Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: queen (page 1 of 7)

Queen And A King

Hey, Groucho. Whatcha doing?

“Being manhandled. At least I think they’re men. I can’t tell with the haircuts.”

Those are men, Groucho. They’re a band named Queen.

“Well, that makes sense. They’ve been nothing but princes to me.”

They’ve treated you right?

“Better than my last wife. Or the two before her. Maybe I should marry one of them.”

You could do worse.

“I have. Last wife talked so much I got her drum lessons for the quiet.”

You don’t say.

“And dumb, too. She thought grass was green because it was jealous of trees.”


“Now, what type of music do these boys play? You did say they were boys?”

They’re boys. They play rock music.

“Rock music? I bet they sound bolder every show.”

You still got it, Groucho.

Not A Hoople

Jaco on bass.
Aynsley Dunbar on drums.
David Sanborn on sax.
Freddie, Brian, and Roger from Queen doing the backing vocals.

Billie Eilish has not heard of any of these people.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: The lovely chaps at Omnibus Press have sent me copies of Ian Hunter’s Diary of a Rock Star and Ian Hunter’s biography Rock ‘n’ Roll Sweepstakes by Campbell Devine, so it’s gonna be both Mottesque and Hooplish around here for a while. You’re free to wander off and check back in a couple days; I wont hold it against you.)

I Want To Break Serve

Hey, Freddie. Whatcha doing?

“Love fifteen, darling.”


“Unless that tall Argentinian bloke shows up. Then, I’ll love sixteen.”

I walked into that one. Why are you wearing clogs?

“It’s tennis, darling. Everything else I had was too strappy.”

Sneakers. You wear sneakers to play tennis.

“Oh, that sounds ghastly.”

Peekin’ At Deacon


Hey, John Deacon. What are you doing here?

“Look at me todger.”

Lovely. Once more: why are you here?

“Penis, anyone?”

Stop this, John Deacon.


I expect this sort of thing from Freddie, but not from you, John Deacon.

“I’m in me rock star clothes, and you can see me knob and gobblers.”

Astonishing. This behavior is astonishing.

What’s In A (Superyacht’s) Name?

There is no connection between Queen and Basketball Head, you say. Perhaps you whisper it softly, as if a prayer. Please, dear Jesus, keep separate Freddie, who was made of joy and boners, separated from Donald Trump, who is a used band-aid. Some folks ought maintain a chasm betwixt. It’s like the Offspring said, Lord: Ya gotta keep ’em separated. If you won’t listen to me, Lord, then listen to the Offspring.


This is not a yacht. She is a superyacht, and she was originally called the Nabila, which is Arabic for Noble Lady, but she was also called the Flying Saucer when she starred in a James Bond movie. I am unaware of the helicopter’s name, or whether it appeared in any films. (The reason that boats are “she” and helicopters are “it” is because humans were not cooped up in helicopters for months at a time slowly going insane to the point where they began gendering vehicles.) The Nabila has, as you can see, a helipad and an outdoor swimming pool/sexy-time jacuzzi tub. Hidden within are 11 suites, a movie theater, gym, formal dining room, and quarters for the crew of 48. Cost $100 million, and that was in 1980, when $100 million was real money.

(WARNING: Do not start googling “superyachts unless you wanna go Full Commie. Did you know that the latest trend is away from 300-footers and towards ultra-luxury 200-footers paired with smaller support boats that act as floating garages for your tenders/waverunners/landing craft/chopper/etc.? You didn’t know that, did you? How does that fact make you feel? Violently redistributionish? Me too, comrade.)

Anyway, when she was called the Nabila, she was owned by Adnan Khashoggi, who was a social kind of fellow. In the 60’s and 70’s, he was good friends with the Saudi royal family, who wanted desperately to buy as many tanks and planes and bazookas as possible; he was also buddy-buddy with Lockheed Martin and Northrup Grumman, who wanted just as breathlessly to sell as many tanks and planes and bazookas as possible. The papers called him an arms dealer, but he was just an outgoing guy. The arms sales provided the seed money–about a billion’s worth–for further investment and trinket-collecting. Game reserves, and shopping malls, and far more mansions than necessary, and the Utah Jazz.

The boat got the most attention. So much so that Queen wrote a song about it in 1989.

It is not a major entry in the band’s canon, just a scrap of Brian’s usual Heavy Rock from The Miracle, but it’s still a Queen song. They didn’t write shit about you, did they? No, Queen wrote songs about not liking Jaws or Star Wars, and Beelzebub, and curvaceous bicyclists. And the Nabila. Heady company.

