Queen is a rock outfit synonymous with audacity and bombast. If their meteoric rise must exist on screen, it should transcend the formalities of a standard biopic. That genre only dulls the band’s glittering legacy, and places its immortal frontman, Freddy Mercury, in a straitjacket.
And yet here we are. Bohemian Rhapsody struts into theaters after an eight-year struggle that included Sacha Baron Cohen as its original lead, a revolving door of behind-the-camera contributors, and the last-minute firing of director Bryan Singer (when he stopped showing up to the set). Remarkably, the result isn’t a stitched-together mess such a troubled production would suggest. In a way, it’s worse. The wreckage of an ambitious disaster would have been preferable to this by-the-numbers biopic.
Let’s start with its on-the-nose title. Had the producers of Family Feud asked a hundred people to name a hypothetical Queen film, I suspect Bohemian Rhapsody would, by a landslide, be the number-one answer. My choice, Mercury Rising, has already been claimed. But it better describes the final product.
You see, Bohemian Rhapsody is only a Queen biopic when Freddy (Rami Malek, the Emmy-winning star of Mr. Robot) interacts with his bandmates. For better or worse, this is Mercury’s story. To the film’s credit, his queerness isn’t wiped away (an early worry of internet prognosticators). Instead, his sexuality is a box that’s dutifully checked, particularly when the film sinks into the unglamorous hedonism that’s become the cruising altitude for most tales about fame’s rapid ascent. (Bradley Cooper’s A Star is Born, a far better picture, is a notable exception.)
The fundamental problem with Bohemian Rhapsody is that it stylishly dramatizes what is, in essence, a lengthy Wikipedia entry. Consider the distinction between chronology and history. The former strings together past events in a tidy sequence. The latter synthesizes those events and offers themes and narratives, a fresh perspective. Bohemian Rhapsody goes deepest with a central assertion: Queen was a talented collection of misfits with a towering singer. Sure, there are corollaries. Mercury was a disappointing son, a damaged genius, a plague victim. But beside the discovery of a shaky relationship with his parents, and a toxic symbiosis with his personal manager Paul Prenter (Allen Leech), I left the theater with little more than fabulous music ringing in my ears.
And that’s the point. Most Queen hits are given fantastic creation stories. These sequences are fun, if implausible. Mercury, for example, comes up with the unforgettable piano motif of the title opus while in bed, post-coitus. Bassist John Deacon (Joseph Mazzello) extrudes the thumping bassline of “Another One Bites the Dust”, like sonic Play-Doh, in a record executive’s office. Guitarist Brian May (the excellent Gwilym Lee) forges the rhythmic stomp of “We Will Rock You,” seemingly on a whim, in the studio.
These songs culminate with Queen’s climax, a Live Aid performance that remains legendary. Here’s where Malek shines brightest in his impersonation of Freddy Mercury. His onstage mannerisms are impeccable, nearly imperceptible to the real deal. But who needs a simulacrum, when a sensational Queen performance already exists? Queen Rock Montreal, filmed in 1981, proves the band’s greatness with startling renditions of incredible songs. Why settle for less?
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