NY

“Rocketman” and the Art of the Acceptably Outrageous

Cut from the same gaudy cloth as “Bohemian Rhapsody,” this glam-rock bio-pic presents an
Elton John marginally less sanitized than its predecessor’s Freddie Mercury.

By Anthony Lane5:00 A.M.

Taron Egerton stars as Elton John in Dexter Fletcher’s bio-pic.Illustration by Zohar Lazar

The new bio-pic of Elton John, “Rocketman,” is directed by Dexter Fletcher. Last year, he
assumed command of the Freddie Mercury film, “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and steered it to a
safe harbor, after the previous director walked the plank. If you need somebody to recount the
rise of a British rock god from pallid suburbia to the baroque extremes of fame, and to create a
stir without causing too much of a fuss, Fletcher is your man. He is the helmsman of the
acceptably outrageous. David Bowie fans, watch out.

“Rocketman” is framed as a therapeutic exercise. We first encounter the adult Elton John
(Taron Egerton) as he stomps down a corridor in a tangerine catsuit, tricked out with wings
and horns. He looks like Hellboy, only shorter and angrier. Bursting through a door, Elton finds
himself in group therapy, and immediately reveals his addictions: sex, drink, and drugs—the
usual suspects—plus bags and bags of shopping. “I was actually a very happy child,” he adds,
and, with that, we are spirited back to his youth, and thence through his personal past. We get
the early gigs in pubs; the meeting with his lifelong lyricist, Bernie Taupin (Jamie Bell); the
doomy arrival of John Reid (Richard Madden), who became Elton’s lover and manager; the
globe-straddling glory; and the statutory crackup, without which no rock fable is complete. The
whole thing winds up where it began, with the star, efficiently cured of his miseries, embracing
his younger self, and carolling “I’m Still Standing.” Job done.

There is a famous boyhood photograph of Elton—or, as he then was, Reggie Dwight—seated

at the piano, his hands on the keys, turning to the camera with a smile. His hair is neatly
brushed, as befits a polite scion of Pinner, an uneventful town northwest of London. The
youngest actor who plays him in “Rocketman,” Matthew Illesley, is a perfect match for that
photo, and, when he’s required to belt out “The Bitch Is Back” in a ringing treble, outside the
Dwight family home, with local residents pitching in, Illesley gives it everything. He thereby
sets a pattern for the movie, in which the songs are delivered not by Elton John but by the
actors, with varying degrees of success. Reggie, his mother (Bryce Dallas Howard), his
grandmother (Gemma Jones), and even his father (Steven Mackintosh), as stiff as a brush, all
contribute to “I Want Love,” for instance, as they wander around the house.

Compare this scene with the music video of the same song, from 2001, when it was lip-
synched by Robert Downey, Jr., as he wandered around a house. It was eerie to hear the
familiar tones of Elton John—the long and winding vowels, the dying falls, the salty Englishness
pepped up with a transatlantic twang—emerge from someone else’s mouth, and there are
times, during “Rocketman,” when you yearn for a snatch of that unmistakable sound. Egerton
is busy and fizzy in the leading role, but there’s a curious blankness in his impersonation, and a
shortage of charm. Hard to tell whether viewers will flock to him as they did to Rami Malek,
who gave such electric life to “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Yet “Rocketman” is the better film. Not by much, but just enough. Fletcher and his
screenwriter, Lee Hall (who joined forces with Elton John on “Billy Elliot the Musical”), allow
themselves all sorts of latitude. Elton’s bad behavior, for one thing, gets a proper airing; we
see him falling into bed with Reid, quenching his thirsty soul with vodka, and surfing atop a
mob of orgiasts. (Mind you, as even Stanley Kubrick proved with “Eyes Wide Shut,” in 1999,
orgies may be fun to try but they’re grindingly boring to behold.) Then, there are factual
tweaks. In 1970, for example, when the singer took his first trip to Los Angeles, he did indeed
raise the roof at the Troubadour, as the movie suggests—but not with the song we hear,
“Crocodile Rock,” for the simple reason that it was not written until 1972.

