Getting Intimate: A Look Back at 9 1/2 Weeks

In earlier viewings of 9 ½ Weeks, I didn’t consider it to be a particularly great movie. This is possibly because the film's finale falls a little flat. Watching an erotic 80s film through modern eyes can be a little jarring, because it can feel like we’re possibly no longer at this point in the conversation anymore. And yet I’ve always found Adrian Lyne’s film to be a continuing fascination. There’s something so base about the film’s concept. A man and a woman meet. They begin a courtship and soon start to explore themselves physically. One individual pushes the other's limits so far that it leads to an emotional breaking point. The explanation for this character’s willingness to degrade the other still feels cheap. Yet fast-forward to 2015 and the release of 50 Shades of Grey, and the poignancy becomes more apparent. In this recent rewatch of the film, there’s frustration at the abruptness within the 9 ½ Weeks’ final exchange. This time, I believed earnestly in what one character was doing. While an emotional immaturity with another is felt with more starkness.

9 ½ Weeks is a psychological drama that plays out in a way one would perhaps expect from an erotic feature from that decade. It’s a film in which the emotional burden is weighed upon the female lead, while the sexually aggressive male city trader seems to get off lightly. This is something that feels more explicit in Lyne's Fatal Attraction, released a year after 9 ½ Weeks. The sexual politics within the film never really allows a true sense of liberation with Kim Basinger’s carnally naive Gallery owner. With a sense of emotional punishment being felt for the character as Rourke’s John Gray ups the ante of their sexual parlour games. Lyne’s treatment of Basinger is well documented, with the director using psychological manipulation to capture the heightened emotions he demanded from his lead actress. Using tactics that no doubt would be more than frowned upon today. Lyne obtained the results he wanted from Basinger via acts of cruelty. The type of production malice that helped sow the seeds of films like this. Features seeped in sin and shame.  It’s difficult to shake off the uglier side of films like this and, of course, The Last Tango in Paris, knowing how the filmmakers pushed past the line with their female collaborators to gain results.

The book that 9 ½ Weeks is based on is a much bleaker affair in comparison to the film. Written by Austrian-American author Ingeborg Day, the book was a semi-autobiographical novel published under the rather ordinary nom de plume of Elizabeth McNeill. The memoir details a brief, sexually violent relationship between an Art Gallery owner and a Wall Street stockbroker. What starts as a passionate affair quickly descends into tragedy as the trader’s demands start to escalate into brutal aggression. Starker turns are taken in the book with scenes such as the gallery owner being painfully tied up within her lover’s extravagant home and robbing a man at knifepoint under his orders. In the novel, the story climaxes with the gallery owner enduring a nervous breakdown and being sectioned in a mental hospital, never seeing the trader again. 9 ½ Weeks is one of only two books Day wrote. The other was about her father’s Nazi past. She never spoke publicly about 9 ½ Weeks.

The film adaptation of 9 ½ Weeks may be flawed, but it’s safe to say that the rougher tone of the book would have been far harder to display on the screen. In England, the book isn’t readily accessible in print without some digging. However, reading about the novel on what could be found on the internet displays a rather affecting piece. Something that doesn’t say glossy Hollywood picture. Surprisingly, Lyne crafts something as approachable as he does.  His film is often as playful as it is deceptive. Lyne is more than happy to feature scenes of a lively, thriving, multicultural New York City. Basinger’s Elizabeth dines in Italian eateries, shops at market stalls, and Chinatown meat markets. Her bopping to Reggae music is beyond corny, but, along with her ethnic shopping, also helps imply a curator that indulges in culture outside of her norm. It helps you believe in her job, and it’s padding which builds a character with far more depth than we’d perhaps like to believe. Basinger, in a breakthrough role, sells her early scenes well, ensuring the later emotional sequences are felt with a great sense of vulnerability.  When John is introduced, a sliver of intensity is added to the proceedings. However, the stockbroker’s charm is enough to play their early encounters off like a meet-cute. This rom-com vibe reoccurs in a later scene when John and Elizabeth interact with some kids on the boardwalk.

But a sense of danger often looms on the edges of the screen. Early on, while on a date, John takes Elizabeth to a nearby friend’s house. As they stand in the bedroom, John gives the implication that Elizabeth could be in danger of sexual assault. It’s a marked moment. One that more than hints at John’s darker impulses. Another sequence featuring a fairground ride also hints at some of John’s later indulgences. John asks the ride operator to leave Elizabeth at the top of a Ferris wheel. It’s a situation that teeters between fear, excitement, and a strong sense of control being abandoned. Moments of jest or harmless pranks always feel like boundary testing in the hands of John. The film, possibly unconsciously, illustrates the palpable sense of anxiety felt by modern women. A sense that nothing is wholly playful. With every situation being tinged with risk. 

What becomes more concerning is when Elizabeth, clearly shocked by the threat, does little to distance herself from John afterwards. Already intoxicated by his allure, her attraction to him clouds her sense of judgment. It’s here where the grey area emerges. It becomes clear that Elizabeth is deeply attracted to how being with John allows her to vacate the controlled, composed real life she usually inhabits. This is what makes the film compelling. Female desire is so minimised on screen that when you see a film which toys with the unspoken social boundaries of what’s expected of “what women may want” in English-speaking films, it’s still quietly shocking. 9 ½ Weeks would join well with Jane Campion’s In the Cut (2003) or Looking for MrGoodbar (1977), with how much those films are unapologetic in their female protagonists’ attraction to danger.   

It is why the film’s most notable imitator, Fifty Shades of Grey (2015), pales in comparison to 9 ½ Weeks, even despite having near identical characteristics. The story formulated by E.L. James is explicit yet sanitised. Shade’s female protagonist is a docile and naïve cypher, for whom any true interiority is lacking. Basinger’s Elizabeth is buttoned up and repressed – she considers her friend gross for the possibility of her owning a vibrator – but as a person, she has emotional depth. Fifty Shades as a franchise enjoys the aesthetic pleasures of its simple sexual fantasies, but is uninterested in establishing any emotional resonance, while the trilogy of films wraps itself within a deeply unserious thriller plot, which removes any real idea of the series making any sort of commentary on relationships at all.

