I don't disagree with your argument, but I wanted to rise to the defense of Talk Radio. The neo-Nazi stuff is incidental to the story. The plot is the disintegration of the marriage, career and life of talk radio host Barry Champlain. Eric Bogosian's original playscript is nothing special, but Oliver Stone's rewrite, combined with Stone's incomparable cinematic pyrotechnics, result in a film that is positively Greek in its artistic power. I've written about it again and again over the years, with this text being perhaps my best endorsement of Talk Radio:

The film is "based on a true story," the last days of Denver talk radio host Alan Berg, as documented in the book Talked to Death by Stephen Singular. But "true stories" are omnipresent and banal, where art is the thing that won't turn you loose. I defy anyone to even breathe in Act III of Talk Radio. The film builds and builds until the tension is so immense it envelopes the room. And then, just when you can't stand it, Stone and Bogosian throw the most horrifyingly perfect five minutes of agony right in your face, and you sweat and the tendons in your neck pop and you strain and you strain and you strain, desperate to turn away. But you can't turn away, you can't stand what you're seeing and you can't bear to miss a second of it.

Talk Radio is Netflixible, so people looking in on this can see for themselves.