Talk Radio

Oliver Stone's Talk Radio took its inspiration from a real event: the murder of liberal Denver radio personality Alan Berg at the behest of a militant right-wing hate group. Here is the story: Barry Champlain is a provocative radio talk-show host, whose racy eloquence and inflammatory views stirs up both love and hate among his listeners. He's witty, cynical and self-indulgent, while his fucked-up fans seem born to advertise for the dark side of America: he gets calls from drug-abusers, suicidal teenagers and angry neo-nazis from all parts of Denver.

Fame comes rapidly and the show gets promoted to national broadcast. And the real troubles begin. One night Barry pushes one caller just a bit too far, and just before hanging up the phone, he hears a scary voice saying: "I know your face, Jew. I know where you live. I'll find you soon." Two days later he gets shot in the street, just a few meters away from the studio.

For some, this is the story of a guy who wittingly played with fire and eventually got burn. In a sense, they're right. To give people a chance to unleash their darkest instincts is to play with fire. Especially people whose audience is usually limited to police stations, intensive care units, bums and drug dealers.

But this film goes beyond the case of Barry Champlain/Alan Berg. Barry here operates as the lightning rod of society. He sure takes pleasure at riding the lightning, but he discovers pretty soon that the game he started is endless, and that it takes no rules. People suffering daily from anger and frustration, lack of money, lack of love and lack of recognition should be happy to find a soapbox and someone to talk to, even if he's an act. But they're not. They feel even worse.

In all their misery, they still have more respect for the racist cop or the corrupted politician, because these two stay where they belong. Barry doesn't. They can take the lies from the nababs above, because they've been groomed to and because they have no choice. But they won't take the truth from a simple radio host whose outspokenness is a constant offence to the system that didn't favor them, but which they look up to as an almighty God.
These people won't shoot the President. But given a chance, they will shoot the one guy who has the guts - or the freedom - to call it an act at the face of the world.

The man who'll save the world

So this is it. The new CEO of humanity has just been elected. Barack Obama is in for a five-year membership. Jenny Mitchell learned the news in her cosy Manhattan flat overlooking the New York upper bay. She couldn't meet her friends from the democrat committee who kept watching CNN all day long in a lounge bar of the sixth avenue, drinking cocktails and eating peanuts. Well, she could, but she dared not to.

For this election meant a lot to her. Another disappointment like the election of George W. in 2000 and his reelection in 2004, and she would have thrown herself under a car. A big one. A Ford, or a garbage truck. So she chose to stay at home, a box of killing pills on her night table, just next to her mobile phone.

Friends kept sending SMS updates of the latest polls, she barely looked at them. She was too tense for that. "Come on, she said. Pull yourself together. Maybe I should ring Nick." Nick is her ex-boyfriend. She kicked him out of her flat when she found him fooling around with Carole and he didn't even have his pants on.
But on that day she felt she needed him. He was a democrat too, after all. One of the good guys. And he had a wonderful penis. So she may have called him, but she didn't. The strength of women, I suppose.

But then she heard the bursts of joy in the streets. Friends called her one after another to share the delight of victory. The end of Texan rules. The end of Irak war. A hope for less social injustice. The image of America restaured abroad. If Obama was here she would kiss him. After asking Michelle's permission of course. What a nice couple they are.

Tomorrow morning, democrat upper Manhattan yuppies will go to their jobs with a smile on their face. Republican yuppies will surely not smile. But neither will they cry. And in 6 month time you won't be able to see a difference between the former and the latter. Same suit, same tie, same job, same perspectives.
Barack Obama will perhaps not save the world. He didn't promise that. But he made Jenny Mitchell happy for one day. And in 6 month time, all the subprimes she sold to save her job and her ass will be forgotten like the phases of the moon.