One of the cardinal sins Fifty Shades makes is in its unfun sexual sequences. It never once grasps that its protagonist is intoxicated by her potentially dangerous partner. Nor does it give its male counterpart the roughish charm which would make the relationship believable. But what’s far worse is that Fifty shades never truly indulges the idea that Anastasia enjoys any of Christian Grey’s particular interests. I won’t speak for everyone regarding whether sex scenes are titillating or necessary, but I will say the sex scenes in 9 ½ Weeks often look like a couple who are enjoying the intimacy they share. For all the sexual equipment that litter Christen Grey’s red room, for all the discussions about his sexual taste, Fifty Shades presents sex as clinical and mechanical. It’s quite cynically “packaged”. Online arguments about whether sex scenes should be in movies are appropriate here. Should we be surprised that such scenes are viewed as “cringe” when these modern sex scenes view people as superficially transactional? Sex in films like Fifty Shades is rarely presented with the intimacy or emotional connection they claim to aspire to. They mirror the viewpoints of modern dating, where people are determined by their “value”. Fifty Shades is perhaps the most egregious example of modern relationships where superficial status and value are seemingly deemed more important than emotional resonance or actual chemistry. The most playful scene in the first Fifty Shades film is a contract negotiation.

A lot of 9 ½ weeks’ eroticism is not only personable but also centred around pleasures that feel more relatable as well as tangible. They are also shot with a more convincing sense of sensuality of the activity as the focus. Lyne’s time as an ad man really makes its mark here. He is selling a good time. One of 9 ½ Weeks' most notable scenes involves a blindfolded Elizabeth being fed various items of food by John. The mischievousness of the scene is felt in its choice of shots, often framing Elizabeth’s lips as different foodstuffs are placed in her mouth. The sequence is shot mostly in close-up. The food is suggestively textured. With many of the items having an element of messiness to them. There’s also a sense that Elizabeth hasn’t a clue what might be given to her next. The Newbeats’ bouncy hit ‘Bread and Butter’ is the mood music. Whatever Elizabeth is fed could be sticky, sweet, sour, or spicy, but importantly, the scene makes simple sensory pleasure sexy. They don’t have sex, but the scene sells the game as just as enjoyable.

The other infamous scene involves Elizabeth stripping to Joe Cocker’s ‘Leave Your Hat On’. Basinger’s raunchy strutting to the song is, in no doubt, appealing to most red-blooded men. She gives it her all, and her dancing ensures the scene never rings false. However, what makes the scene is the reaction shots of Mickey Rourke. Looking like a naughty schoolboy, the scene is effective because Rourke’s John’s expression jumps from bashful to vulnerable, to impish, then back again. He doesn’t look at her like a leery drunk at a strip club. He watches her like a man truly captivated by the woman dancing in front of him. Things like these reaction shots pinpoint what so many other films of its kind miss. The sex is there with them, but not the sensitivity. There’s a sincerity here that is completely lost in other “sexy” movies.

When John’s abusiveness is shown for what it is, the film becomes problematic. While an awkward word to use, it best describes the most potent aspect of 9 ½ weeks. Once John is seen using Elizabeth as an object, the connection between the couple and the audience becomes rocky. In Fifty Shades of Grey, Christian Grey’s money elevates him. Making him more eligible despite his sexual appetites. In 9 ½ Weeks, John uses his money differently. The relationship between him and Elizabeth reaches a low rung when John, a Wall Street broker, goads Elizabeth to crawl and pick up money on all fours. Elizabeth rejects this, finding it too demeaning. This was also the scene Basinger had to perform in the audition to gain the role. Something that left her emotionally distressed. There isn’t such an explicit scene like this in Fifty Shades of Grey. However, the way the character of Anastasia is quickly wooed by Grey’s billionaire status and riches feels like a stark contrast between 1986 and where we might be from 2015 and beyond.

I had originally considered writing a piece about Rourke in a heap of his earlier films because he was so engaging to watch. However, his ousting on Celebrity Big Brother had me consider otherwise. His early work is a constant reminder of how appealing he was as a talent. Balancing roguish charm with something far darker behind the slight smile.  At first, Rourke’s velvety smooth voice is soft; you wouldn’t believe he’d say boo to a ghost. Then at times, he stares at Elizabeth with a sensitivity as though they’re the last two people on earth. Yet that same glare can also suggest that he would be ok with being the only person around. Zalaman King, the infamous producer of this film, as well as many other soft-core features, stated in an interview with film scholar Peter Lehman in 2006 (also in a 2017 article for The Telegraph): “Nobody wanted Mickey because he was a struggle. Everyone thought he was a thug. Mickey, to me, was always beautiful, always dangerous, and always charming. He also is not frightened of women, and women can sense that, and he’s got that animal instinct.

Said instinct is what makes his depiction of John so arresting. That Rourke was compared to Marlon Brando was no joke. It’s easy to see why in films like 9 ½ Weeks. A quintessential rogue of the highest order. His performance here makes it understandable why Elizabeth has trouble with him, so connected he is to her sexual awakening. The magnetism is like Brando’s Stanley Kowalski. With John, being with the bad boy can make Elizabeth feel so good.

When Elizabeth begins to reject John’s demands, it’s a sign that this is not transactional to her and that she can’t be bought. Similar tensions arise when John books a hotel room, blindfolds Elizabeth, and hires a sex worker to sleep with her. We can stand our ground on our modern, sanctimonious views about sex work another day, but what is happening here is that Elizabeth is demanding that their relationship just isn’t in this transactional arena. There is a limit to what they do. To Elizabeth, John’s actions begin to feel less about desire or boundary pushing, for the benefit of both. For her, she is seen as less of a human being and more of an object.

