Reviews & Quotes

A rip-roaring comedy!

There's no denying the comic energy of the cast. Philip Seymour Hoffman has a rowdy good time. Bill Nighy is sublime. Rhys Ifans is terrific. Couple that with blasts of Brit rock from the Beatles and the Stones to Dusty Springfield and David Bowie, and the ship is unsinkable.

Insanely pleasurable!

'Pirate Radio' captures the era’s exhilarating sense of freedom and the music that was its most brilliant expression.

Exuberant!

This lightweight British comedy is set in 1966 and captures a sense of the era through its costumes, production design, dialogue and, above all, its top-notch soundtrack. While the tale of rogue disc jockeys who defied the government and broadcast rock 'n' roll beyond U.K. territorial waters can grow choppy, watching it is like lazing on a sunny afternoon with old pals.

In the mid-'60s, while some of the world's most popular rock bands were homegrown Brits, their countrymen had shockingly limited opportunities to hear them on the airwaves. In 1966, the USA had more than 500 radio stations playing The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks and countless other bands. But the government-owned BBC chose to broadcast merely two hours of rock 'n' roll per week to the grooving masses.

So rock aficionados took to the high seas, broadcasting music from aboard these vessels. Almost as soon as pirate radio made its first splash, however, the British government fired up to shut it down.

Within this real-life atmosphere, director Richard Curtis (Love Actually) sets his light and engaging, if occasionally sentimental, tale.

Boys will be boys and often at top volume in “Pirate Radio,” Richard Curtis’s fanciful fiction about rebel broadcasters who, in the mid-1960s, blasted British airwaves and eardrums with the Stones, the Kinks and the Who, among other youth-quaking greats of the era. Stuffed with playful character actors and carpeted with wall-to-wall tunes, the film makes for easy viewing and easier listening, even if Mr. Curtis, who wrote and directed, has nothing really to say about these rebels for whom rock ’n’ roll was both life’s rhyme and its reason.

Borrowed from the annals of the strange but true, the story opens in 1966, before the British invasion had breached Britain’s official radio channels, run by the British Broadcasting Corporation. In his book “Selling the Sixties: The Pirates and Pop Music Radio,” Robert Chapman writes that the government’s cultural guardians responded to rock ’n’ roll with degrees of indifference and hostility: “BBC policy makers continued to go about their cultural missionary work much as they always had done, selectively retrieving a folk tradition here, acting as a kindly public service benefactor there, bestowing sponsorship upon those deemed worthy of official approval.” Although the BBC played a few weekly hours of rock, it largely, aided by the government, kept the noise down.

Seen from a distance, 1966 is a neither-fish-nor-foul era. In 1965, there were no drugs, black-and-white film, and the end of the old. In 1967 , there were LSD, psychedelic colors and the birth of the new. So what was 1966? Yet, people who were there often say that '66 was the best time, the height of that decade's fun. And now "Pirate Radio" has arrived, evoking 1966 as the life pinnacle for a group of DJs on a boat, broadcasting rock 'n' roll to the United Kingdom.

If you want to know years in advance what old-age nostalgia is going to look like for Baby Boomers, look no further than "Pirate Radio," in which the sun always shines, the music is great and the sex is available, guilt-free and glorious. This might sound like a sentimental recipe, but Richard Curtis, who wrote and directed, keeps the spirit fresh and anarchic.

At one point, the American DJ, played by Philip Seymour Hoffman, observes that it's a terrible thing to realize you're living the best days of your life - to know that as you're living them. And with that, we realize what Curtis has achieved in "Pirate Radio." For all its irreverence and caustic humor, this movie is about the recipe for happiness - how sometimes it can all come together: friends, community, excitement and faith in the future.

Featuring the best movie soundtrack since Alan Parker’s “The Commitments,” “Pirate Radio”arrives on these shores in the hopes of sweeping fans of American classic rock away.

Set in the 1960s, the film is a comic ensemble tale about a time when rock ’n’ roll was strictly rationed by BBC radio and “pirate” stations were set up offshore to broadcast music by the Stones, The Who, the Kinks, Jimi Hendrix and more to the delight of Brits of all sizes, shapes, races and social classes. In fact, half the population of Britain was listening.

The story centers on the floating radio station “Radio Rock,” a bobbing den of iniquity in the North Sea headed by Quentin (Bill Nighy of “Pirates of the Caribbean”), a Glen Urquhart plaid-suited, middle-aged radical/iconoclast.

The plot kicks off with the arrival on the ship of Carl (a pale and wan Tom Sturridge), a wispily handsome Peter Pan-type with a too- fussy hairstyle. The son of a famously licentious beauty (Emma Thompson), Carl is on two quests: to learn the identity of his father and lose his virginity.

Also on board this ship of rock fools is a popular American DJ known as The Count (amply beer-bellied Philip Seymour Hoffman). The Count rules the roost until the arrival of the strutting rock rooster Gavin Cavanaugh (Rhys Ifans, giving Hoffman a flamboyant run). Gavin’s hiring is another of Quentin’s attempts to foil government plans to abolish pirate radio, plans headed by blue-nosed prig Sir Alistair Dormandy (Kenneth Branagh, exhaling ham). Sir Alistair’s slavish henchman in his unending crusade to kill the fugitive stations is a Uriah Heep-ish sidekick (Jack Davenport).

