I Have Mixed Feels About Bohemian Rhapsody
So after many months of reading about it, seeing video clips, and wondering, I finally saw the flick Bohemian Rhapsody, starring Rami Malek.
Is it a “true” biopic? No. Like most biopics, timelines have been changed, characters are a composite (I totally did not recognize Mike Myers in his cameo), and it’s presented from a particular point of view, in this case, mostly that of Brian May and Roger Taylor of Queen, who got executive producer credits and were heavily involved.
Telling the story of the band, and the songs, may well have been how Freddie himself would have chosen to tell the tale. There’s a line in the film about “not wanting to become the AIDS poster boy,” which rings true, seeing as Freddie didn’t publicly disclose he had AIDS until the day before his death. He was a flamboyant stage personality, and sure, frequently in the tabloids, but by all accounts, a private person offstage.
Wow, Freddie’s relationship with Mary Austin, memorialized in the song Love of My Life. That scene where he tells her that he thinks he’s bisexual, and she looks at him and says, “No, Freddie, you’re gay,” broke my heart on several levels. According to Ms. Austin, that is pretty much how it went. Bisexual erasure is a thing. So many of my friends have been attacked as “being greedy,” or shamed for being attracted to all genders. You love who you love. You’re attracted to who you are attracted to, and providing those people are consenting adults, why should it matter to anyone else? Monogamy is not the right choice for everyone, and nobody should be pressured to “pick a team.”
I can’t help but wonder if, had Freddie been born thirty years later, he would’ve been able to avoid HIV-infection with condoms and PrEP, and had continued a sexual relationship with Mary. Did they refrain for purposes of safety? Or, perhaps, they simply lost the desire to be sexually intimate, while still loving each other deeply.
Here’s another mixed feeling, the accusations that have come out about the fired director, Bryan Singer. Is it okay for me to like a film this accused predator worked on, or does it need to go, along with R. Kelly and Woody Allen’s work, straight into the trash? And just when it become safe to like Michael Jackson again…
The film churned up a whole bunch of memories for me, because I am old. Old-ish. I actually SAW Queen in concert, in 1979 and 1980, when they were peaking with News of the World and Jazz and The Game. Stomping my feet and clapping along to We Will Rock You in two packed amphitheaters.
Yes, I saw Freddie in this stage outfit. Yummy!
Is it terrible that I wanted to bang the entire band, groupie style? My personal crush was Brian May, but Freddie was an incredible showman. He said, “A concert is not a live rendition of our album. It’s a theatrical event,” and Queen’s certainly were, from Freddie’s costumes and stage-strutting, to Brian’s electrifying guitar work, to John Deacon’s deep bass hooks, to the blinding white lights that periodically flared from under Roger’s drum platform.
I do love Bohemian Rhapsody, the song, and recognize it is truly a masterpiece. But then I love almost all the songs on A Night at the Opera. My favorite is ’39, and, confession time, being stoned and listening to The Prophet’s Song in the center of a room with quad speakers is An Experience. I also really like I’m in Love With My Car, as much fun as they had in the film poking fun at it.
More recently than my concert days, I had another BoHo moment, somewhat less pleasant, while I was getting a breast MRI to judge how advanced my breast cancer was. Here’s a snippet of my memoir: Sex, Drugs, Rock ‘n Roll, and a Tiara: How I Celebrated Kicking Cancer’s Ass.
It was getting roasty-toasty in the MRI tube. They’d injected the contrasting solution, which burned like a mo-fo going in, and it traveled up my veins, hot. It felt like the hot flashes I’d rarely had. My mouth felt both cottony dry and disgustingly drooly. I desperately wanted to wipe it, but my arms were pinned to my side, Superman position. Besides which, you’re not supposed to move, at all.
Hello, Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody! As the song began, I hoped I’d be able to restrain myself from head banging, Wayne and Garth style. I did try to turn my head a little, to wipe my mouth on the face cover, but the technician chirped, “Please hold still, we don’t want to have to do this again,” and that I was doing great, only five more minutes.
Trussed-up like a turkey in a Thanksgiving oven, my face felt sweaty, and my mouth was still gross. My hot elbows really burned. I had never been much subject to claustrophobia, but this was changing. Then Queen launched into that weird bridge, about not letting let him go.
No, seriously, let me go, I thought. “Let me go!”
Rudely, they repeated it, not changing the song to fit my command. This was not the lyrical comfort I was listening for. If they didn’t let me go, pronto, I’d be giving my own presentation. How to Break an MRI Machine in One Easy Step.
Luckily, they wrapped up my scan before the last sad piano notes and gong of Freddie’s masterpiece sounded.
And after the MRI finished, I replaced my tiara and went to The Pleasure Chest to buy some sex toys. As one does.
Do you have feelings about Bohemian Rhapsody, the song or the movie? And what do we do about movies, songs, works of art or literature, that were contributed to or created by problematic people?