Where 9 ½ Weeks stumbles is when trying to convey clarity to the emotional weight that is being placed upon Elizabeth. A running subplot involving Elizabeth setting up an exhibition for an elderly painter named Farnsworth stamps the impression that someone like this artist, whose absent-mindedness appears to be teetering on the verge of senility, can see the true woman where John cannot. This all seems to come across in a muddled heap. As if the film wasn’t sure where to place it in the movie. Meanwhile, John’s controlling behaviour weighs so heavily on the film that when he finally shows Elizabeth a hint of vulnerability, the acknowledgement comes far too late for any contemplation.

Interestingly, like Fifty Shades of Grey, John is like Christian in that they try to compartmentalise their indulgence of darker sexual habits in ways that seemingly only make them appear more dismissive of their female partners. The finale of 9 ½ Weeks feels hastened and muddled. Is that all John has to say about what he’s done to Elizabeth? His final moments feel more like indifference than regret. John is an emotionally stunted individual. Never wanting to meet Elizabeth’s friends, his wish to keep Elizabeth at home and look after her is connected more to selfishness and sexual gratification than to building a healthy relationship with Elizabeth. Strangely, the ending of the book feels more honest despite its malice. Abandoning your partner in a mental institution after psychologically breaking them via sex is callous and ugly, yet leaving them and never contacting them again, while cowardly, probably works on the page rather than on the screen, where John gives little more than a shrug and a weak semi-plea for some sort of forgiveness. If we were given nothing, it would be beyond wicked. If the film moved towards a happy conclusion, it would feel cheap. But what occurs here feels abrupt and unsure. Lyne remarked in interviews that hours of footage were left on the cutting room floor. Perhaps there was something that gave its final third more shape.

Then, of course, there is Lyne’s handling of his actors on set. Doing what he could to make Basinger feel discomfort throughout the ten-week shoot. On Lyne’s most recent feature, Deep Water, he expressed frustration with having intimacy coordinators on set, suggesting that such a role displays a lack of trust between a director and his actors. However, it is doubtful that Lyne’s methods would fly today. It also begs the question: Do we still try to humiliate and destroy performers for entertainment like this? The troubling aspect is that so much of the darker material doesn’t make 9 ½ Weeks. Making the reasoning behind Basinger’s trauma even more trivial.

That said, this is what Lyne wanted.

Said Lyne at the time: “Rather than saying here are two strange people doing perverted stuff in a posh New York apartment, I wanted it to be a movie couples might see and argue about.”

I believe 9 ½ Weeks is effective in this aim. Basinger is still more impressive here than in her award-winning turn in L.A. Confidential (1997). She has stated that despite the stress of the production, the role helped her grow as an actress. Much like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, Basinger has made peace with a challenging role, partly due to the potency she gave it. Elizabeth is a complicated individual whose awakened, specific desires both excite and build conflict within her.  These desires almost override her emotional needs in a distressing way, yet still often seem plausible. She is the earnest heart of a film, which even now is still seen by most as a hot mess of titillation over anything else. One may argue about why Elizabeth would stay in such a perilous relationship, but Rourke’s performance, along with Lyne’s mining of the chemistry between the two characters, makes it understandable in a way imitators struggle with. Modern media critique seems to be having a hand-wringing moment with sexual relationships on screen. It’s troubling to see pearl clutching at even the idea of sex being simulated on screen. Rewatching 9 ½ Weeks was a clear reminder to me of grown-up, adult entertainment, which can still be stimulating if not perfect.

Article: Radio Ga Ga - Pontypool

Grant Mazzy (Stephen McHattie) is a grouchy, wannabe shock jock who wishes he had Howard Stern’s numbers. The crabby presenter has been shipped out to Pontypool, Canada, to live out an audio exile of sorts for the rest of his broadcasting life. The probable reason might be Mazzy’s desire to stir the pot on small-time radio shows that wish for him to tell things straight. On the way to the isolated Pontypool radio station to host what should be another typical, sleepy morning show filled with school closures and snowy weather reports, he is jolted in his car by an unknown female standing outside. She calls something unintelligible to him before disappearing into the cold night. And so begins the lo-fi, high-concept of the movie Pontypool. A horror feature that had the marketing tagline “Shut up or die”.

To say too much about Pontypool effectively ruins its surprise. Released in 2008, amidst a boom period of Zombie horrors, the film stands out as the “thinking man’s Zombie film”. A movie which plays on the phrase “if words would kill”, Pontypool toys with the virility of speech. Its novel approach comes from the idea of a verbal virus.  Certain words in the English language have become stuck and corrupted within a victim in such a way that they quickly become mentally undone. The zombies in Pontypool aren’t “undead” but lean more towards the infected found in 28 Days Later.  The idea is far-fetched if thought about for too long. But isn’t that the way with horror movies? For some reason, we scrutinise them far more than other genres, even when they often have something interesting to say.

Tony Burgess, the author of the source novel Pontypool, purportedly hashed out the screen adaptation in 48 hours. Pontypool was also produced as a motion picture and radio play simultaneously, with the famous radio broadcast of War of the Worlds by Orson Welles utilised as the main inspiration. This is something which makes Pontypool stand out against the many Zombie iterations that have appeared since 2002. The use of airwave broadcast combined with the isolated location builds up a sense of paranoia. In the earlier half of the movie, Mazzy, his long-suffering producer Sydney (Lisa Houle), and their spirited technical assistant Laurel (Georgina Reilly) cannot be entirely sure of the audio reports that are coming back to them. One sequence involving our beloved BBC brings a sly commentary on how mainstream media condescends and twists the words of the little man. The trio know something is going on, and while they can’t be sure, they’re still more informed than the Journalist picked to report on what at the time could be a shaggy dog story. The reporter's ignorance plays well into Pontypool's idea of how poor communication can kill people. And with only the English language being contaminated, the film becomes a striking foreshadowing of how our brand of media virality is perhaps the most toxic.  