In 1990, Khashoggi sold the boat.

He ruins everything.

I’d Like To Mutilate The Academy…

I don’t know what I did to be stuck in a reality that thought Bohemian Rhapsody was a good film and Butthole Eyes played Freddie well, but I want to break free of it.

This Is Not The Greatest Concert In The World; This Is Just A Tribute, Volume II

  • Okay, so, to recap: Freddie’s dead, Rock and Roll marches on, and the sun is setting on Wembley Stadium.
  • Bunch of groups came out and played, but now it’s What’s Left Of Queen as the house band backing up singers.
  • (There are also a shitload of backing musicians and an entire choir, but that’s neither here nor there.)
  • Hey, it’s Tony Iommi!
  • Someone warn Lita Ford.
  • And now Roger Daltrey is doing his mic-swinging nonsense.
  • These men were impossibly old when I watched this in 1992.
  • They’re all around my age.
  • Everyone’s still got their hair and waistlines.
  • Lefties shouldn’t be allowed to play guitar; it looks odd and confuses me.
  • Those nuns who used to violently coerce the naturally left-handed into being righties knew what they were doing.
  • Well, that was harmless.
  • Bye, Rog.
  • What the fuck is this?
  • Zucchero?
  • What the Zucc is this?
  • Get this sweaty greaseball off my stage.
  • And they’re playing Las Palabras De Amor, too, which is a dreadful song.
  • Seriously, who is this?
  • Ah, shit, he’s Italian.
  • I retract the “greaseball” comment.
  • But, c’mon, look at this fat bastard.
  • You could cook a chicken in his leavings.
  • He’s sold 60 million records?
  • Jesus, the world has terrible taste in music.
  • Fuck off, Zucc.
  • Dammit, Gary Cherone’s back.
  • Ooh, Hammer To Fall.
  • Or, as Freddie used to announce it, “HAMMADAFAAAAW!”
  • Gary’s still wearing his saddle shoes and he simply will not stop shimmying.
  • And Tony Iommi’s still up there looking miserable and poorly-coiffed.
  • Tony Iommi has never had a good haircut.
  • Not once.
  • Oh, no, Gary Cherone.
  • He is doing the Rock Move where he stands right next to Brian and shares the mic with him.
  • Get the fuck away from Brian May, Gary Cherone.
  • Go bother Eddie Van Halen.
  • Look at this shit, man:
  • Did you see that shit, man?
  • Not right.
  • On my list: left-handed guitarists and that motherfucker.
  • Stone Cold Crazy time.
  • SleepingverysoundlyonaSaturdaymorningIwasdreamingIwasAlCapone…
  • Hetfield’s singing.
  • Without a guitar.
  • He looks lost and scared.
  • Like a turtle without his shell.
  • And he’s just kinda pacing back and forth and has no idea what to do with his arms.
  • It’s adorable.
  • Oh, now he’s air-guitaring.
  • And it’s not adorable any more.
  • He does have a vest on.
  • No word whether or not he stole it from Def Leppard’s drummer.
  • PERCY!
  • Hey, fucker!
  • I wrote about you a few weeks ago.
  • You didn’t come off well.
  • He’s wearing some sort of tunic/scarf combo.
  • I can’t tell if the scarf is part of the tunic or they are separate components.
  • Rock Stars and their complicated clothing.
  • At the show, Percy did Innuendo with the band, but it sucked and they cut it for the video release; he gets to do Crazy Little Thing.
  • He’s doing his usual bullshit.
  • Imagine Robert Plant singing Crazy Little Thing Called Love.
  • There you go.
  • That’s how it sounds.
  • There are no surprises here.
  • The three live Queens started planning this show the night Freddie died, and I don’t say that to accuse them of buzzardism or anything.
  • It is absofuckinglutely what Freddie would have wanted.
  • I’m surprised he didn’t organize it himself.
  • Jesus, Brian’s singing a ballad while accompanying himself on the piano.
  • Not like this.
  • Dire.
  • Fuckin’ dire.
  • Guess what the song’s called.
  • Guess.
  • You won’t get it even if you’re the biggest Queen fan.
  • Brian is singing, in honor of a man who just died of AIDS, a song entitled Too Much Love Will Kill You.
  • I’m gonna call Brian “Nostrils” because he is on the nose.
  • Perhaps we see here the genesis of the “evil, evil homosex” theme of Bohemian Rhapsody.
  • I’m still pissed off about that fucking movie, by the way.
  • Yes, Brian.
  • Too much love will kill you in the end.
  • Why don’t you just say “Buttsex murdered my friend?”
  • Everyone is going to the Problem Attic.
  • Paul Young?
  • Who?
  • Guy’s got four notes in his range.
  • And he looks like a half-melted George Michael.
  • I’m bored.
  • Fuck you, Paul Young.
  • Jesus, even your name is boring.
  • They wasted Radio Gaga on this guy?
  • Lady Gaga should have sang Radio Gaga.
  • I know she was eight, but she’s just that talented.
  • There is no way Paul Young didn’t buy his trousers at Chess King.
  • I had a pair of those pants.
  • Ugh, pleats.
  • Take this lump off my teevee, please.
  • Lefties, Gary Cherone, and Paul Young: all getting it in the ear.
  • Someone still loves you.
  • Not you, Paul Young.
  • No one loves you.
  • I almost fast-forwarded through you.
  • Brian introduces the back-up singing ladies.
  • They do not get last names.
  • Oh, Lord, it’s Seal.
  • The dream of the 90’s is alive at the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert.
  • I’ll give this to Western Civilization: we were the only ones to invent the Tribute Concert.
  • Ming Dynasty just did vases.
  • Not one show-ending super-jam.
  • Just vases.
  • Anyway, Seal is wearing enormous spectacles.
  • The size of those fuckers!
  • Most people wouldn’t have the balls to wear glasses that massive.
  • Or the neck strength.
  • Seal might be imbuing Who Wants To Live Forever, which keen-eyed Enthusiasts will spot as originating on the Highlander soundtrack, with a bit more sincerity than the song deserves.
  • It’s not a metaphor.
  • It’s literally about living forever via chopping off the heads of other Immortals.
  • Camp it up a bit, Scarface.
  • He is the only black guy at the whole show, though.
  • And now Lisa Stansfield is here to sing I Want To Break Free.
  • Remember Lisa Stansfield?
  • She’s back.
  • In Pog form.
  • Were this concert held today, the part of Lisa Stansfield would be played by Jessie J.
  • Or perhaps one of the members of Little Mix.
  • I love this fucking song so much.
  • I would lend this song money for a bus ticket out of town to escape an abusive relationship.
  • All right, that’s enough Lisa Stansfield for the next twenty years.
  • BOWIE.
  • And Annie Lennox as Raccoon Dracula.
  • Told you.
  • Here, watch it:

