Better Man

There is a specific moment, roughly ten minutes into Better Man, where you stop checking your peripheral vision to see if the theater’s ventilation system is pumping in hallucinogens and simply accept the reality: Robbie Williams is a chimpanzee. Not metaphorically, not just during the high-energy musical numbers, and certainly not as a costume. He is a photorealistic, performance-captured primate navigating the grey-skied streets of Stoke-on-Trent, the backstage drug dens of the 90s, and the stratospheric stages of Knebworth. It is the most audacious, "how on earth did they get $110 million for this?" swing I’ve seen in a musical biopic since Rocketman decided gravity was merely a suggestion.

I watched this in a half-empty matinee next to an elderly couple who spent the first twenty minutes audibly whispering, "Is he a monkey? Why is he a monkey?" to each other in mounting distress. By the halfway mark, they were tapping their toes to "Rock DJ." That is the strange, transformative power of Michael Gracey’s latest experiment. It takes a story we’ve seen a thousand times—the rise, fall, and wobbling stabilization of a pop star—and filters it through a lens of such profound self-loathing that the only way to tell it was to stop being human.

The Primate in the Room

The "Monkey" of it all isn't just a gimmick to sell tickets; it’s a philosophical stance. Robbie Williams (who provides the voice and the contemporary narration) has spent his entire career oscillating between a "cheeky chappy" persona and a man who feels like a fraud under a microscope. By casting Jonno Davies to provide the physical performance-capture for the ape-Robbie, Gracey literalizes the "performing monkey" trope. When Robbie is told by Nigel Martin-Smith to lose weight or keep his mouth shut in Take That, the image of a literal chimpanzee being groomed for a boyband cage is more biting than any standard prosthetic makeup could ever be.

What’s fascinating is how quickly the brain adapts. Within thirty minutes, you stop seeing the CGI hair and start seeing the soul. Jonno Davies deserves an enormous amount of credit here; he captures the frantic, kinetic bravado of young Robbie—the jutting jaw, the restless eyes, the way he wears a suit like he’s trying to burst out of it. It’s a performance that manages to be the most expensive therapy session ever committed to digital film, allowing Williams to look back at his younger self with a mix of pity and "what was I thinking?" horror.

A $110 Million Fever Dream

In an era where the musical biopic has become a standardized factory product—think the safe, sanitized beats of Bohemian Rhapsody—Better Man feels like a glorious middle finger to the genre. It’s a film that understands the "truth" of a life isn't found in a Wikipedia timeline, but in how it felt to live it. When Robbie spirals into addiction, the world doesn't just get dark; it gets surreal. The choreography is massive, sweeping, and occasionally terrifying.

The supporting cast does the heavy lifting of anchoring this fever dream to the ground. Steve Pemberton is heartbreakingly good as Robbie’s father, Peter, a man whose own failed dreams of stardom hang over his son like a shroud. Their relationship is the film’s true north, a cycle of imitation and resentment that gives the "monkey" metaphor its tragic weight—monkey see, monkey do. Alison Steadman brings a much-needed warmth as Betty, providing the only sanctuary in a world that increasingly views our protagonist as a product rather than a person.

However, the film’s massive budget is both its greatest asset and its biggest tragedy. Released into a post-pandemic theatrical landscape where "original" ideas (even ones based on famous people) struggle against franchise dominance, Better Man has found itself in the "forgotten curiosity" bin far too quickly. It’s a movie designed for the biggest screen possible, yet its box office returns suggest most people waited for the streaming drop. It’s a $110 million art film disguised as a pop-star puff piece, and that disconnect is likely why it didn't set the world on fire.

The Myth of the Better Man

The third act handles the inevitable "redemption" arc with more grace than most. It doesn't pretend that a stadium tour cures depression, nor does it suggest that the monkey ever truly turns back into a man. Instead, it suggests that peace comes from accepting the beast you’ve become. The recreations of the Knebworth performances are staggering, utilizing Wētā FX’s technological wizardry to place a primate in front of 125,000 screaming fans without it looking like a B-movie from the 50s.

Is it perfect? No. The pacing in the middle section, particularly the "Take That" years, feels a bit like a standard VH1 documentary that’s been hit with a "weird" filter. Some of the dialogue leans a bit too heavily into the "I'm just a lad from Stoke" clichés. But even when the script falters, the sheer visual audacity carries it through. Gracey proves that The Greatest Showman wasn't a fluke; he has a genuine eye for the spectacular and a willingness to let his protagonists be deeply, fundamentally unlikable.

Ultimately, Better Man is a testament to the fact that we are currently living in a golden age of visual effects that we don't always know what to do with. Using cutting-edge technology to explore the internal psyche of a British pop star is a weird, wonderful, and slightly insane use of resources. It’s a film that asks you to look past the fur and see the ego, and in doing so, it becomes one of the most honest biopics in years.

This is a film that will likely find its true audience in five years on a cult-movie subreddit. It’s too strange for the casual radio listener and perhaps too "pop" for the arthouse crowd, but for anyone who misses when movies took massive, expensive risks, it’s a joy. It’s a reminder that even in an era of franchise fatigue, a director with a big budget and a bizarre idea can still make us say, "I can't believe they actually did that." Seek it out for the spectacle, stay for the surprisingly tender heart of a man who felt like a monkey.