Mazzy, at the height of his grumpiness remarks that a pissed off listener is a wide-awake listener who isn’t going to change the channel. This comment, along with similar variations, can be found in all the films I’ve watched in this recent mini-series of articles. Such a statement felt damning in each entry. With each film suggesting that what a DJ says doesn't matter, as long as the audience is frothing at the mouth once it's said. In 2008, one could only dream of how bizarre and dangerous our misinformation would become. In 2025, five years after a global lockdown, Pontypool becomes an intriguing piece of foretelling fiction.

There’s something malicious about terms of endearment being a trigger for the virus, particularly as social media is becoming increasingly aggressive in almost all interactions. One only must look at how weaponised “therapy speak” and language around mental health have become to see that Pontypool was on to something.  It’s almost as if the film has cunningly forecasted that people will be quick to discard or disguise their words in favour of violence. It’s with this that Pontypool stands out as one of the stronger zombie features of the 00s. With seemingly more power to linger in the mind than the final entries that came from the lord of the genre, George A Romero. The world has never been more connected than it is now, and Pontypool’s concentrated effort in dismantling language is a disconcerting idea that penetrates more than the one found in Romero’s last affairs, which went for lofty themes but faltered in a way his first three ‘dead’ films thrived. Pontypool touches on something so primal that it doesn’t have to do too much to disturb. Film Critic Anton Bitel notes the film and its “paranoid way it portrays personal madness and social disintegration from the inside.” Many of Pontypool’s most unsettling moments stem from benign words that shift from being used to placate to becoming unknowing incubators of ailment.

All the wordplay is a good distraction from perhaps Pontypool’s weakest elements, such as the visuals. Granted, Pontypool's 2:35:1 ratio allows the type of cinematic close-ups that a grizzled character like Stephen McHattie doesn’t acquire often. The cinematography also has an ok eye for composition. However, as a film that is also a radio play, one can’t be too shocked by the lack of eye-catching imagery. There’s a crispy look to proceedings that earmarked many features of the early 00s and betrays its lower budget more than even its sparse, singular setting. Perhaps Pontypool’s biggest faux pas, though, is the entry of one Dr Mendez. A character briefly mentioned first in early radio reports, before squeezing through a window to become the type of info dump stock character that can derail proceedings. From a narrative perspective, Mendez makes sense. We see characters like this all the time, and he is the person who (should) fill in a few narrative blanks, drop off some exposition and prepare the audience for the second half of the film.  But Mendez’s appearance slows the film down considerably. Right at a time when the tension is beginning to build. Mendez is a character who’s too odd and vague to add anything of any true significance that couldn’t have been added in a far more entertaining way.

Despite this, Pontypool remains a fascinating creature. There’s something deeply primal about what’s at play in the film.  Negative reviews have focused on the absurdity of the film, yet Pontypool still works as a social metaphor for a social trauma we appear to be facing.  In Pontypool’s universe, words can kill you. And the person who may unlock the key to stopping such a pandemic is someone who needs to shut up the most. Shock Jocks like Mazzy have dinned out on their lack of accountability meal ticket. It is perhaps the most infuriating aspect of so much modern media. At the start, Mazzy is no different from the many broadcasters who utilise controversy as currency. Pontypool is daring enough to force such a character to pull his pants up and act. A pissed off listener may not change the channel, but Mazzy has the chance here to perform a far more considerable feat. Far removed from the cockamamie conspiracies that he often peddles. He can change the frequency.  Something I think many wish for when the world loses control.

ARTICLE: Radio Ga Ga - Private Parts

In his pomp, crude dude radio personality Howard Stern was a force to be reckoned with. In a twenty-year run with WXRK, his syndicated radio show drew in 20 million listeners at its peak. His crass antics would be a frequent source of juvenile myth and controversy. This was back when the media monoculture meant something, however. Now, in his seventies, Stern is still a decent draw on subscription-based satellite radio station, Sirius, a move made to avoid the ever-watching eye of the FCC and their broadcast regulations. Joe Rogan now rules the roost of somewhat problematic audio presenters, however, it’s difficult to see the existence of the latter without the presence of the former.

I became aware of Stern through pop culture osmosis. The DJ would turn up in shows like The Simpsons (1989 – present) and The Critic (1994-1995) without any real context of his radio controversies. His unconventional appearance and minor ridicule on certain American shows were all I knew of him at the time. Then came Private Parts. Betty Thomas’ 1997 comedy biopic of Howard Stern was one of the mid-level 90s oddities that occupied my brain space in my formative years.  Private Parts, alongside Serial Mom and The People versus Larry Flint, were movies I gleefully indulged in due to the advent of satellite TV entering the house. I watched Private Parts before I knew that Betty Thomas was the director of Stern’s quasi-fictional biography and The Brady Bunch Movie, the latter being a delightfully subversive and underappreciated comedy.  

As part of my mini-marathon of movies centred around radio, I watched Private Parts to see if it held up. Does something like a Howard Stern biopic fit into today’s fractured media era? Shock Jock Howard Stern was far more of a prominent entity back then than he is now. Then again, the idea of radio shock jocks a la Stern feels passe in an era of Andrew Tate and Joe Rogan. So, watching this nearly 30-year-old film gave me a feeling of discombobulation.

Private Parts is a product of its time of a character who now feels like a relic. Watching Stern descending from the rafters as "Fartman" during the MTV Music Awards doesn’t have the same allure as perhaps watching the scene as an adolescent. By the summer of 1997, South Park unleashed a different wave of vulgarness. Far more unrepentant in tone and by 1999 (with a movie in tow) having far more to say. Private Parts takes a lot of time to establish Stern as a far more sympathetic creature than considered by his detractors. This softening of Sterns's edges helps slot himself into a typical biopic plot. However, it feels odd, even possibly disingenuous at first, to see Stern exclaim that he’s a misunderstood artist. Particularly when considering this is a DJ who openly mocked pop star Selena, days after her fatal shooting, causing widespread controversy two years before.  

