ROCKET MAN (2019)
Directed by Dexter Fletcher
Paramount, 122 minutes, R (language, sexual situations, disco dancing)
★★★
I didn’t see Rocket Man in the theater, so I might as well get my confession out of the way: I’ve never been a fan of Elton John’s music. He hit it big when acid rock gave way to soft rock and then yielded to disco. I hated disco and was not a fan of glam either, a genre think of as musical cosplay. I didn’t even know many of the film’s songs that were apparently big hits. In short, Rocket Man was pretty low on my must-see list.
I recently caught it on video and enjoyed it more than I thought I would, though the film has some issues, which is why I’ve assigned a middling three stars. Those who adore his music will probably overlook these and rate it a star higher. First off, though, credit goes to John for acting as executive producer for a biopic that presents him as a talented performer, but flawed individual. We all are, of course, but John admits he has an addictive personality. The film probes quite a few of them: egoism, booze, pills, cocaine, psychedelics, sex, shopping….
Like most biopics, Rocket Man’s attempt to cram a life into two hours is difficult. But my first beef with the film is that it squanders exposition time with too many big production numbers. At times it’s difficult to know if this is Elton’s story or Fame-Meets-La La Land. It’s one of those films in which instead of outbursts of anger or pain, we get a close-up, a song, and a pull-back to club or concert scenes. I suppose this makes sense for a performer as flamboyant as John, but it seemed overdone.
Speaking of flamboyance, though, Rocket Man sure has a flashy opening. We see Elton (Tayron Egerton) walking down a hallway. He is backlit and dressed in an orange-sequined devil suit that’s straight of Dante (except for the sequins). There’s a scowl of disgust on his face and we learn why: he’s on his way to day one of group therapy for his various substance addictions. This provides the springboard for telling his story via short montage-style flashbacks.
We meet Elton –born Reginald Dwight– as a boy in 1950s Middlesex. Postwar England was a dire place, so we can well imagine the appeal of American rock n’ roll, which he discovered through his father’s record collection. That is, when his old man Stanley (Stephen Mackintosh) allowed him to touch them. (Some within the LGBTQ community have taken umbrage with the cliché of distant father = misunderstood gay son. Elton’s step-sons also dispute the film’s depiction of Stanley.) But young Reg was a star pupil at the Royal Academy of Music, where talent is a must for entrance. At age 15 he began playing clubs and the song “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” is used to show him catching fire in that scene. Soon, he was backing visiting American acts such as Patti LaBelle and the Isley Brothers. (The name “Elton” was lifted from the nickname given to the saxophone in the Isleys’ band.) He also met lyricist Bernie Taupin (Jamie Bell), his longtime musical partner and best friend.
Rocket Man follows familiar arcs. There is the initial signing and recording –with DJM Records in this case– followed by a tour to America that makes Elton too big to keep down on the small record farm. The real devil comes in the guise of studio executive John Reid (Richard Madden), who has sex with Elton, signs him, is his entrée into LA debauchery, and then screws him in non-sexual ways. Hits follow, but Elton descends into bad decision-making, a brief marriage to Renate Blauel, drugs, an LA mansion, male lovers, burning bridges until no one stands on the other side, and then rehab, comeback, and belated happiness. (Yeah, I too have seen this before.)
This is another film in which women barely appear. The actress playing Blauel isn’t even credited and those depicting Elton’s mother and grandmother (Bryce Dallas Howard and Gemma Jones) are reoccurring cameos. On the relationship side of things, the central one is Elton’s friendship with Bernie, and Jamie Bell is endearing in the role. Rocket Man is mainly filled with Elton John’s songs and Egerton is up to the task of singing them. (“I’m Gonna Love Me Again” won the film’s only Oscar.) I suppose that’s what Elton fans would want but, if so, why attempt a total sweep of a life few would care about without the hits? For the record, though (pun intended), my favorite has always been “Your Song,” a melodic and sweet offering that needs no pyrotechnics.
Rob Weir
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