From that white lie, though, comes the highlight of the film. As the song hits its stride, Elton
dispenses with his piano stool and—keeping his hands on the keys, like little Reggie—lofts his
legs into the air. And there he stays. So hot is the thrill that the action freezes. And such is the
uplift that the revellers at the Troubadour, too, begin to levitate; we watch their feet leave the
ground. The joint is jumpin’, and that jump, as every pop star knows, and as all fans feel in
their bones, matters more than the life, however staid or fraught, from which the music
sprang. Forget therapy. Screw gravity. For a few minutes, exultant and exalted, “Rocketman”
takes off.

In many respects, Godzilla is hard to distinguish from Elton John. Terrible temper? Check.
Professional longevity? Check. Tireless vocal vigor? Check. They even share a fondness for
baseball parks as suitable arenas for their skills; “Rocketman” re-creates Elton’s triumphant
appearance at Dodger Stadium, in 1975, while “Godzilla: King of the Monsters,” a new addition
to the franchise, shows the title character slugging a rival predator at Fenway Park. For years,
it’s true, the singer has beaten the beast in the costume stakes, since Godzilla prefers to
function au naturel, with his dark-green skin, all wrinkled and ridged, lending him the look of a
furious avocado. For the latest film, however, he grows more fashion-conscious, arranging for
his dorsal plates to flash bright blue whenever he’s totally stoked. Once Elton John sees this
movie, he will have to get himself a set of those.

The film is a sequel to “Godzilla” (2014), and we start with a reminder of the chaos that was
wrought therein—“a historic tragedy that changed the world forever as we know it.” I’m
embarrassed to admit that I’d forgotten all about it. Odd how often that happens. What we
now learn is that Godzilla, far from being a solo act, is the front man for the Titans: supersized
creatures, dormant beneath the earth, and half as old as time. They include Rodan, a volcano-
based dragonoid whose wings are fretted with fire; Mothra, a flying insect of rare beauty,
which, like all moths, should be kept well away from your cashmere sweaters; and a
mammoth-flavored enormity whose name I didn’t catch. Also present is King Ghidorah, a real
piece of work. Stealing his style from the Hydra of Greek mythology, he has three screeching
heads, which occasionally squabble among themselves but, when on form, can trounce the
competition. Fighting Ghidorah is like doing battle with the Bee Gees.

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Stayin’ alive, amidst the chaos, is a handful of negligible humans. The joke is that many of them
are played by actors who, given half a chance, can be as wondrous to behold as any monster;
what slays the joke is that the movie, directed by Michael Dougherty, gives them, at best, a
quarter of a chance, or a sixteenth. Sally Hawkins, whose knack for befriending the bestial was
demonstrated in “The Shape of Water” (2017), is wasted here as a scientist. Ditto David
Strathairn as an admiral. Vera Farmiga plays Emma Russell, who has invented an acoustic
device, the Orca, that can tune in to Titans. (The film probably cost around two hundred
million dollars, so it’s touching to note that the Orca seems to be made from an old
oscilloscope found on eBay for thirty-five bucks.) Emma’s daughter, Madison, aged fourteen, is
played by Millie Bobby Brown, the prodigy from the TV series “Stranger Things,” who has one
moment—enshrined in the trailer—when she turns not to scream but to smile, with a kind of
knowing relief, at Godzilla’s approach. That moment makes the movie.

It has long been a boast of monster flicks that they glow with metaphorical intent. The original
“Godzilla” came out in Japan less than a decade after Hiroshima, and a recent contribution to
the legend, “Shin Godzilla” (2016), was received, and praised, as a scalding comment on the
Japanese government’s response to real-life calamities—the earthquake and tsunami of 2011,
and the subsequent meltdown at the Fukushima nuclear power plant. What’s sad about
“Godzilla: King of the Monsters” is its attempt, both earnest and lily-livered, to maintain that
moral tradition; Dougherty isn’t quite sure whether to wow us with the hulking immensity of
the action scenes or to wag his finger at us for the environmental hubris of our species. While
some of the characters want to live in peace with Godzilla and the gang, others want to kick
the bejesus out of them, which is easier said than done.

