxic Nature of Fandom in ‘The Fan’

Scott, on the other hand, was never going to be seen experimenting with Dogme 95 levels of minimalist craft. All of his hallmarks — saturated colors, canted angles, and rapid-fire editing — are present in The Fan. The heightened intensity of the filmmaking mirrors the twisted worldview of Gil Renard, who is an unquestionable, morally-corrupt menace, whereas Rupert can be viewed as a peculiar but ultimately harmless outsider. The dry, acidic sense of humor in Scorsese’s film is substituted for an all-out assault on the senses in The Fan, which arguably led to its lowly 37% score on Rotten Tomatoes. De Niro is in full gonzo mode, having a blast while playing a broad riff on his psychotic characters of the past, and Wesley Snipes embodies the stereotypical characteristics of a “diva” athlete irked by the incessant jeering of fans. As the director who mastered the studio-friendly high-concept structure, The Fan lacks the methodical pacing and cerebral reflections on social commentary present in The King of Comedy and instead opts to become a familiar thriller with a climactic finale.

It may seem reductive to call The Fan a “dumb” version of The King of Comedy, but its in-your-face attitude underlines Scott’s ideas on celebrity obsession. “Stan” culture doesn’t present itself with dignity like Rupert Pupkin, who wears a three-piece suit and displays a deferential affectation. Rather, obsessive fans scream and yell in a ballpark filled with a thousand other rabid fans at athletes they feel entitled to publicly ridicule. In an age where everyone thinks they’re close to celebrities because they follow them on social media, The Fan taps into the desperate desire for recognition. Athletes, with the legalization of sports betting and the constant media cycle, feel especially vulnerable to fan entitlement. Today, there’s no mystery surrounding the toxicity of fan culture, making the aggressive and hostile attitude of The Fan the ideal reflection of celebrity obsession — even if it leans into the absurd.