Barry Champlain, the main character of 1988's "Talk Radio," is a Dallas-based, left-wing "shock jock" whose rants are little arias of outrage. Sometimes a caller who's obviously suffering will bring out his humanity for a moment, but his default mode is scorched-earth combativeness. It would be misleading to call him a "provocateur" because the word is elegant and Barry is not, and because Barry doesn't provoke; he attacks, and continues attacking even after his adversary has folded. Sometimes when a caller tries to take a piece out of him, Barry will not just verbally beat them down but cut off their audio feed without telling the audience he's done so and then rip into them for another few seconds, which makes it seem as if the person that used to be on the other end of the phone line was stunned into silence by his words. He's a virtuoso of rage, and that's more than enough to make him a local star and get a national radio syndicate interested in picking up the show.
But Barry can't turn the rage off. He directs it at his coworkers, his supervisors, his romantic partners (currently his producer Laura, played by Leslie Hope) and himself. I know a lot of people who gave this movie a try but had to turn it off because Barry was too much to take. I get it. Even when you agree with him, he's miserable and angry. Exciting, too, but not in a healthy way.
Star Eric Bogosian created Barry Champlain for the stage in a same-named play that debuted on Broadway in the late 1980s, where it was seen by film producer Ed Pressman. Pressman called one of his regular collaborators, director Oliver Stone, who'd had a three-film winning streak with "Salvador," "Platoon" and "Wall Street" but had recently been told that his next movie, the antiwar drama "Born on the Fourth of July," would be delayed eight months while his star Tom Cruise finished making "Rain Man" with Dustin Hoffman. Stone filled his schedule gap with "Talk Radio" and combined Bogosan's play with elements from the nonfiction book "Talked to Death," about the murder of Alan Berg, a Denver-based, Jewish talk radio host with progressive politics, by a member of a neo-Nazi terrorist group.
Everything about the movie feels unstable and potentially explosive, so much so that when Barry launches into his most paranoid and unhinged monologue yet, cursing the world itself and attacking his listeners for listening to him, and the main set seems to rotate slowly around Barry, it's as if somebody is winding up a timer attached to a bomb. Although Stone didn't create the character, Barry is a consummate Oliver Stone hero, a creature of nearly mythological force, shouting prophecies and curses at a burning world. When a right-wing listener sends him a dead rat wrapped in a Nazi flag, Barry's reaction is a mix of fear, disgust, and wonderment, as if he's realized that if he's pissing off these kinds of people this much, he must be great at his job.
This aspect of Barry's story is why I became obsessed with "Talk Radio" 36 years ago after seeing it in a Dallas theater. He was an antihero in the tradition of so many ‘70s film protagonists: somebody you weren't supposed to like, but to find interesting, even when he was at his most loathsome.
The parts of the movie that I didn't like and that frankly didn't think was necessary or interesting were the flashbacks to Barry's rise to success and the corresponding disintegration of his relationship with his wife Ellen (Ellen Greene), which are tied into a subplot about Barry swallowing his pride over destroying the relationship and asking Ellen to come to Dallas and counsel him the weekend before the show is supposed to go national. Ellen's ease with diving into the old dynamic (even after Laura answers the phone when Ellen calls, and Barry lies and claims she's his secretary) didn't seem plausible to me back in 1988. When Ellen called into the show in the present-day part of the story, throwing a life preserver to a man drowning in a sea of his own bile, I think I might've rolled my eyes, because it seemed like more grownup version of a male fantasy of a woman getting turned on by a man's hatefulness. Barry used and abused her at every stage. I never saw anything I recognized as real love flowing from Barry to Ellen, only from Ellen to Barry.
Did you already figure out that I was 19 when I saw "Talk Radio" for the first time and had yet to begin my first long relationship with a woman? Well, that's why I didn't get it. Angry young men are drawn to films like this, perhaps more so than other types of viewers, because they center the antihero and put you inside his head at least part of the time, and while they aren't forcing you to identify with them, they make it pretty easy. But this movie is more subtle, I think, which probably seems like a strange assertion considering how unrelentingly intense it is.
Stone gets criticized for being less interested in female characters than male ones, and having a misogynistic streak. Setting aside the particulars of why I think this is complicated (i.e. not entirely fair or unfair) I don't think it applies to "Talk Radio" at all. It's observing a dynamic that's real. There are a lot of guys like Barry who take their partners for granted or just plain use them (women can do this, too) and there are absolutely a lot of female partners of dynamic/abrasive men who spend their lives lugging a fire extinguisher under one arm in case their man flips out and starts trying to burn things down. (Sometimes you see a relationship like this where the typical gender roles are flipped. Jessica Lange and Tommy Lee Jones in "Blue Sky," for instance. Or my mother and stepfather.)
The Barry-Ellen relationship rings progressively more true to me the older I get and the more experience I have as a significant other—and, frankly, as a human being who has spent a lot of time observing other relationships and has gotten to the point where I can spot codependency from the other side of a room before a couple has even been introduced to me. Barry and Ellen are codependent in a complicated, real way. That's why they don't struggle before slipping into old patterns.
At one point, Ellen calls into Barry's show and lies down on a black table in an unused studio as if she's waiting for a lover to walk in and get busy. It's theatrical–not a complaint, just an observation–and I wonder if that's why I thought it was reductive or silly on first viewing. It's closer to a kind of expressionism or symbolic choreography, like the kind you see in the staging of plays or dance numbers, where people pose in a way that embodies an idea or metaphor.
This is a brilliant movie, one that not only gets better and richer the more often I revisit it, but that's filled with truths about the human condition, not just the media or America or sociology or history. You can see yourself represented in it, whether it's as Barry, Ellen, another character at the radio station, or one of Barry's listeners, who love him even when they hate him, and the reverse, and spend way too much time wondering if he'll save or destroy himself, or if that's out of their hands, and Barry's.