But wait. There is a third way, represented by Jonah Alan, “a former British army colonel
turned eco-terrorist.” That’s not the most obvious of career moves, but it gets results; Alan
basically nips around the world, hauls lazy Titans out of bed, and tells them to start
monstering. He believes that the planet is rightfully theirs, that we are mere undeserving
tenants who have trashed the place, and that the sooner we are mown down and composted
the better. Alan is supposed to be the villain of the piece, but many viewers will instinctively
side with him, not least because he’s played by Charles Dance, who is fresh from “Game of
Thrones,” and whose dry, unhurried wit makes him terribly hard to argue with. Need instant
help from Godzilla with your downsizing? Feel like selling your car and flying everywhere by
Mothra? Not a problem. Let the rewilding begin. ♦
This article will be published in its print form in the June 10 & 17, 2019, issue.

NYT

‘Rocketman’ Review: The Fantastical Tale of Elton John, Survivor, Rock God, Camp Icon

Taron Egerton brings understated flamboyance and flamboyant understatement to his

portrayal of the former Reginald Dwight.

Taron Egerton in effect plays both the Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper parts of “A Star Is Born”
in the musical retelling of Elton John’s life.

Credit

David Appleby/Paramount Pictures

Image

Taron Egerton in effect plays both the Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper parts of “A Star Is Born”
in the musical retelling of Elton John’s life.CreditCreditDavid Appleby/Paramount Pictures

A.O. Scott

By A.O. Scott

May 28, 2019

Leer en español

RocketmanNYT Critic's PickDirected by Dexter FletcherBiography, Drama, Music, MusicalR2h

1m

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The first album I ever bought with my own allowance was “Captain Fantastic and the Brown
Dirt Cowboy,” one of two studio LPs Elton John released in 1975. Nestled inside the sleeve was
a graphic-novel-style booklet about the singer’s life, a source of great fascination to me at the
time. I spent many hours that summer on the beanbag chair in the green-carpeted den,
listening to “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” and poring over the tale of how a shy,
bespectacled piano prodigy named Reginald Dwight blossomed into the internationally
renowned song stylist dominating my turntable and millions of others.

“Rocketman,” directed by Dexter Fletcher from a screenplay by Lee Hall, recounts a slightly
updated, substantially more candid version of the same story. Back in the ’70s, the fact that
John was gay counted as an official secret, as did the extent of his devotion to alcohol, cocaine
and other substances. But like that booklet, the movie — a testament to self-realization and a
chronicle of recovery — is very much an authorized life. John, now 72, married and many years
sober, serves as an executive producer and the author (with his lyricist Bernie Taupin, of
course) of most of the soundtrack. (The instrumental score, threaded with echoes and
allusions to his hits, with special attention to “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” is by Matthew
Margeson.)

But the point of “Rocketman” isn’t self-aggrandizement. It’s fan service of an especially and
characteristically generous kind. It’s certain that Elton John has nothing left to prove, but it’s
also possible that he’s underappreciated. He has been part of the pop-music mainstream for
so long — more than 50 years! — that the scope of his genius and the scale of his
accomplishments risk being taken for granted. Nearly all the dozen or so songs you hear in this
movie were originally recorded within the span of about seven years, and they represent the
tip of a musical iceberg with few rivals.

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Still, I doubt I’m the only listener of my generation who has at times succumbed to the lure of
rock-snob dogmatism and worshiped false idols of authenticity, as if Sir Elton’s splendid artifice
were something to be outgrown or outsmarted. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who will be
grateful to be reminded of how much I loved him, and why.

