Annie's already exhibited signs of dangerous behavior even before Paul's latest, final Misery book is released; reading its depiction of Misery's death drives her over the edge. Her possessiveness extends to Paul's creation. Writer Stephen King's source material plays to an author's fear not just of insane fans, but also of failure: the longer an artist continues to please his audience, the higher their expectations for subsequent work become. Paul claims he killed off Misery because he was tired of writing the character, but he might also be tired of the pressure that comes with living up to fans' exacting standards. One imagines a prolific author like King meeting women like Annie in his nightmares: people who love his work so much they think they understand it better than he does. With her "I know what's right attitude," emotional outbursts, and contempt for artists who displease her, Annie now reads as a prototypical (if unusually aggressive) internet fanboy stereotype.

A few years before "Misery," Martin Scorsese explored the world of obsessive fandom with a different sort of prescience in 1982's "The King of Comedy." Its protagonist doesn't want to possess his idol, but rather replace him. His name is Rupert Pupkin (Robert De Niro). He lives in his mother's basement with a tape recorder full of tacky jokes, a closet full of tackier suits and a life-size mockup of talk show host Jerry Langford's studio. Rupert's not so much in love with Langford as much as the idea of him, coveting his swanky lifestyle and fame. Much like "Misery"'s Annie, Rupert does kidnap Jerry, but in his case it's not simply to keep him forever, but rather to use him as a bargaining chip in order to attain his ultimate goal: a guest spot as a comedian on Jerry's show.

The previous obsessive fan movies we've discussed are told from the perspective of the victim. But Scorsese, always drawn to intense, interior loners, focuses instead on Rupert, taking us inside his mind to show the chilling way his fixation warps an unsatisfactory reality into a more suitable, livable fiction. After Rupert "saves" Jerry from an unruly mob outside his studio, and Jerry politely but dismissively offers to listen to his act, he inflates the encounter into a budding friendship. Scorsese delineates for the audience the line between Rupert's real and imagined lives, but doesn't let us see whether Rupert understands the difference. At one point, Rupert envisions a meeting with Jerry that ends with an invitation to join him at his home for a working weekend in the country. Soon after, Rupert actually goes to Jerry's house, barges in, and makes himself at home. When Jerry shows up to kick him out, he alludes to the invitation he received in his head. But is that a fast-talked excuse or a delusion? It's never quite clear.

Rupert was a man ahead of his time. Nowadays, he wouldn't need to threaten to kill a celebrity to get on television; "American Idol" puts people twice as crazy and just as fame-starved on their show with dependable regularity. By way of explanation, Rupert ends his set on "The Jerry Langford Show" with this statement: "Tomorrow, you'll think I was crazy. But look, I figure it this way -- better to be king for a night than a schmuck for a lifetime." Wouldn't the William Hungs of the world agree?

The only truly terrifying thing about Rupert is the way, like Evelyn, he can't take a hint. He uses Jerry's pseudo-invite as a means to repeatedly foist himself upon his show's staff, refusing to leave or accept defeat simply because he hasn't heard it from Jerry (even when Jerry says it, it takes a while to get through). Though he threatens to use violence, Rupert's not actually a dangerous guy; the gun he holds on Jerry even turns out to be a water pistol. But when De Niro got another (all-too-literal) stab at the maniac fan genre he overcompensated.

In Tony Scott's "The Fan," he plays a kook named Gil Renard, who follows the San Francisco Giants with excessive zeal. How excessive? He even injures his own son to catch a foul ball at a game. Most of the characters in the films we've discussed here are mentally ill, but make no mistake: Gil is friggin' crazy. He's also a knife salesman, a mighty convenient profession for a man who's about to snap and go on a killing spree. After he loses his job (but not, apparently, his inventory), Gil stops throwing hunting knives at the bugs in his crummy apartment and begins selecting human targets, including the rival of his favorite player, Bobby Rayburn. Like Rupert from "The King of Comedy" and Annie in "Misery," Gil insinuates himself into his hero's life through his own act of heroism; in this case, he rescues Rayburn’s son from drowning. In return, Gil gets to wear the superstar's jersey and play baseball with him, and kidnaps Rayburn’s son in order to demand that Rayburn hit and then dedicate a home run to him in the next day's game. What did I say? Gil is friggin' crazy.