"Pirate Radio" has the energetic pop of a Mick Jagger dance move, the infectious nature of a Jimi Hendrix guitar riff and the entertainment value of the entire Beach Boys catalog.

In other words: The film rocks.

"Pirate Radio" is from director Richard Curtis, whose "Love Actually" came incredibly close to being the perfect romance movie. This time he tackles the odd musical world that existed in England in 1966. Rock music was exploding but the government wouldn't allow it to be played on any local radio stations. This gave birth to pirate radio -- studios set up on ships at sea, where their signals were beamed to listeners.

This rebellious approach made the motley crew of on-air personalities demented gods in the minds of many listeners. They lived the life of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.

Thrown into the mix is Carl (Tom Sturridge), a relatively naive lad who's been kicked out of school. His mother sends him to stay with his godfather (Bill Nighy), the boat owner and general manager of the floating radio studio. Carl's time at sea proves an education in many ways.

Curtis navigates through multiple film genres going from the absurdity of the pop world of the '60s to the dramatic conflicts of censorship. He creates stark contrasts to make his point, from the oppressive properness of the British government (as shown through a wonderfully snooty performance by Kenneth Branagh) to the free-for-all debauchery of the radio world.

Once upon a time (in 1966) in a galaxy far, far away (Great Britain), rock 'n' roll was king (except on the traditional airwaves). Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart -- you could hear them all on local radio stations. But the fresh new sounds of the Beatles, the Stones, the Kinks were nowhere to be found.

Enter the merry band of pirates on which director/screenwriter Richard Curtis (Love Actually, Four Weddings and a Funeral) bases his funny, lively if imperfect film. From ships located off England's stuffy shores, scruffy DJs -- possibly in violation of British law -- broadcast the music people wanted to hear.

Set at a time when rock 'n' roll radio was bold, innovative, relevant and often shocking -- all the elements so dreadfully missing from today's boring, repetitive corporate radio -- Pirate Radio focuses on fictional station Radio Rock and the antics of the ragtag music lovers who live aboard, led by erstwhile station manager Quentin (Bill Nighy, as always, perfectly cast whenever someone exceedingly louche is needed). Among his motley, rebellious crew of DJs are the Count (Philip Seymour Hoffman), the lone American, who longs to drop an F bomb on the air; sex god Gavin (an absolutely hilarious Rhys Ifans); big, slutty Dave (Nick Frost, Shaun of the Dead) and goofy Angus (Rhys Darby, better known as Murray, the world's worst band manager in HBO's The Flight of the Conchords), who can't even swim despite living at sea.

Review in a Hurry: Rock 'n' roll and the high seas make an unlikely but jolly combination in this exuberantly directed film by Love, Actually writer-director Richard Curtis. Wisely, Curtis avoids any deep, thoughtful messages or significant thematic matter—that approach would just sink this ship.

The Bigger Picture: During one of the most pivotal times in music history, the British Broadcasting Company played nary a note of rock 'n' roll over the airwaves. Pirate Radio takes place in 1966, when the only way to hear rock and pop radio was from rogue deejays on ships in the ocean, just outside British jurisdiction.

Curtis' fictional script throws together a merry band of brothers spinning tunes from the North Sea, including American deejay The Count (Philip Seymour Hoffman), ship captain and station owner Quentin (Bill Nighy) and his aimless but sweet godson Carl (Tom Sturridge). The ship is like one giant frat house; it's the time of their lives, and things may never again be this good.

In fact, they're about to get worse as a sniveling bureaucrat (played by an over-the-top Kenneth Branagh) sets forth with an aggressive plan to shut them down. But the music plays on, and at all the right moments—music supervisor Nick Angel punctuates the action with crackling tunes by the Kinks, the Who and the Stones to name a few.

Pirate Radio" shines a light on a neglected little truth about rock music: Its true nature is less "Won't Get Fooled Again" or "Satisfaction" than "Yellow Submarine."

All the bubble and bounce (and seaworthiness) of the latter song defines Richard Curtis' affectionate 1960s comedy about a boat that rocked, just off British territorial waters. It broadcast pop tunes to a grateful audience when the airwave-controlling BBC largely refused to play such tommyrot.

The boat is a libertarian wonderland in which an American deejay (Philip Seymour Hoffman), a wacky owner (Bill Nighy) and a dandified lothario (Rhys Ifans) frolic in peace, free of all government intrusion -- until a buzz-cut Cabinet minister (a briskly hateful Kenneth Branagh, who trained for this part by playing a Nazi in HBO's "Conspiracy") tries to invent a reason to shut it down.

Richard Curtis, the writer of "Four Weddings and a Funeral," has dropped another bright joy-bomb that explodes in every direction with rock classics used in surprisingly direct and literal ways. (A highlight is the track that plays under one of the most spectacular screen entrances of the year, centered on the toothsome January Jones).

