Bohemian Rhapsody

Bohemian Rhapsody

This year’s The Greatest Showman, meaning I’m destined to have endless arguments about it with family members, all of whom will think I’m a pretentious snob for letting piss-poor filmmaking and hideous ethical implications get in the way of some Real Catchy Tunes. The first one happened as we were walking out of the theater, and it went a little something like this:

Me: The character of Paul Prenter represents an ominous specter of predatory queerness, literally seducing Freddie away from the wholesomeness of friendship and monogamous heterosexuality into a depraved life of promiscuous gay sex and drug abuse, and is representative of both the film’s inability to fashion a satisfying narrative structure out of his life and its reluctance to dig into the more complicated aspects of his personal and artistic pursuits, and it instead forces a cliché, moralistic rise-fall-rise again plot onto a true story that was not conducive to that sort of narrative.

My mom: Well maybe that’s how it happened in real life, huh, did you ever think about that?


Also there’s a scene where “Another One Bites The Dust” plays over a montage of Freddie schmoozing up with dudes in a leather bar and it couldn’t be more tasteless if a giant flashing text box appeared screaming “THIS IS THE PART WHERE HE GETS AIDS.” Fucking gross.

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