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"Real love's hard to come by."
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What would you tell your younger-self if you were able to share a conversation? The implications to that question are colossal, I know. Would you warn them against all future failures? Would you educate them to every booby-trap and pitfall that life drug you through? Would you approach this unsuspecting child with bitterness, with contempt, with hope, with jealousy?
If I was able, the thought of "total disclosure" would cross my mind. Remember all those sleepless night? Gone. Remember all of those lonely days? Gone. Remember the pain? Remember the depression? Remember the rejection? Gone, gone, gone. Remember all those ill-fitting silk shirts? Gone. Remember all those regrettable haircuts you received only because you were afraid to speak to your barber? Gone. Scars could be erased, relationships could be saved, and embarrassing musical-taste could be expunged.
As those little eyes peered at you, both innocent and ignorant of the things to come, what should they know?
Nothing. I would divulge nothing. I would place my hand on his little shoulder (because I know how much he hates having his hair tousled like a dog) and say, "It'll all be OK, bud. It might not always seem like it...but it'll all be OK." I would save the hurt and the harsh - I would only provide encouragement. Sparing this little-me from all difficulty would rob him of so much. I need him to endure those things.
I echo the wise Kurt Vonnegut in his novel Bluebeard. When the main character is musing on time machines and whether or not to notify his younger-self of his future hardships, he ends with this thought: "Cancel the time machine. I want him to believe for as long as possible that he is going to become a great painter and a good father."
Youth deserves innocence. Youth deserves aspirations. Let the adults bemoan their states, regret their shortcomings, and complain of their missteps. I choose to let my younger-self maintain his goodness and naivety for as long as possible.
"It'll all be OK, bud."
***
Rocketman begins with a costumed Elton John (played by Taron Egerton) entering (with immense-pomp and glittery circumstance) a rehab clinic. The scene quickly unfolds into a rather lengthy confession of addiction: alcohol, substance, sex, shopping...you name it. Instead of coming from vulnerability, though, the confession seems to be originating in angst and offered through clenched teeth.
As the scene continues, the question of Elton's childhood is posed. From that point on, we teeter between current confessional and formational flashbacks.
We are introduced to many "Eltons." Young Elton is an apparent musical prodigy who learns pieces in just one listen even though he's never played piano before! Teenage Elton is bored with traditional music and longs for the excitement of rock and roll. Young-adult Elton is flirting with fame but growing further from his family. Then Elton becomes sparkly Elton, and the money and drugs begin. From that point on, things get a little blurry, so I'll stop there.
The film attempts to be something but falls drastically short. In its attempt to be whimsical, it comes out confusing. In its attempt to be creative, it comes out cliche. In its attempt to be honest, it comes out shallow. In its attempt to be special, it comes out detached and quite stale.
I thought the musical numbers had promise but continually showed themselves to be nothing short of gimmicky. I thought the style had potential but ended up feeling forced and ungrounded. For every step of worth that the film attempted to take, the waver of affected action or formula fittings caused two stumblingsteps back into mediocrity.
The movie's acting was adequate - I hesitate to use a word much stronger. Egerton was convincing in moments, for sure. I believe he did the most he could with the movie's direction and trajectory. On a high note (pun intended), his voice was largely unexpected and consistently impressive! The supporting cast was forgettable: the best friend was predictable, the evil love interest was laughable, the mother was vacant, the father was strikingly underdeveloped... and the list goes on. There are countless random and trivial characters who come and go with little-to-no impact.
If I had to put my finger on what was so disquieting about the film, I would direct your attention to the director, Dexter Fletcher. His lack of focus was troublesome. Instead of being intoxicating in its eccentricity, the movie was drunk in its hazy hallucinations. Instead of tapping into something truly powerful and enlightening, it settled for flashy and tacky. Although those may be suitable words to describe Elton John's stage performances and persona, that isn't who he is. The real Elton John was either missed or never pursued in the making of this film. Little passion but loads of pizzazz.
As my buddy and I exited the theater, we were stopped by a gentleman in the hallway. It was nearing 1 a.m., mind you, so the theater was empty. In an attempt to avoid the awkwardness of our passing, he offered this small-talk-classic: "So...what'd'ya think?" Our replies probably felt practiced because we both offered a, "Well... not great, man. It was rather disappointing." We quickly returned the small-talk-favor: "What about you? How was your movie?" "I saw Godzilla," he replied with a subtle excitement. "It was really good!" We then began the long walk to our cars as my friend offered this witticism over his now retreating shoulder: "We should have seen that movie, too. Godzilla probably would have offered more character development..."
For a movie whose sole purpose is to reveal a new side to a well-known character, to develop this character as "real" and "relatable," to put flesh to fame... Godzilla probably would have been a better bet.
***
REPORT CARD: Rocketman
Grade: D
Comment: He might make good music...but he makes a crummy movie