However, with history written by the winners and Stern, with his power of final script approval, Len Blum’s screenplay happily portrays him as a misunderstood loser. Narrating himself as a near-do-well that no one believed in. With his gangly frame and rockstar hairstyle doing much to hide a more vulnerable young man who almost stumbled upon his success while obtaining a very understanding wife at the same time. However, when reading articles about Stern and the making of this movie, many of the film’s key players have a particular view of the gangly shock jock. At first, they are indifferent and hostile due his personality on his radio show. However, after interacting with the man, their perspective is transformed, as they can now see him as a nice guy with a bad-boy persona.

Because of this, Stern’s sympathy angle gains a fair amount of weight, with the film’s more dramatic scenes having a good dose of compassion. One of the film’s stand-out scenes is Stern making jokes on air about his wife’s miscarriage. In the previous scene, the couple were happy to crack wise confidentially, as part of their private healing process. Stern’s need to turn his own life into content at that moment raises the conflict between the personal and the person that has travelled throughout my mini-marathon of movies involving radio. However, the swift quashing of that issue, along with the absence of Sterns's more contentious moments expressed on his show, reducing much of his antics to juvenile horniness, highlights that Stern, who rejected a multitude of scripts before settling on the one which got made, only wants to grapple with the battle of free speech on his terms.

But while Private Parts’ humanism of Stern feels more shocking than its protagonist’s profanities, this may be due to the outright psychopaths who try and ape people like Stern these days. Today’s media thrives even more on directing people towards some outrageous yet needless controversy. The scenes focusing on how Howard Stern's radio persona affects those close to him are fascinating, as they argue that Stern cares about those around him. This cannot always be said about the controversial industrial complex to the social media superhighway these days. When Stern states he is merely misunderstood, the film builds a case that there may be truth to the claim. 

Furthermore, Private Parts is still funny in a juvenile, nineties way.  Stern is a relic, but he and the film can set up a decent guffaw or giggle, partly because Private Parts is a looser comedy in terms of theme than the comedies released now. Where jokes nowadays are funnelled down even more narrow parameters than in the 90s. But much of this stems from Betty Thomas' decent comic directing chops, while Stern, for his worth, is a watchable comic leading man. Private Parts may have sanded some of Sterns's sharper edges, and the lesbian sequences go beyond sophomoric and more into the realms of Neanderthal. Yet the film captures that element of Stern that makes him an engaging figure.

Strangely, perhaps the most notable thing about Private Parts now is that it’s the breakout role for one Paul Giamatti who has a fantastic role as Kenny "Pig Vomit" Rushton. A composite of different network executives who encountered Stern during his life, including one real-life character he disliked immensely, Rushton is Private Parts’ unfortunate “Walter Peck” character. In hindsight, Rushton’s attempted mission to contain Stern is understandable. And when you consider what Stern has said on air in the past, it’s not surprising, but this biopic portrays Howard Stern as more morally righteous than on his actual radio show. Private Parts had already done the groundwork. Providing sympathy to Stern through Thomas' direction. Meanwhile, Giamatti’s performance has him oozing with smarminess, making him the perfect antagonist to get under the skin. What Pig Vomit wants to do makes sense, yet we call him Pig Vomit because he's mean to Howard.

 

Much like Talk Radio and Pump up the Volume, Private Parts’ lead argues for freedom of speech on the airwaves. But while Barry Champlain and Hard Harry used provocation to advocate something greater than themselves, Stern’s war of words with Pig Vomit seems to be for him to make dick and fart jokes with impunity. Partway through their dispute, Stern and his co-hosts Robin Quivers and Fred Norris (both played by their real counterparts) re-enact his “match game” skit: A sketch which has the team skirting around FCC rules on obscene language by using words which have double meanings implied through tone.  It's an amusing use of language, smartly utilised by the man whose alter ego is Fartman. Yet it’s interesting to look at this with a 2025 lens. Watching Stern bending the rules while avoiding accountability, wherein the film Robin, a Black woman is consequently fired after his antics, hits differently now. The internet is rife with copycat edgy podcast tryhards inadvertently doing their best Stern impressions with none of the wit but all the intention of punching down on their perceived opponents. All for the laugh and none of the accountability. In addition to this, Stern is also known for a car crash interview with Different Strokes star Dana Plato, who took her life a day later. Private Parts highlights its banter as merely the freedom for its misunderstood star to have some shits and giggles. For the most it is. However, this only enhances the erasure of the DJ's darker controversies, leaving a strange taste in the mouth.

But the modern-day flattening view of media doesn’t wholly upend what is an amusing feature. The Brady Bunch Movie leans more effectively into Thomas' sensibilities as a comic director, as its protagonists are chirpy, friendly cyphers, who are thrown into a then hyper-ironic, deeply cynical decade. There’s simply a lot of fun to be had there. But Private Parts holds its own as a comic trifle. It understands why Stern became successful, particularly in the 90s. Stern and Quivers are entertaining in playing tweaked versions of themselves, while Giamatti has a blast stealing scenes as if he had a starving orphanage to feed. There are plenty of gags, and the timing is solid. And yet, watching Stern (dressed as Fartman) in the film's opening, he walks backstage at an award ceremony while catching poisonous looks from a crowd of famous celebs. He looks around, somewhat confused as to why such a humble DJ would gain so much scorn. But this is Howard Stern, the self-proclaimed king of all media, a man whose persona has been buffed and shined for his Hollywood biopic. Private Parts showcases Stern as a goofy man who prides himself on saying what's on everyone's mind. However, it’s also a film that knows when its star should keep quiet.  

