There’s an elephant in the room.
And dwarfs with silver salvers of cocaine on their heads.
And a bored-looking singer with giddy boys and/or girls on each arm.
Because this is a rock and roll biopic, and it’s the rock and roll party scene.
The biopic production line is humming. Hollywood’s exotic animal wranglers have never had it so good. So how do you know which ones are any good? Easy.
If the band or their current partners are listed as producers, walk away. You’ve invited someone round to do karaoke over a three hour slideshow that says: “Thanks for funding my lifestyle for thirty years. Wasn’t it crazy awesome? How could you do that to me? I need a hug.” See The Dirt (Motley Crue go from cocky bad boys to self-obsessed wrecks to just a band of brothers. Who need a hug.) For egregious protagonist/producer conflict of interest, thank the stars we escaped Brian May’s original plan for Bohemian Rhapsody, the one where Freddie Mercury dies with an hour to go and the rest of the film charts Queen’s ongoing success.
If it spans a full life or career, walk away. You’ve seen this one. In the first five minutes we meet the disapproving parents. Subject then does everything possible to guarantee further disapproval while trying to win their approval, then figures out they didn’t really need their approval anyway. Which is just as well because the parents died about halfway through.
If it’s a story by a proper music journalist of the period about a made-up band, you might be in luck. See Almost Famous.
If it’s black-and-white and covers a period of about a year and stops before anyone gets famous, it’s worth a look. See Control and Backbeat.
So, Rocketman. Full life story, husband as producer – see above. I’ll save you ten dollars and two hours in an Elton John therapy session. Watch the John Lewis ad backwards, and the Justin Timberlake performance forwards, and you’ve got it.
Better yet, board the Almost Famous bus and sing along with some made-up musicians and a journalist who gets on with his mother.