  • Did you watch it?
  • I told you to watch it.
  • Why don’t you listen?
  • Lefties, Gary, Paul Young, and you.
  • List is growing, man.
  • Oh.
  • I just remembered that Bowie is dead and now I’m sad.
  • Maybe if we all clap, he’ll come back to us.
  • Clap, children!
  • Clap for TinkerBowie!
  • Did it work?
  • No?
  • Well, try harder.
  • Hey, it’s Mott the Hoople!
  • Ronson and Hunter!
  • Yay!
  • All The Young Dudes!
  • Yay!
  • What the fuck does any of this have to do with Freddie?
  • And, Jesus Christ, who told David Bowie he was allowed to bring his saxophone?
  • Jeff Leppard on backing vocals, doing the traditional hand-to-ear pose.
  • Heroes?
  • They’re doing Heroes now?
  • The big Queen hit song Heroes?
  • This would piss Freddie off.
  • “It’s my tribute concert, darling. If he wants to play his songs, then let him fucking well die.”
  • Credit where it’s due: Queen is hell of a backing band.
  • Try clapping again for Bowie.
  • Just try.
  • Oh, David.
  • He’s dropped to his knees and he’s saying the Lord’s Prayer.
  • Not inclusive, Dave.
  • Get up.
  • Stop this.
  • You’re embarrassing your hair, David Bowie.
  • Leave God out of this.
  • Yay, George Michael!
  • Ah, for fuck’s sake, he’s dead, too.
  • What the shit, God?
  • You’re back in this now.
  • I know I said to leave You out of it, but You’re kind of a prick, huh?
  • Paul Young is still touring.
  • But you took Bowie and George Michael.
  • Douchebag.
  • It’s the Acoustic Mini-Set!
  • The world turns, but always returns to its origin.
  • Nothing changes; everything lasts.
  • And back out comes Lisa Stansfield, whom I thought I was rid of, to duet with George on These Are The Days Of Our Lives.
  • Woman’s got a pair of legs on her.
  • Ankles, shins, calves, knees, thighs.
  • Two of each!
  • Legs, man.
  • Backstory while they’re dirging this away: all 72,000 seats were sold before any guests were announced.
  • People just figured that some impressive fuckers, and Paul Young, would show up.
  • George fucking kills this.
  • I’m just gonna shut the fuck up and watch.
  • Join me:

