“You know how you’ve gone really rotten? Fruit flies. When they start feasting upon you. Well, don’t worry, there soon won’t be anything left to feast on.” So realizes the only Indian-British Zanzibari Parsi rock star of his kind when he comes to terms with the treachery of his manager, Paul Prenter (Allen Leech, a fitting last name for this particular role), who has kept the ones closest to him at bay as he spirals out of control with his half-hearted love of cocaine and orgies. Of course, nothing Freddie Mercury ever did was half-hearted–he was a man of appetites, seeking to fill the void that no amount of love could fill (sounds a bit like The Pisces, actually). Maybe this is one of the many mistakes Bohemian Rhapsody makes about its portrayal of Mercury’s life–in addition to whitewashing any potential Satyricon-like sex scenes.
But perhaps some element of this sexual tameness, this lack of “perversity” has something to do with the movie’s director, Bryan Singer, himself gay, and who has long been accused of sexual abuse (particularly toward underage actors) in Hollywood, yet has managed to fly under the radar even still. Thus, maybe he himself does not want to attract the kind of attention that a truly accurate in its debauchedness account of Mercury would entail. Screenwriter Anthony McCarten, already a semi-veteran in biopics with The Theory of Everything and Darkest Hour (starring yet another sexual predator), however, isn’t exactly renowned for being “super edgy” so it should also come as no surprise that the biopic–now the highest grossing one of all-time–should be such a hit. It’s something even the suburbanites the band was spoofing in the “I Want to Break Free” video can see.
Stylizing Mercury’s fall-in with the band, originally called Smile thanks to drummer Roger Taylor’s (Ben Hardy) dentistry path, he is shown jumping at the chance to replace their freshly defected lead singer, Tim Staffell (Jack Roth), even in the face of Taylor’s mockery, “Not with teeth like that.” It is then that Mercury belts out a tune, happily pointing out that his supernumerary teeth give him greater vocal range. What’s more, Mercury–still Farrokh Bulsara–is, at this point, no stranger to persecution based on his appearance, his family having fled from his home country of Zanzibar during the revolution that saw the death of countless Arabs and Indians. And then there is getting called “Paki” at the Heathrow Airport where he works as a baggage handler. So no, Taylor’s words are only an encouragement to insert himself. Which he does, quite seamlessly, as though the four, Brian May (Gwilym Lee), Taylor and John Deacon (Joe Mazzello)–added to the mix at the same time as Freddie–had always been playing together. This, too, is an aspect that Bohemian Rhapsody muddles the truth with, although both May and Taylor served as consultants on the film.
And because every Oscar-worthy movie needs a clear-cut antagonist, we have this sort of villainous Brian Epstein, as Paul Prenter’s influence over Mercury did cast a Yoko Ono-like pall over the band. Even so, Mercury would not terminate his services until after Live Aid, despite the film depicting it as being right before, along with Mercury telling the band he had AIDS, which also goes against an accurate timeline. But who can be hemmed in by timelines when a cinematic arc is at play?
At one point at a 1982 press conference intended to discuss Hot Space with the press (one of the best scenes in terms of effectively getting across the Mercury wit), Brian May finally bursts out with, “Does anyone have any questions about the music?” in irritation over the fixation over the rampant rumors swirling around Mercury’s personal life. And maybe, in this way, Bohemian Rhapsody is not wrong in its approach, meticulous in its careful consideration of the dynamic between the band members and their commitment to and passion for making music unlike anyone else on the radio at the time or since (The Darkness does not count).
What’s more, there is this notion presented that, in Freddie’s mind, it was solely about the music–his personal life wasn’t real in the same way that his bandmates’ were, all saddled with wives and children. Though this doesn’t stop Freddie from constantly and humorously shading Roger for philandering in front of his apparently oblivious wife. Then again, this is how the biopic diminishes Mercury’s life by essentially editing out what was such a key aspect of his existence, instead honing in more on his complex, yet heteronormative relationship with fiancée Mary Austin (Lucy Boynton, IRL girlfriend of Malek), who served as the only constant in Mercury’s revolving door of users and characters as the years wore on. It is, in many ways, Mary’s soul that draws Freddie to her. Well, that and her fur coat, which she announces is from Biba, where her friend, in turn, announces she works so that Freddie can find her later. Real life, on the other hand, had her dating Brian before Freddie.
