Rocketman

I’ll never forget sitting in the third row of a packed theater, smelling someone’s overly buttery popcorn and trying to ignore the guy behind me who was humming "Tiny Dancer" about a half-step flat. Normally, that’s a one-way ticket to my "worst theater experiences" list, but ten minutes into Rocketman, I realized I didn't care. I was too busy watching a man in a feathered devil suit stomp into an AA meeting.

In a decade where the musical biopic started to feel like a factory-assembled IKEA shelf, Dexter Fletcher (who previously helped steer Bohemian Rhapsody to the finish line) decided to set the instructions on fire. Rocketman isn't a documentary with better lighting; it’s a "true fantasy." It’s a film that understands that you can’t capture the essence of Elton John through dry facts. You need gravity-defying dance numbers and sparkly platform boots for that.

A Masterclass in Not Lip-Syncing

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: Taron Egerton. Coming off the back of Kingsman: The Secret Service, there was some skepticism about whether he could fill the oversized glasses of a global icon. He didn’t just fill them; he shattered them. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Egerton actually sings the damn songs. There’s a raw, jagged edge to his renditions of "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" and "Rocket Man" that provides an emotional texture you simply don't get from a studio-polished playback.

I’ve always felt that most biopics treat their subjects like wax museum exhibits, but Egerton plays Elton as a vibrating nerve ending. He captures the transition from the shy, soulful Reginald Dwight to the flamboyant, cocaine-fueled "Rocketman" with a vulnerability that’s genuinely hard to watch at times. When he’s staring into a mirror, caked in sweat and glitter, you don't see a star; you see a lonely kid who just wants his dad to hug him. It’s a performance that earned every bit of its Golden Globe, and frankly, it should have been a heavy hitter at the Oscars too.

The Heart Behind the Sequins

While the film thrives on the spectacle, the real narrative engine is the platonic love story between Elton and his lyricist, Bernie Taupin. Jamie Bell (remember him from Billy Elliot?) is the unsung hero here. He plays Taupin with a grounded, quiet loyalty that acts as the perfect anchor for Elton’s chaotic orbit. Their scenes together—especially the creation of "Your Song"—are some of the most genuinely moving moments in recent cinema. It’s a rare depiction of male friendship that isn't afraid to be tender.

On the flip side, we get the villains. Richard Madden (of Game of Thrones fame) plays John Reid with a calculated, icy charisma that makes your skin crawl. He’s the personification of the industry’s predatory side. And then there’s Bryce Dallas Howard (Jurassic World) as Elton’s mother, Sheila. She plays the role like a woman who considers empathy a localized allergic reaction, and her coldness provides the necessary context for why Elton spent decades trying to buy the love he never got for free.

Fantasy Over Formula

What I appreciate most about Rocketman is its refusal to play by the "Contemporary Biopic Rules." In an era where studios are terrified of R-ratings for big-budget musicals, Dexter Fletcher fought to keep the film’s teeth. The $40 million budget was a gamble for Paramount, especially given the unflinching look at drug addiction and sexuality. But that honesty is what makes it work.

I loved the surrealist touches. When the audience and Elton literally lift off the ground during "Crocodile Rock" at the Troubadour, it communicates the "high" of performance better than any dialogue ever could. It’s a film that uses its $167 million box office success to prove that audiences are actually okay with a little weirdness. We don't need a chronological list of tour dates; we want to know what it felt like to be in the center of that storm.

Turns out, Elton John was quite involved in the production, even handing over his personal diaries to Taron Egerton for research. Apparently, Elton’s only note was to make it "more honest." That shows. From the gaudy costumes (the costume department built over 50 pairs of shoes and dozens of glasses) to the way it handles Elton’s low points, the film feels like a cathartic exhale.

Rocketman is the rare blockbuster that has a soul. It’s a riot of color and sound that manages to be a deeply intimate character study at the same time. It avoids the "Wikipedia entry" trap of its peers by leaning into the theatricality of its subject. If you’re tired of the sanitized, play-it-safe biopics that have dominated the streaming era, this is the antidote. It’s loud, it’s messy, it’s heartbreaking, and it’s fabulous.

I left the theater that night, walked past the guy still humming "Tiny Dancer" in the lobby, and realized I was humming it too. Only I was doing it in my head, and I was definitely hitting the right notes. It’s the kind of movie that stays with you, vibrating in your chest long after the credits roll. If you haven't seen it yet, put on your most ridiculous pair of sunglasses and dive in. You won't regret the flight.