As “Rocketman” tells it, that affection — mine and everyone else’s — stands in painful contrast
to the absence of love in Reg Dwight’s childhood. (He’s played as a boy by Matthew Illesley
and in adolescence by Kit Connor; the adult Elton is Taron Egerton). Dad (Steven Mackintosh)
withholds all affection and approval from his firstborn son, in spite of a shared interest in
music. Mum (Bryce Dallas Howard) runs hot and cold, her warmth always contingent on her
own needs. After they split up, there’s a harmless, useless stepfather (Tom Bennett).
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Luckily, there is also a grandmother around — the wonderful Gemma Jones — to notice the
lad’s talents and to make sure he cultivates them, with lessons at the Royal Academy of Music.
It’s also lucky that Fletcher and Hall, rather than making a standard biopic, infuse this one with
anti-literalist elements of jukebox-musical spectacle. Grown-up Elton sings duets with his
younger self. Young Reg dances his way to adulthood to the sounds of “Saturday Night’s
Alright for Fighting.”

As a result, the chronology is almost as baroque as the melodies. Sometimes the songs are
embedded in the plot, as when Elton, early in his partnership with Taupin (Jamie Bell), unfurls
“Your Song,” apparently off the top of his head, on the piano in his mother’s parlor. Or, a bit
later, when he takes the stage at the Troubadour in Los Angeles and levitates the crowd with
“Crocodile Rock.” Other songs — “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” and the title track,
among others — function more as musical numbers, giving theatrical vividness and
metaphorical voice to Elton’s emotions. Those are heard when they suit the mood, rather than
the historical record.

The film shrewdly resists the biographical cliché of supposing that the songs originate in or
refer to specific moments of feeling. That isn’t really how art works, especially an art as
collaborative as Elton and Bernie’s. Their creative alliance is the film’s core, the quiet, non-
dysfunctional love story woven through the glitter, excess and heartbreak. “Your Song”
becomes the emblem of this relationship. Bernie writes it for Elton, who sings it for Bernie, and
thanks to the flexible magic of the second-person pronoun, it becomes a message that each
one is sending to the other, and then to everyone else in the world.

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It’s hard to think of a portrayal of artists at work less invested in the myth of creative struggle.
Bernie produces lyrics by the bushel, Elton has tunes by the bucketful, and the resulting hits
make both men insanely rich before either turns 30. The trouble, for Elton, is what follows
from that success, as his fame exacerbates the unhealed wounds of childhood.

The main plot of “Rocketman” follows a familiar therapeutic loop. We start in rehab, where
Elton has arrived in full stage regalia, a bright orange jumpsuit adorned with angel wings and
devil horns. (Most of the clothes Egerton is shown wearing are replicas of costumes Elton John
actually wore, a feat of costume design by Julian Day that is ostentatious and humble at the
same time.) We cycle through early striving and midcareer misery.

Some of that is brought about by John Reid (Richard Madden), a sharp-dressed music-industry
sharpie who notices Elton’s talent, appraises his sexual insecurity and finds a way to take
advantage of both. His ruthlessness and Elton’s appetites combine to push the singer to the
brink of self-destruction, a precondition for the redemption that follows.

Egerton, with what can only be called flamboyant understatement — and also, I suppose,
understated flamboyance — in effect plays both the Lady Gaga and the Bradley Cooper parts
in a fresh iteration of “A Star Is Born.” His Elton is the hard-living road warrior and the
preternaturally gifted ingénue, the sacrificial hero and the plucky survivor, the rock god and
the camp icon. The actor delivers a tour de force of self-effacement, a bravura demonstration
of borrowed charisma.

Fletcher sometimes overreaches, with respect to both spectacle and storytelling — the
choreography can be as confusing as the timeline — but when it’s working “Rocketman” has
the earnest, extravagant energy of a Baz Luhrmann movie. That description is, in this context,
very much a compliment, since Luhrmann-esque showmanship is just what you want in a
movie about Elton John.

The other thing you want is Elton John’s music, a desire that “Rocketman” by turns satisfies,
sharpens and frustrates. The songs aren’t quite the way you remember them, and in most
cases the new versions are put to effective dramatic use. But they don’t quite stand alone, and
they’re unlikely to displace the originals on anyone’s streaming playlist. That’s just fine of
course: The point is to spark renewed fondness for those old records, and for the incandescent
meteor of a man who made them.