Private Parts can be found on various streaming platforms

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Article: Radio Ga Ga - Pump Up The Volume

Pump Up the Volume is Talk Radio (1988) for teenagers. Although a far more hopeful entity than Oliver Stone’s claustrophobic slice of media pessimism, the film orbits around similar themes. It touches on free speech and the intimate power of radio as a medium. However, despite holding a sizable amount of darkness, Pump Up the Volume is a cuter view on similar ideas highlighted in Talk Radio. Christian Slater plays Mark, a sullen loner who finds solace in performing outrageously on his short-wave radio show. Mark uses his radio to communicate with his friends back east after he and his parents move from New York to a quiet suburb in Phoenix, Arizona. However, his persona of ‘Hard Harry’ becomes a solitary voice that delivers truth bombs to isolated and lonely teenagers. A tragic accident occurs after Mark makes some unwittingly flippant comments, and soon the town's adults look to condemn and stifle the voice that is stirring up high school rebellion.

Director Allan Moyle adds a touch of futurism to Pump Up the Volume, which helps it become a companion piece with Talk Radio. Both movies draw attention to the idea of the virility of radio, along with its intimacy. During the opening credits, radio recordings of ‘Hard Harry’ are passed from pupil to pupil via tape recording. Late in the film, background graffiti broadly states, “The Truth is a virus”. But while there’s foreshadowing on the future of media circulation, the sensibilities of its director, and possibly the coming-of-age narrative, give Pump Up the Volume a sweeter taste in comparison to the bitter pill of Talk Radio. Amusingly, both films feature Ellen Green as a quiet voice of reason, who wishes to appeal to the empathy of the characters. Oliver Stone’s movie senses the growing sense of haplessness and frustration, helped by the encroaching capitalist system. Pump up the Volume, with its pirated tapes, rebellious rock music, and sometimes youthful idealism, walks a different path for the adolescent listeners of Hard Harry. One that suggests a sense of belonging. Mark’s Harry persona holds empathy that Talk Radio’s Barry no longer has. If he ever had time for it.

Despite the film having a strand about popularity, Pump Up the Volume was not popular itself. The film suffered a similar fate to Moyle’s Empire Records (1995) in that while it seemingly had all the ingredients to be a mainstream classic, it found itself roundly ignored by audiences upon release. It brought in a measly $11 million during its theatrical run.  Pump Up the Volume’s mainstream failure is another unfortunate chapter in the cinematic career of Moyles, who previously spent 10 years in self-imposed exile due to having a dreadful time on his New York set, punk-enthused, teenage lesbian story, Times Square (1980). For some reason, whenever Moyle wanted to tell stories about teenage lives, he was hampered by unseen cinematic overlords. It is a strange bug within Moyles' features. In 1980, more people were interested in The Blue Lagoon than Times Square, most likely for sleazy reasons. In 1995, Empire Records was overshadowed by Clueless and Kids. In 1990, Pump Up the Volume went against Whit Stillman’s Oscar-nominated Metropolitan and Reginald Hudlin’s House Party. Metropolitan gained a Criterion release in 2006 (DVD) and 2018 (Blu-Ray). House Party was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant" in 2022. Pump up the Volume, alas, garners no such plaudits.

When watching the film, it’s surprising that there isn’t more popularity behind it. Pump Up the Volume seemed primed for the mainstage. It appeared in the middle of what some may consider MTV's golden age. Coming out two years after Slater’s other pitch-black teen flick, Heathers (1988), PUTV’s teenage rebellion arrives just in time before the '90s went into alienation overdrive.  Its commentary on teenage angst sets the tone for the decade and feels so bleeding edge that it feels like the era takes a few years to catch up.  Smudges of John Hughes-like residue cling to the sides of the film. The sentimentality and acute teenage awkwardness are the key signatures.

However, the blending of growing pains, teenage kicks and sincerity delivers a fresh sense of optimism, which makes PUTV an interesting contrast to Talk Radio, which actively swims in its jadedness. Despite his loudmouth persona, what makes Mark/Harry interesting is that he knows he doesn’t have all the answers. His desire to bring a sense of community towards the very listeners he struggles to connect with in real life is compelling. The film's inciting incident, in which a suicidal teen calls Mark for help, is the film's best example.  Christian Slater considers his role in Pump Up the Volume his favourite, and it’s not hard to see why. When viewed next to his breakthrough role as JD in Heathers, Slater has much more to do here. He balances an immature yet charismatic audio persona with his more inward personality. At school, he is the proto-Milhouse, struggling to maintain eye contact with his love interest, Nora, spiritedly played by Samantha Mathis in her film debut. At night, Mark becomes a masturbating John Peel, charming his teenage audience with Alt-rock and hard truths. Slater does well here. The actor who was struggling with alcohol problems around the same time seems to have taken the weight of that battle and focused that energy into the role.  If the actor was channelling Jack Nicholson as the infamous JD in Heathers, then Hard Harry was summoning the burgeoning Howard Stern, along with a touch of the personal. Harry also becomes a prototype for our podcasting present, where the internet has taken over shortwave radio, and the regulated barriers of the airwaves are diminished even more. Ultimately, however, Harry is a less aggressive, more juvenile version of the darker, more Rebellious teenage psychopath. However, the performance in PUTV is wider in expression. There’s more to hang on to, and the character sees more in his peers than the nihilistic JD.

There’s a constant feeling that Pump Up the Volume is on the cusp of something. Throughout the film, Mark’s radio rants target the parents of his peers who are constantly disconnected from their kin. The raves at a society caving into conformity and drudgery slowly become something of substance. An early outburst feels telling, if only because it’s arriving earlier than scheduled:

“I don’t find it cheerful to be living in a totally exhausted decade with nothing to look forward to and nothing to look up to”

Mark may be aiming for the excess-fueled era of the 80s. However, many of the films which made their mark in the middle and end of the 90s had much to say about the malaise of dispassionate suburban ennui. The middle of the decade was full of portrayals of disaffected youth struggling to find their place in the world. At times, Pump Up the Volume feels like it’s crawling, so the likes of Ben Stiller, Kevin Smith and Richard Linklater could walk. This is probably not the case. Yet a persona like Hard Harry, despite his immaturity, slots in well with the pop culture parables of Randal from Clerks or next to the yammering of a beardy Ethan Hawke in some independent feature. The film doesn’t seem to be suggesting, but more yelling about the upcoming cultural anxiety.  In one exchange, Mark’s dad gives a telling statement: “You don’t rock the boat. Especially if you’re sitting in it.” Elsewhere, we’re given shots of Mark, previously a resident of the unpredictable city of New York, wandering down streets of indistinguishable suburban housing. The film’s message seems clear. If only the stars had aligned with the mainstream advent of grunge three years later.

