cinema

They say confession is good for the soul, so I'm outing myself: I am... I am... I am a Farrah Fawcett fan.

God, that felt good. I'll do it again: I am a Farrah Fawcett fan... but not of her appearance in Man of the House, which ought to be retitled Stench of the Toilet, because that's where the fabulous Farrah's career is. Which is so unfair: despite startling, vivid and altogether flamingly feminist performances in Extremities, The Burning Bed and Murder in Texas, the overwhelming critical perception of the ex-Mrs Majors remains stubbornly mid-Seventies - big teeth, big hair, working for a disembodied voice called Charlie. On some dumb (but surprisingly bitter) level the West still hasn't forgiven her for refusing to be an Angel, for refusing to be the uncomplicated pin-up that her best-selling poster promised: for refusing, basically, to play ball. And speaking of balls, three strikes and you're out. Hollywood still hates her for once being massive, and then, the contrary bitch, bombing out in a trio of big budget-flicks: Somebody Killed Her Husband, Sunburn and Saturn III, pictures in which the tempered determination behind the baking soda smile showed and turned off the audience.

Yet despite the occasional lapse of taste (Man of the House and that inexplicable long-term relationship with Ryan O'Neal), FF seems happier than most stars. If things had "worked out" to the traditional pattern, right now she would be just another sex object past her prime. Instead, she did what she, not the world, wanted and is an actress of note... even if everybody refuses to note it.