And as Queen becomes Queen, selling their only item of value–the van–to record their self-titled first album (which yes, is actually historically accurate), the tour life starts to prove much too tempting for Freddie despite his recent engagement to Mary, during which he asks that she never take her ring off no matter what (how foreshadowing indeed). It is during these scenes that the intimation of sex is almost more artistic than something in the vein of a scene out of Suspiria. Minus the part where Adam Lambert cameos as a truck driver of interest to Mercury. There’s nothing arousing about that in any form.
Feeling the effects of their success by the time of recording for their fourth album, A Night at the Opera, rolled around, contention with the EMI executive Ray Foster (Mike Meyers)–a composite character that doesn’t exist in real life–that has just bankrolled the production of the record balks at the idea of “Bohemian Rhapsody” being the lead single, insisting, “It isn’t the kind of thing that will make teenagers headbang in their car.” Of course, the metaness of this being said by Mike Meyers is significant to dredging up the immortal opening scene of Wayne’s World, in which Wayne (Meyers) and his friends drive around the streets of Aurora, Illinois headbanging to the track. That Meyers himself had to fight Lorne Michaels on using the track (the producer wanted a Guns ‘n’ Roses song) further solidifies the song’s strangely polarizing effect on literal-minded ears.
As Paul becomes an increasing influence in Mercury’s life as a result of his lapdog-like manner in the face of everyone else finding more conventional means of happiness apart from money and the accoutrements thereof, the tension begins to mount, the wedge begins to be driven, etc. The extent of how villainous Paul really was remains somewhat nebulous based on accounts available, as made evident by Leech’s mention of having trouble finding anyone who would discuss him openly, commenting, “The weird thing about Paul is that once he passed away, a lot of people kind of went underground. I couldn’t find anyone that wanted to talk about him.” So it must be that this Catholic boy from Belfast will remain mired in infamy. Even though it isn’t necessarily true that he withheld the information about Bob Geldof’s (played with babyface earnestness by Dermot Murphy) historic Live Aid concert (“They’re all just gonna be askin’ where Madonna is,” May says in nervousness over being deemed irrelevant), nor was it a huge deal for the band to play together after a separation that didn’t happen (they had just finished a show eight weeks prior to Live Aid). But to heighten the drama, a fictional breakup must occur for Freddie to go solo (something Roger Taylor had done before him anyway) and go off the rails enough to lose touch with his vocal talent. Hence, a rehearsal before the performance that sees Mercury apologizing for how terrible he sounds and offering, “I feel like the inside of a vulture’s crotch.”
At the show, however, Mercury slips easily into his “old” stage presence, in one of the most electrifying performances the band ever gave. In response to Mercury’s miraculous maintenance of his previously “shot” vocal chords, there is an awkward close-up of Deacon smiling that goofy smile that can only serve as a coda in an 80s film (or one set during the period), accenting the strange irony of the decade being one of the cheesiest in pop culture history almost as a means to mask how utterly sinister it all was underneath the veneer (which is precisely why American Psycho is set in this time). This is, too, in essence what Bohemian Rhapsody does with Mercury’s story. And yet, “Being human is a condition that requires a bit of anesthesia,” as Mercury puts it to Mary in explanation of the traces of cocaine and alcohol all around him when she pops in unexpectedly. Which is somewhat the extent of how “crazy” it gets in the film.
So if you want sordidness out of a gay male icon biopic, try Behind the Candelabra. But yeah, any film narrative about Mercury should at least warrant an R rating, whether focused primarily on the music or not.