  • Right?
  • If that don’t give you goosebumps, then you done lost your goose.
  • Climax of the show right there.
  • BUT NO!
  • It’s Sir Elton, everybody!
  • Singing Bohemian Rhapsody an octave too low, and wearing a fetching pair of leather slacks, a fringed cowboy jacket, and what I believe is his Sunday-go-to-meeting hairpiece.
  • “Hi, my name’s Frank. I love line dancing, traveling, and I didn’t kill my first wife. Don’t listen to the cops; they’re liars. Can I buy you a Singapore Sling?”
  • It’s the tape section!
  • Queen never played the opera part of BoRhap live: they left the stage and let the tape play while the light rig flashed.
  • And then they blew some shit up and played the loud part.
  • Everyone was happy with the arrangement.
  • AXL!
  • I’ll stop yelling.
  • Axl is so cool, man.
  • People were mad that he was invited to participate in this show.
  • Partially because Axl, while now woke, used to be an enormous shitbag homophobe.
  • 50-year-old Axl hates Trump, but the one in the picture?
  • That fucker would’ve had on a MAGA hat, I guarantee it.
  • People change, even if they’re Axl Rose.
  • Look how worn out the Rock has made Axl:
  • It’s like he’s been through a trauma.
  • Look how proud Elton is, though.
  • “Good for you, William. You didn’t start one single riot! I knew you had it in you.”
  • (Can’t you totally see Elton John calling Axl “William?”)
  • Now Elton’s doing The Show Must Go On, which is a brilliant song, but they’ve shifted it down a few keys so he could hit the notes and energy is lost.
  • Ugh, and Tony Iommi’s back.
  • Kiss my dick, Tony Iommi.
  • How do you beat up Lita Ford?
  • She was a fucking Runaway!
  • I mean, you shouldn’t hit any women.
  • But especially not one who was in the Runaways.
  • Those chicks dealt with enough bullshit already.
  • Holy shit, Axl’s back and he’s changed outfits again.
  • I couldn’t love him more.
  • White leather jacket, white spandex bike shorts, black Doc Martens.
  • And the bandana, of course.
  • Axl does not skip leg day.
  • He’s doing his little kick-y dance and just being as Axl as possible.
  • How Axl is Axl?
  • He is that Axl.
  • (I don’t know what to call that Rock Move. Is it a vertical Worm? I want to call it the Shazbot, but I have no reason why. “Shazbot” just popped into my head.)
  • And now here’s Liza Minelli.

  • The crowd did not know what to do with the information that Liza was coming out.
  • The English were confused.
  • Fuck ’em: Liza was brilliant.
  • And she is LIZA with a Z.
  • Big ol’ show biz smile plastered on her pixie cut, over-emoting the shit out of We Are The Champions, pilled-up: LIZA.
  • The only way Liza could have been more Liza during this performance is if she had entered into a disastrous marriage halfway through the second verse.
  • If you don’t wanna watch:
  • Yup, that’s Jeff Leppard.
  • Liza is vamping over the outro and it’s glorious.
  • Okay, folks.
  • That’s all there is.
  • Don’t get AIDS.
  • Otherwise, Paul Young will show up.

