There’s no denying that the rise of Eminem was a once-in-a-generation cultural phenom, especially when the poster boy for white rap up until that point was Vanilla Ice. His early albums instantly became hard cultural currency, not only for their abrasive, Dr Dre-produced beats, but for Eminem’s (real name Marshall Mathers) ability to toggle between arch provocateur and earnest preacher.
Steven Leckart’s film Stans takes its name from one of Eminem’s early and most popular singles, which tells of an obsessive fan whose life takes a dismal turn when the star does not respond to his torrent of toadying fanmail. The concept here is that the Eminem story is narrated via those “stans”, and rather than the usual rogue’s gallery of rich friends and half-bored professional collaborators, we get the wide-eyed testimony of a clutch of people whose lives have been shaped and inspired by Em and his music.
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It’s a cute idea, and one that promises a much-needed refresh of the done-to-death “Behind The Music” format. Yet the stans themselves are not massively interesting, and the film is happy to frame them as whimsically eccentric nerds rather than anything more psychologically problematic (which would confirm to a truer definition of the term “stan”.)
It’s fascinating to hear the origin story trotted out again, and being reminded of how painfully shy Eminem was in those early days. In his promos he would exude bile, confidence and showmanship, but doing some standard glossy TV promo and suddenly he’s a monosyllabic ball of nerves; you can almost see him willing himself to disappear. The film gives ample focus to his very public breakdown and time spent recuperating.
Eminem’s involvement in the film as producer means that, unlike the many sacred cows at which he takes aim in his lyrics, there’s no room for any criticism of the man himself. Indeed, the fact that his records are still commercially successful seems ample justification for the fact that he’s trotting out the same tired Jekyll and Hyde duel persona schtick as he was in the late ’90s (with added anti-woke trimmings, natch). It would’ve been nice to have a single dissenting voice in the mix, in the spirit of the subject, but the film’s title suggests that no poopers are allowed into this party.