Rock 'n' roll, to Curtis (who was a kid at the time), is all little kids jumping on beds, tired nurses on break, custodians at work and lots of people (this is his strangest tic) who listen on the toilet. He is taking the mickey out of rock's view of itself as an esoteric taste for self-described rebels: Listening to rock is for everyone, even oldsters in sweater vests.

Pirate Radio" shines a light on a neglected little truth about rock music: Its true nature is less "Won't Get Fooled Again" or "Satisfaction" than "Yellow Submarine."

All the bubble and bounce (and seaworthiness) of the latter song defines Richard Curtis' affectionate 1960s comedy about a boat that rocked, just off British territorial waters. It broadcast pop tunes to a grateful audience when the airwave-controlling BBC largely refused to play such tommyrot.

"Pirate Radio" follows the form—when it chooses to follow any form—of a cat-and-mouse game between the British government, circa 1966, and a crew of raffish DJs beaming round-the-clock rock 'n' roll from a decrepit tanker anchored in the North Sea just outside Albion's territorial waters. Whitehall, in the person of a puritanical government minister played by Kenneth Branagh, views the ship and its transmissions as "a sewer." The ship's captain and station owner, a spacey dandy played by Bill Nighy, sees his vessel as an island of anarchy in a sea of conformity. (At the time, BBC radio barely acknowledged rock's existence.) Richard Curtis's comedy is anchored only in exuberance, but that's more than you can say for most movies these days; it keeps you beaming with pleasure.

In town to introduce a preview screening of "Pirate Radio," writer-director Richard Curtis ("Love Actually") described his comedy about a boatload of renegade DJs who broadcast rock-and-roll from a ship anchored off the coast of England in the mid-1960s as only "partly true." Well, duh. The disclaimer will, I suspect, be utterly unnecessary for anyone who sees the film, a tale so raucous, raunchy and punch-drunk with love for the rebellious spirit of rawk -- and so disdainful of those who have tried to squelch it -- that it pretty much negates any claims to objectivity, let alone factuality.

In other words, it's not a documentary.

The premise, however, is very real. In mid-1960s England, just as the Kinks and the Beatles were taking the world by storm, official British radio was under the monopoly of the BBC, which played precious little of anything anyone actually wanted to hear. In response, enterprising broadcasters set up offshore radio stations that would spin the latest tunes around the clock. They weren't technically illegal -- yet -- but there were those who wanted to shut them down.

The year is 1966, and British schoolboy Carl (Tom Sturridge) has been sent by his mother (Emma Thompson) to live aboard a semilegal vessel called Rock Radio. Helmed by Carl's hip godfather (Bill Nighy) and staffed by several adorably disreputable disc jockeys, this ship will be the party pad where Carl becomes a man.

What ensues is "Animal House" meets "A Hard Day's Night," with randy boys causing trouble and chasing the women who are shipped in like cargo. The Count (Philip Seymour Hoffman) may cross swords with super-smooth Gavin (Rhys Ifans), and heavyset Doctor Dave (Nick Frost) may steal someone's girl, but the bonds of men are not easily broken.

"Pirate Radio," the new rock-saturated comedy that proves life really is better when it's set to a '60s soundtrack, is, to borrow from the Stones, "a gas! gas! gas!"

And borrow does it ever -- from the Kinks, the Rolling Stones, Hendrix, the Who, the Troggs, the Turtles, the Beach Boys, the Yardbirds, the Seekers, the List, um, make that, the list goes on . . . nearly 60 cuts in all in what may be the coolest music-video masquerading as a movie ever. Don't even bother resisting the urge to join in -- but quietly, please.

Filmmaker Richard Curtis, the hopeless romantic behind "Four Weddings and a Funeral," "Notting Hill" and "Love Actually," has written and directed yet another love letter, this one signed, sealed, delivered to the early rock era just as a tidal wave of groundbreaking British bands began hitting.

And it's hard not to feel the love as Philip Seymour Hoffman, Bill Nighy, Rhys Ifans, "Shaun of the Dead's" Nick Frost and others in the groovy ensemble spin this somewhat true but mostly tall tale of Parliament's fight to crush rock radio and the rogue broadcasters who went to sea to keep it afloat.

Hey, everyone. Capone in Chicago here.

PIRATE RADIO (which was released everywhere else in the world as THE BOAT THAT ROCKED) is writer-director Richard Curtis' AMERICAN GRAFFITI. The difference being that Curtis is showing us his musical history and birth as a lifelong fan of rock n' roll from the perspective of the men who spun the platters and introduced a style of radio broadcast that UK radio had never seen before the late 1960s. Unlike George Lucas, Curtis didn't experience this music on the streets of his hometown where suped-up cars patrol the streets like animals on the hunt. No, Curtis heard The Kinks, The Rolling Stones, Dusty Springfield, pretty much every American R&B performer or group and, of course, The Beatles through a small transistor radio curled up in his room trying ever so desperately to find exactly the right frequency so that Jimi Hendrix's guitar could splash colors on his brain, or the Beach Boys would pump warm sunshine into his heart, or The Hollies would make him feel alive.