More Thoughts On Bohemian Rhapsody

  • I’m still upset.
  • The nap was supposed to mellow me out; it did not; I arose angrier than when I laid down.
  • And then I read some of the reviews, and they infuriated me even further.
  • Because all of them basically said, “Eh, it’s fine.”
  • Having had time to think, my problems with the film were threefold:
    • It was bland.
    • I was treated like a moron.
    • Evil, evil homosex.
  • Not one shot.
  • I don’t recall one single shot.
  • The director just set the camera anywhere, as if he were a drug addict who liked to fuck teen boys.
  • Here’s a stage.
  • Here’s an office.
  • Tracking shot through a party, wow.
  • And, as is required by Hollywood Law, the shitty-looking impossible shot that snakes through the parking lot of Wembley and up over the wall and down the stands and the pitch and up onto the stage at Live Aid.
  • You can picture the shot, right?
  • It’s been in every movie with a large event since around 2006.
  • Always looks terrible.
  • Dialogue, too.
  • 80% of the lines are characters stating how they feel at one another.
  • Or being expositionary.
  • Early in the film, the three Queens who are not Freddie burst into Freddie’s apartment; he is asking Mary to marry him, and he is happy due to the fact that the evil, evil homosex has not gotten to him yet.
  • “John Reid called and said we were going on a tour of America!”
  • They tell Freddie this news with glee and surprise.
  • As if they hadn’t been involved in planning a tour of another fucking continent.
  • That’s not how the music industry works.
  • That’s not how human beings work.
  • And then there’s Jim fucking Hutton.
  • He was Freddie’s last major relationship.
  • There when he died.
  • In real life, Jim cut hair at the Savoy Hotel and met Freddie at a party, where he turned down his advances; a year later, they re-met and hit it off.
  • In Bohemian Rhapsody, however, Jim is the Doughy Angel Of Love, this empty symbolic space where a character should have been.
  • Jim is cater-waitering at one of Freddie’s shindig/orgies, and Freddie grabs at his tushee.
  • This doesn’t make Jim mad.
  • Just disappointed.
  • He is Saintly.
  • He is Patient.
  • He is Kind.
  • You’ve heard of the popular film trope The Magical Negro?
  • Jim Hutton is The Magical Homo.
  • But let’s get back to the part where the movie treated me like a moron.
  • So: Freddie gets handsy with Jim, and Jim gives him a stern but loving talking-to.
  • Year goes by, but Freddie is still thinking of Jim.
  • It is the morning of Live Aid.
  • Freddie looks Jim up in the phone book; this leads to a comedy take in which he sees there are dozens of Jim Huttons listed.
  • THE VERY NEXT SHOT is Jim opening the door of his house to Freddie.
  • Which means one of three things:
    • Jim Hutton’s middle name is Aaron or Aardvark.
    • Freddie Mercury has cold-called at least several strange men named Jim Hutton across the London area.
    • This movie thinks I’m a fucking idiot.
  • And then Freddie and Jim say some shit to each other and it’s awful BUT THEN Freddie takes Jim to his parents’ house.
  • Freddie hasn’t seen him in a year, and they only spoke briefly.
  • But now he’s dragging him to Mum and Papa’s house for tea.
  • Don’t piss in my face and tell me it’s Mountain Dew, Bohemian Rhapsody.
  • Stupid-ass bullshit.
  • I cannot stress enough how anti-gay this film is.
  • And I can’t go see movies anymore.
  • Not in the theaters, not the first week at least.
  • There were Church Ladies in front of me, three or four of ’em.
  • The Madea kind, not the Dana Carvey kind.
  • And they never got used to the gaiety.
  • Every time Freddie kissed a guy:
  • “OH, LAWD!”
  • “That ain’t what you want, baby.”
  • “Go back to that blonde girl, and Jesus.”
  • Ten minutes would go by, and then Freddie would kiss another guy, and:
  • “He don’t wanna learn no right from wrong.”
  • “That boy got a condition.”
  • This was the whole damn movie, Enthusiasts.
  • Honestly, it was more entertaining than anything on-screen.
  • Just watch this:

  • Wasn’t that better than some bug-eyed kid miming it?

We Had A Good Night Jamming Away

This looks much more fun than that dreary film.

Twelve Thoughts On Bohemian Rhapsody


No one involved with Bohemian Rhapsody is allowed to go to Heaven. It is unholy, what they have created, and must stain all who birthed it. Everyone, even the trades guys who couldn’t give a shit about the movie, they’re just doing a job. The union electrician on Bohemian Rhapsody is now damned. Thanks, Brian Singer and Brian May and Roger Taylor and Regency Pictures. You just doomed a hard-working man from Redondo Beach to an eternity of torment. Because you needed to tell the reeeeeeal story of Freddie Mercury (featuring Queen).


Start off positive. The good parts:

  • Bug-eyed little fuck kinda looked like Freddie until he moved.
  • Brian and John’s wigs, but not Roger’s. (Deacy’s Live Aid hairpiece is particularly spot-on and spectacular.)
  • The actors who played Brian and John’ Brian and John impressions, but not Roger.
  • And that’s it, really.


In which is Inveighed the Tale of a Certain Mr. Mercury (featuring Queen) and his Misadventures with Homosex.

