Bohemian Rhapsody

Bohemian Rhapsody

The worst crimes of Bohemian Rhapsody aren’t its bisexual erasure, nor its indulgence in every hateful trope about homosexuality. Even its indulgence in a forgetting of the hatred and discrimination heaped upon gays and AIDS-havers seems mild compared to its aesthetic crimes.

This is a rock and roll movie with no love for grit, no love of vulnerability, no respect for silence. Each hackneyed vignette is still-born into the theater on a whoosh of glitter and thump of dulled backbeat. One wonders if anyone involved ever felt a natural emotion that wasn’t cribbed from a better film.

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