In fact, he appears so ill at ease kissing his co-star, you can believe his frequent claim of 22 years of marital fidelity.īut there’s no denying Stern’s natural presence or his gift for self-deprecating charm. Stern’s acting is often awkward, particularly in the sentimental moments with his spectacularly tolerant wife, Alison (Mary McCormack).
Howard Stern,” the radio star assumes the voice of reason and becomes a champion of free speech, standing his ground against the FCC and hypocritical station bosses who love his ratings but hate how he’s getting them.Īfter being warned against using obscene words by his New York program manager (played with eyeball-bulging gusto by Paul Giamatti), Stern orchestrates a game show bit where co-hosts Robin Quivers, Fred Norris and Jackie Martling (all playing themselves) are asked to fill in the missing parts of the words "(blank)willow” and "(blank)-a-doodle-doo.” When Stern’s show is cut off in the middle of a massage being administered to him by a naked lady, he charges into the manager’s office and succeeds in confronting him on the air. In the film, which might have been called “The People vs. well, a loyal friend, devoted husband and the most honest personality in America.
In contrast, the movie’s Stern is an earnest cuddle bear, a bit outrageous, perhaps, but at worst a class clown, and at best.
The radio Stern-part-scripted, part-improvised-vacillates wildly between comic brilliance and sophomoric glibness, between locker room taunting and outright cruelty.
That Howard Stern, the one who first caught the Federal Communication Commission’s attention by having an on-air guest play the piano with his penis (no, his selection was not the Rach 3), is hardly present in the movie. Once Stern broke out of that shell, sometime in the early days of his radio career, according to “Private Parts,” a testosterone-charged id came storming out, guided only by wit and ambition, and the warning went forth: Women and children, get away from the radio! He’s a once-timid Jewish boy from Long Island who was driven into a shell of fantasies by a father who called him a moron and never allowed him to speak. In Betty Thomas’ tamed yet very funny film version of “Private Parts,” the 6-foot-5, long-haired shock-jock plays himself as an overcompensating Alvy Singer, Woody Allen on growth drugs. In the meantime, Stern himself is moving to the middle of the road. While some suspended adolescent males dream of hitting the winning home run in Game 7 of the World Series, or becoming a famous rock star, or dating a contortionist, Stern seems to fantasize a crowning moment when the world will pull off the road to listen, moan and swear allegiance to the King of All Media. That chapter is titled “My Philosophy,” and it’s no joke. The opening chapter of radio deejay Howard Stern’s best-selling autobiographical riff “Private Parts” recalls the supposedly true story of a Long Island businessman who became so aroused by an on-air interview between Stern and a lesbian that he had to pull over to the side of the expressway during rush hour and relieve himself.