Make no mistake, homosex is the villain of this piece: it is what brings Freddie low, but through no fault of his own, no. He is lured into hairy butts. He is tempted by swollen dongs. Freddie loves Mary–her fucking name’s Mary, for fuck”s sake–so why does the world keep forcing homosex upon him? Even the saintly Mary!

“I’m bisexual,” Freddie says to her in a scene I watched from behind my fingers as though this were one of those movies with a babadook in it.

“No, Freddie. You’re gay.”

And Freddie’s taken aback.

“I’m, uh, pretty sure I get to say what I am.”

“No. Hush. You love homosex.”

And so on.


If Trump could attach an explosive charge to Mike Myers’ head rigged to blow if he spoke in a British accent again, then I would vote for him in 2020. The guy’s obsessed with those wet islands.

Anway, he plays the record company bad guy who didn’t actually exist. It’s a movie, you see, and movies need bad guys except there were bad guys in Queen’s career besides “the public’s ever-evolving tastes.” And translating that into a visual story would require someone with far more skill than Brian Singer. So we get Mike Myers in a cheap beard doing a Scouse accent. (Or maybe Geordie. It was a specific British accent, as opposed to a general “‘Ello, Guvnor!” type deal. I’m not saying the man’s not good at British accents; it’s just enough already. At this point, it seems like a fetish.)

Record company bad guy is all, “You can’t put out Bohemian Rhapsody! It’s too long! Kids will never band their heads to it!” and then the whole cast just stares at the camera for a good thirty seconds.

And Queen is like, “No! We’re gonna! We are Rock and Roll yay!”

They leave his office and chuck a rock through the window. Mike Myers and his fake beard are none too happy. Later on, though, he’ll get his comeuppance.


If the Grateful Dead’s biopic show at Amazon still exists, I’m cancelling it. There is literally one person on the planet who could write it correctly, and obviously it is me, and since I am not doing it, it must not be done at all. Cancelled.


Me, on the way in: Don’t nitpick the details. This was made for a general audience and therefore events will be rearranged for dramatic purposes. Don’t be an obsessive nerd.

Also me on the way in: If Ogre Battle isn’t on the soundtrack, I’m rioting.


And Paul Prenter. He was the bad guy, too, and actually existed in real life. He was Freddie’s personal manager and party buddy and generally regarded by the rest of the organization as a poor influence. In the film, he looms over Freddie. Physically. Every frame of every shot they’re both in. Except when he’s non-consensually kissing Freddie.

“No, darling. Stop it.”

“Yes, Freddie. Accept the homosex.”

Freddie wants to be the nice boy from the Parsi family, sweet little Farrokh, but the agents of homosex are insidious and relentless and throw such killer parties.


Bohemian Rhapsody is cheaper than Freddie’s taste in vodka. (They did get that right: the movie’s a two-hour ad for Stoli.) Save for two or three scenes, the whole thing is shot inside in cramped and barely-decorated sets. Plus, the producers–having busted the budget on Bug-Eyes’ dental prosthetic–skimped on mustaches; you can no fucking kidding see the damned lace in half the shots. The ‘stache is better than the one you would get at the Dollar Store, but not better than the one you’d get at Party City.


Seriously, look at the Brian:

That’s a good Brian.


The effects were special, just like some Olympics are; the concluding and supposedly triumphant performance is tragilarious in its incompetence and jankery. These shots are pure, uncut BLT, Enthusiasts. (Bush League Time.) There is, of course, a drastic difference in light between the live actors and the computer-generated stadium; it’s so bad as to resemble the old driving scenes where they’d shoot the car in front of a projected image.

But the seams showing is not as fun as the true problem, which is that someone–possibly someone under investigation for teenfucking but who is still being offered multi-million dollar contracts to direct movies–thought that Wembley Stadium wasn’t big enough, so the Wembley in Bohemian Rhapsody has a capacity of around three million. It stretches past the horizon and towers into the sky; it is Leviathan.


It’s okay, though. Freddie (featuring Queen) wins the day, and they even throw in the bit about Queen’s roadie (their lawyer in the movie) sliding the volume up on the soundboard right before the set. Literally every other fact concerning the show is wrong, but they got that right. They must play well, you see, because Freddie has received some terrible news, which he shares with his band via terrible writing.

“Boys, I have it.”

“The homosex thing?”

“Yes, that.”

“How did you get it?”



And then they play Hammer To Fall.


I reserve the right to continue this, as I’m still furious. But I need a nap.

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