A core strength of Pump Up the Volume resides in its idea that the youth are being denied their voice. The film’s distribution of illicit material resonates strongly in Jason Bailey’s piece about the film, predicting a media untethered by regulated gatekeeping. These kids are finding a way to be heard. While their parents and teacher scratch their heads, all gaining collective amnesia at the fact that Mark’s brash and juvenile discourse is the exact sort of behaviour kids of that age gravitate to. Bailey is more dismissive of the film’s self-importance. It’s an understandable criticism. Teenage films like this are full of kids who are heavily burdened with dissatisfaction so huge that they cannot look past their noses. However, moments such as the inciting suicidal incident or the freak out from popular student Paige raging against oblivious adults at a parental meeting still resonate, due to their sincerity.

The film’s prophetic ending highlights how these teens, nay, all of us, will soon be heard. In the film's final moments, Mark loudly advises his fan base to “talk hard” and be heard. The climax has dozens of teens start their own talk radio stations, unburdened by parental control or adult regulation. It’s quaint to consider this now that everyone broadcasts themselves. Pump up the Volume provides a sense of optimism with the idea that everyone having a voice may point toward some harmony cutting through the discourse. Be it podcasts, YouTube, or TikTok, our multimedia platforms have allowed many to have the means to “talk hard”. Of course, what’s happened can feel more like a jaded amalgamated victory for Oliver Stone’s Talk Radio. Despite Pump Up the Volume's more optimistic tone, once everyone had the means to do their own broadcasts in real life, they turned their media on themselves and now get by on a wild mix of fear, consumerism and narcissism. Scarily, Pump Up the Volume could have been talking about this decade in which its youth are staring into the abyss. Living in a totally exhausted decade with little to look forward to and nothing to look up to. However, as a now jaded parent, my words should be taken with a pinch of salt. As an amusing aside, however, in the 1990s, Hard Harry wanted his listeners to talk hard. Now in the year 2025, the internet content subscription service OnlyFans holds over 3 million creators and 220 million subscribers, all getting “hard” in a different way. But perhaps Mark would be sleeping well knowing that they are all happily indulging in his favourite pastime.

Despite its struggles with music rights in the past, Pump Up the Volume can be found on various streaming platforms.

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Article: Radio Ga Ga - Talk Radio

The most penetrating aspects of the movies Talk Radio and Natural Born Killers, directed by Oliver Stone, reside in how well they touch upon the intimate effect broadcasting can have on its audience. Both prey on how easily the media entices people. Natural Born Killers, the tale of two homicidal maniacs, is presented in a schizophrenic style which liberally borrows from everything Television. From 50s sitcoms to 30-second cola adverts. The assault on the senses is bludgeoning, with the film frantically establishing the perverse nature of being drawn to toxic media. Subtle may not be the best word for Talk Radio, but it is less manic. However, this doesn’t stop the film from showcasing the seductiveness of entertainment media. Its lead performer, Barry, whose self-destructive tendencies shatter his personal life, unleashes hell on his angry yet captivated audience. Most of Barry’s listeners can’t seem to stand him. Many straight out despise him. All of them can’t wait to see what he says next.

Talk Radio is an overlooked movie in Stone's filmography. Even his duds get mentioned more often. I only recently saw a clickbait listicle bemoaning the age differences in Alexander (2004). However, Stone’s movies are usually larger in scale. Talk Radio is intimate and personal in ways many of Stone’s movies are not. Yet it pierces the skin of America now just as well as his more talked about features. One disturbing reason Talk Radio feels so relatable is how well it explores parasocial connections broadcasters have with their audience. Such audio broadcasting ingrains itself profoundly with its audience due to its immersive nature. In the same way, content creators in the current era can present themselves as authentic while hiding their problematic sides, Barry is a complicated ball of conflict. A presenter who holds an innate ability to feed the lonely and dangerous in the middle of the night, positioning himself as a know-it-all truth sayer to all the insomniacs who are comforted by his voice and their thoughts.

Based on both the off-Broadway play written and performed by lead performer Eric Bogosian, and the non-fiction book Talked to Death by Ted Savinar, Talk Radio is also based on the real-life death of Alan Berg, a liberal-leaning, Jewish, shock jock, murdered by a Neo-Nazi faction after recording an episode of his show. Whereas people viewed Berg as a humourist, with a tone that sounded like he was in on a joke, Eric’s Barry Champlain is a far more difficult creature. Someone who is not as easy to love. Champlain’s innate ability to entertain with his quick-wittedness enables him to ditch his suit-selling job to become a Talk Show radio host. Champlain’s confrontational style has his show receive well-wishers who love what he does, along with hostile callers, bigots and far-right extremists who phone in with threats and intimidation. His ability to trigger hostility from everyone is not just a defining element of Barry’s show but also helps dismantle most of his close relationships. His reckless behaviour causes rifts between himself and his crew. His ego and general hostility only help to ensure an uneasy relationship with Ellen (Ellen Green), his ex-wife. Unbelievably (or maybe not these days), Talk Radio starts with Champlain’s show on the cusp of being picked up nationally. This decision excites and aggravates the provocateur and soon bleeds into the emotional mixing bowl of Barry’s life.

