Review of Pink Floyd: The Wall (1982)

A major rock star sits alone in a big hotel room, losing his mind, remembering the needless death of his father as a soldier, his regimented education, his overprotective mother, and other contributions to a deadening gulf of isolation which has already cut him off from his wife. To his manager, the star is just a product whose desperate madness can always be ignored as “artistry”. To women, he is money and drugs. To his fans, his word is law; he could whip a crowd into a fascistoid frenzy if he wanted.