But Larry Flynt also won an important Supreme Court victory in 1988 expanding the reach of the First Amendment, which is presumably why a movie has been made about him. I say presumably because I don't think the film's wiseass jocularity reflects a deep concern for our free-speech rights. The director, Milos Forman, has been quoted as saying that the hero of the piece is the Supreme Court, not Flynt, but that's not how it comes across. When at one of his many obscenity trials Flynt says, "All I'm guilty of is bad taste," we're meant to giggle in agreement.
Flynt's saga is tailor-made for hipper-than-thou libertarians. As head of the Hustler empire, he purveyed porn a full notch raunchier than Playboy or Penthouse, and, because he supposedly appealed to blue-collar readers--his crotch shots were wider and his cartoons grungier--he could be hailed as a porno populist. In fact, Hustler had a higher newsstand price than those magazines, with an average reader's income of $50,000--but hey, populism doesn't come cheap. When his obscenity trials started getting national attention, Flynt acquired a civil-libertarian cachet. He wrapped himself in the flag--literally, using it as a diaper in one of his trials--while also grabbing his crotch. It's the American way.
The People vs. Larry Flynt, which has a spotty, often sharp script by Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski, plays up the high-flying American-ness of Flynt's weirdo saga. Running moonshine as a boy in Kentucky, he graduated to running go-go dance joints in Cincinnati and parlayed a sleazoid newsletter into Hustler, which hit the big time when Flynt published paparazzi nudie shots of Jackie O. Over the years he spent $40 million defending himself against everybody from Charles Keating (James Cromwell) to Jerry Falwell (Richard Paul), whom Flynt riled in a mock Campari ad in Hustler that described how the Moral Majority leader lost his virginity in an outhouse--to his mother. (This was the free speech that the Supreme Court ultimately upheld in 1988.)
Flynt also hooked up with Althea Leasure (Courtney Love), a 17-year-old bisexual stripper in one of his Cincinnati clubs who went on to marry him and help manage his empire. When Flynt was shot by a fanatic outside a Georgia courthouse in 1978--rendering him wheelchair-bound for life--it was Althea's idea to put a photo spread of Flynt's wounds into Hustler. Althea and Larry both entered a painkiller twilight zone but, while he kicked his habit, she stayed hooked, contracted HIV, and overdosed in her bath.
Consider Flynt's self-made pasha's privileges, his martyrdom at the hands of an assassin, his abiding love for Althea, his brief fling with born-again Christianity, his poster-boy status in the Free Speech wars--I mean, could you devise a better hero's resume for the superannuated counterculture? Woody Harrelson plays Flynt like a wily hillbilly dizzy with his own lewd good fortune. At first he doesn't connect with the "socially redeeming" side of his legal battles; he's a pornographer and proud of it. But Flynt slowly takes on the trappings of respectability: As time goes on, his raps about free speech become a shade less self-serving. The pitchman begins to believe his own pitch. Even his scuzziness acquires a righteous glow: "If they'll protect a scumbag like me," he announces after his Supreme Court victory, "then they'll protect all of you."
The film allows us to buy into Flynt's self-righteousness and still get our rocks off. In a way, what Forman and his screenwriters are doing is a new-style variation on the old DeMille biblical epic syndrome--tickle us with depravity and then denounce it. Only here they tickle us with raunchiness and then canonize it. The People vs. Larry Flynt is an Oliver Stone production, and it has the same two-faced gusto as some of the films he's directed himself. (No, see, we're not glorifying violence in Natural Born Killers, we're condemning it.) Actually, the film could use more gusto--if Stone had directed Larry Flynt, it might have been a marvel of bad-taste outrageousness. Forman is a bit too tactful, too measured. He's making a movie about someone who lacks the ability to censor himself, but Forman doesn't pop his own id out of the genie's bottle. There's a square hipsterism at work in Larry Flynt. It's a movie about the Hustler king made by people who appear to have never taken a close look at Hustler. The choral strains that lilt the soundtrack during the closing credits are not intended ironically.