I'm huge fan of "The Fan." It captures such a forgotten, nonexistent NYC. At the time, these kind of stalker/killer films had not been done 1,000 times so there was some freshness and thrill to them. Lauren Bacall is doing the whole grande dame of the theater that honestly couldn't have been much of a stretch for her. I agree wit the poster upthread that said someone should really incorporate "Hearts, Not Diamonds" into a cabaret act. I'm actually going to suggest it to a friend of mine who's currently performing on B'way. It's so camp that it reminds me of one of the songs Meryl Streep might've sung in "Songbird!" the musical inside "Death Becomes Her."

R52, I had the utter displeasure of seeing Gordon Willis' Windows based on your link. The movie is kind of the "'Cruising' for Lesbians, a film that was cited by The Celluloid Closet as almost virulently homophobic and protested by several gay rights groups immediately upon its 1980 release. It was only released on VHS in Europe and is hard to track down, although you were able to find it, in its entirety, on YouTube. The movie follows Emily Hollander who, in the opening scene, is overtaken by a home intruder upon entering her home, teased and taunted with a knife down her throat and then finally raped. The cop investigating her attack (played by Joe Cortese) helps her find the attacker and her neighbor and friend, Andrea, (Elizabeth Ashley) provides comfort and support in the days/weeks that follow.

...except, in a later scene, Andrea is seen sipping a glass of wine and listening to an audio recording of Emily's attack which she has clearly orchestrated. And so sets off a Sapphic "Fatal Attraction" scenario with the creepy Andrea renting an apartment across the city from Emily's new place and watching her through a telescope, clearly getting off on every delicious moment.

Besides featuring one of the most ridiculous sequences I think I've ever witnessed on film (Emily gets into a cab to discover it's being driven by her rapist (!), asks to stop to use a payphone to presumably call the police and then GETS BACK IN THE CAB so that her attacker can then be apprehended by cops up ahead), the movie fails to offer a reason why anyone, let alone someone as well-off and seemingly intelligent as Andrea is, would be obsessed with the meek, stuttering, utterly unremarkable Emily. Talia Shire apparently thought she was still playing shy Adrian Balboa. And Elizabeth Ashley goes into some type of hyperventilating attack at the climax of the film that is completely laughable. It's almost hard to call something like this "homophobic." The script is too bumblingly stupid to be in service of those kind of intentions. Misogynistic? Absolutely. No better displayed than when Emily is made to give oral sex to a knife in a scene that goes on so long, it becomes uncomfortable.

What is truly worthy about this film and why I'd go so far as to suggest it to such an erudite crowd as yourselves, is the picture postcard lusciousness of its photography, especially when framed by the titular windows. In a kind of Who's Who of 1970's cinema, Gordon Willis, famed cinematographer of The Godfather, All the President's Men, etc., directed and photographed it (and needless to say, this was the first and last film he directed), Mel Bourne provided art direction and Ennio Morricone created the laconic score. The stunning shots of the Twin Towers, the Brooklyn Bridge and the rowdy new NYC streets are a send-back to a New York long gone.

Shire, Ashley, the picture itself, its screenplay and Willis all received Razzie nominations in the first year those were handed out. Also, watch for a quick Kay Medford scene as Emily's creepy new neighbor who lets her use her phone halfway through the picture. Medford passed away four months after the film was released.

The film can also boast being the "first film of the 1980's" as, I believe, it was the first official release of 1980.

If it's 2 o'clock in the morning and you're slightly buzzed, I can think of a lot worse things you could watch. So bad, it's almost fun.