"Rocketman" • Drive-by review

"Screw you, David Bowie! My astronaut song is better!"

Rocketman. Jeez Louise. This biopic rockstar movie-musical rubbed me the wrong way at first. Its indifference to facts, and whatnot. 

Full disclosure: Elton John was never at the top of my personal hit list. But even I know he didn’t play Crocodile Rock at the Troubadour in 1970. The song came out in 1972, man! C’mon! One of many inaccuracies. But freed of facts, the director just played around. Self-indulgent fantasy! The story beats are as obvious as the mile markers on Alligator Alley! You can see ‘em a mile away!

Yeah, OK. But the filmic result is a hell of a lot more entertaining than Bohemian Rhapsody. Once I realized that fact, I stopped grinding my teeth and enjoyed this counterfactual flick. It’s an interesting portrait of a singer-songwriter. Who is and isn’t a singer-songwriter. Which got me thinking ...

The A-list singer-songwriters all have a unique persona. Ian Anderson is the sneering pirate/troubadour/jester. Bob Dylan is the unwashed phenomenon. Mick Jagger is the androgynous Antichrist. David Bowie is the Man from Mars. Elton John is the flamboyant dude with big glasses banging on the old piano. The difference being …

Elton John didn’t write the songs. Bernie Taupin did.

For the Elton John persona.

Cool. So who the hell is Elton John?

The movie teases you with the question. Formulaic redemption aside, it never answers it.

But it’s damn entertaining.