So there it is, really. Two decades encapsulated in two indelible pieces of ephemera: the red-swimsuit Farrah Fawcett poster, a field of blast-white teeth framed by feathered blonde hair — a mainstay of the 1970s — and Michael Jackson’s Thriller album, a disc housing songs you know by heart.
With Farrah, we knew it was coming. She made her living less as an actress than a professional provocateur, first with her sole season on Charlie’s Angels, then with the poster, then with her bid for serious acting acclaim once she’d been relegated to pure cheesecake status. In the ’90s she posed nude in Playboy to show that sexiness was more than an accessory for girls under 25.
Then in recent years it was her struggle with cancer, a fact she didn’t try to hide, culminating with a candid special on NBC last month that documented her ups and downs. The public held out hope, said a prayer, kept their fingers crossed. But in the end we knew the grim reality that lay ahead. For an industry that prides itself on looking its best, Farrah Fawcett’s invitation to the world to walk that dark road with her will stand as perhaps her most provocative — and most courageous — act.
With Michael Jackson … well, nobody expected this.