The two films Oliver Stone directed before Talk Radio, Platoon (1986) and Wall Street (1987), were grand morality plays. The young protagonists found themselves being fought over by two opposing forces, with both films becoming a grander allegory for the soul of America. That may sound hyperbolic, but when were Oliver Stone movies above some grandstanding? Despite its smaller stage, Talk Radio is no different. However, this film plays out as if the battle for the country's spirit had been lost long ago. Cynicism drives the loose narrative as Champlain goads his listeners to lose their rag over their bigoted views, their loneliness, or anything. Both Barry and his devoted following gain a kick charge out of the on-air battles, with listeners furious with the DJ, but doing little to remove themselves from the firing line. Barry is no different, stoking himself up for these debates, finding himself wound up by the bigoted ignorance on display. As the grand conductor, Barry feels he can do whatever he wants on his show. But as the corporate sponsorship of national airplay looms large over his head, there’s a sinking feeling that Barry may have sold his soul to something more damning: Censorship.

Gene Siskel likened Barry to Taxi Driver’s Travis Buckle. Bitter, complicated, while harbouring a burning desire to do the right thing the wrong way. Barry sees his show as a platform for no-holds-barred free speech. He goads bigots and racists, runs rampant with his bitter misogyny and mocks those who are desperate and confessional. He sees no victims. If the audience wants to listen, then they are willing to call. If they want to call him, then the terms of engagement are with Barry. In real life, Alan Berg enjoyed stoking the fires to gain a reaction. But Berg, who battled alcoholism and seizures in his lifetime, was also someone who understood the absurdities that came with his ventures. Even if despised by his audience, Berg wanted them to think. To be unglued from their binary belief systems, even though he saw the folly. Barry goes to work every night, only ever seeing the void, and having it stare straight back at him. At one point, Barry fed up with a chuckling huckster who pretends to have real problems, invites the caller to the station on air as a guest. The airheaded buffoon, glad for the attention calls Barry’s bluff and comes in, contaminating the airwaves with inane, half-baked discourse. It’s one of the film's most potent moments. Highlighting that while free speech is something people fight for, not everyone is as intelligent as they are loud.

Alec Baldwin appears as the network head, Dan. He might be yet another of the contemptible corporate stooges that Baldwin loves to play. However, his big scene, where he pulls rank on Barry with a string of inflammatory comments, touches on themes found in Stone's Talk Radio and Natural Born Killers. Barry may feel he is a truth-teller.  A societal judge, jury and executioner for the masses. The crowd respond to him as if he were a holy preacher. But capitalism has already worked out how to market Barry. As much as Barry may not accept it, he’s being made to wake up and realise that he is considered mere entertainment fodder. Nothing more than a socio-political jester of sorts. In Natural Born Killers, this idea is folded over and baked into the ideal of Micky and Mallory Knox. A murderous couple whose story can have soda adverts slotted into breaks for the MTV generation. The horrific juxtaposition in Talk Radio is that what lies within the relationship between Barry and his audience is just as invasive, with an even more emotional intimacy. While he may be the commodified “voice of reason”, Barry’s words are designed to disrupt a caller’s core beliefs. Natural Born Killers has a Wikipedia page dedicated to so-called copycat killers. Talk Radio is based explicitly on the assassination of a media personality whose words and views were taken on board with a seriousness that people never believed they would be. Both of Stone’s films press a succulent question: when does our media consumption break down into actual derangement with people acting on words with extreme prejudice?

Despite being rarely talked about, Talk Radio features some compelling technical work. Managing to take a stage show with a limited cast and allowing buzz with the same energy as its protagonist. Talk Radio was made before the director began manipulating varied film stocks with more gusto. But the hyper-kinetic editing made more apparent in the likes of Natural Born Killers can be seen seeping through. Moments of the film feel fuelled by a cocaine binge in the editing room. It’s different to explain the “awake late” slightly strung-out feel that lingers in shots. Cinematographer Robert Richardson also shows his command of craft here. The combination of frantic cutting combines with a myriad of shots utilised to keep the frame interesting. From swirling cameras and split-diopters to figures reflected in windows, the film volleys an array of techniques and compositions that keep the eye alert in a film which is often just talking. In one of the few scenes in which we leave the confines of Barry's radio station to a basketball game, Stone restricts the scene to almost nothing but tight close-ups, making the surroundings even more suffocating than expected. Fans, well-wishers and hate listeners approach Barry with the DJ having no way of discerning who is friend or foe. When the action heads back to the station, the amount of space suddenly becomes startling.

This mixture of theme and form is not only staggering at times but surprising, in that Talk Radio isn’t talked about that much. Stone’s louder movies take up much of the spotlight, but Talk Radio was released at the same time that the likes of Howard Stern and Rush Limbaugh were becoming more prevalent, so it’s a little shocking that it feels a little forgotten. Three decades on Talk Radio still manages to be an absorbing watch. Managing to be both enticing and repulsive. It provides a disturbing reminder of the power of free speech, accountability and commodity. Its relevancy feels more potent in the era of unregulated podcasts and the internet. In a 2017 interview with The Guardian, Eric Bogosian mentions the rise and influence of Talk Radio:  

“The right then took it [Talk Radio] over, which wasn’t the case at the time. I was looking at someone who will pretty much say anything to get a rise out of his audience, which in turn increases his ratings. Look at Rush Limbaugh. He has described himself as an entertainer. At the same time, he’s messing with issues which are of the greatest importance to all of us. You’ve had a similar problem with Brexit: someone starts tossing this football around for fun and before you know it, they’ve changed policy.”

Watching Talk Radio now is especially chilling. As Barry hurtles towards self-destruction he screams “How deep into the muck we can immerse ourselves?!”. Slowly realising some of his self-righteous hypocrisy. Those who were tossing the football around have started to act.  As we become more siloed off by tech, and the effect of media has caused more rampant division, we now have an answer to the muck question. We can get deeper into the muck than you can imagine Barry. We can plunge into the depths.

Talk Radio is a difficult one to find. Although it may be on Apple TV. I watched it on a out of print Network distributed DVD.

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