An argument breaks out at a recording studio in "Bohemian Rhapsody," Bryan Singer's biopic about Freddie Mercury, the flamboyant frontman of Queen. Ignoring the bickering, bassist John Deacon (Joe Mazzello) plucks out a line: Domp, domp, domp _ da dom-dom, da-da, domp. Mercury's head swivels around. "That's pretty good, actually," he says.
And that, folks, is how Queen wrote "Another One Bites the Dust!"
No kidding _ this is what passes for a you-are-there moment in "Bohemian Rhapsody." The story of a charismatic rock star living at the peak of rock history _ the mid-1970s _ "Bohemian Rhapsody" comes built-in with a headbanging soundtrack, 20 years' worth of costume changes and, in true rock fashion, a tragically early death (Mercury died at the age of 45, from complications of AIDS). By rights, this ought to be a glammed-up, sexually-charged, four-octave blowout. Instead, it's a stilted, stagy, hopelessly corny biopic, the kind of thing "Walk Hard" was meant to prevent.
Don't blame Rami Malek, the "Mr. Robot" star who plays Mercury. He infuses the singer with a convincing combination of vulnerability, arrogance and artistic ambition. With his girlfriend, Mary Austin (Lucy Boynton), he's a lost puppy; around the poisonous Paul Prenter (Allen Leech), an apparent lover, he's as sour as late-period Bette Davis. And around his band _ which includes Gwilym Lee as guitarist Brian May and Ben Hardy as drummer Roger Taylor _ Mercury clearly wears the crown.
The script, by Anthony McCarten ("The Theory of Everything"), feels like a Wikipedia entry with dialogue. Mercury often talks like a rock journalist, as when he describes the film's iconic title song as an attempt to tear down musical boundaries. (Is that what that six-minute slab of bombastic brilliance is about? What a disappointment!) A record exec, Ray Foster (Mike Myers, a casting in-joke meant for fans), grumbles about the song's radio-unfriendly length _ "No one will play Queen," he growls _ but he's fictional, a pretend villain. Even Queen's triumphant performance at the 1985 Live Aid concert, the climax of the film and perhaps their career, feels a bit dry: The details are right (the clothing, the set list) but the excitement isn't there.
Blame must go to Singer ("X-Men"), who gets sole directing credit despite being replaced, under murky circumstances, by Dexter Fletcher. You can almost feel Mercury resisting this movie at every turn: He won't be the gay pioneer (he was never publicly "out") or the AIDS activist (he kept his diagnosis secret for years) or even just your typical tortured artist (though he had his moments). What "Bohemian Rhapsody" can't admit is that, on stage and on record, Mercury already told his story, exactly the way he wanted. That's all any Queen fan needs.
