Better Man
by Hope Madden
A great deal about Better Man—Michael Gracey’s biopic of English pop star Robbie Williams—astonishes. Not always in a good way, but it’s tough not to admire a big swing.
Williams narrates his own story, and though that’s his voice—cracking wise, soliloquizing and dropping profanities in equal measure—that’s not his face. The musician, whose tale is told from grade school to present day, appears onscreen as a chimpanzee. He’s a biped who dresses the part; CGI built on the work of Williams, Jonno Davies, Carter J. Murphy, and Asmara Feik as well as a host of dancer stand-ins for each age range. But from the opening voice over to “the end,” the only time you see Robbie Williams is in historical snapshots over closing credits.
Why? A metaphor, that Williams is everybody’s monkey but not his own man? Or a gimmick to draw attention away from the otherwise standard biopic beats that make up the film?
A bit of both.
At issue is that Williams’s biographical information so closely resembles, well, every other famous person’s? That can’t be correct, but it certainly reminds one of (if movies are ever to be trusted) Elton John’s, Johnny Cash’s, Amy Winehouse’s, Dewey Cox’s: problematic father figure whose love is conditional, drug and alcohol abuse, a loved one taken for granted until it’s too late, undiagnosed depression, questionable romantic choices.
Gracey distracts from formula with a CGI primate, although he might have been just as successful relying on his own impressive instincts for staging a musical number. The longtime music video veteran, whose The Greatest Showman remains inexplicably popular, wows with inspired choreography/editing/CGI work in song after song.
Strong support work from Alison Steadman, Steve Pemberton, Kate Mulvaney, Damon Herriman and Raechelle Banno keep the film feeling human. Indeed, Better Man is at times deeply touching.
But it’s long. And it feels every second of that two hours and fifteen minutes. Much of the film could easily have been pruned. There’s no doubt Williams, in his depression and drugged out stupor, did betray each one of the people we spend screentime with, but we didn’t need to see all of them. It was an indulgence by way of apology, admirable but cinematically tedious.
Still, the climax is a heartbreaking, exceptionally cinematic moment: schmaltzy, earned, boisterous and moving. Does it go on one moment too far? Yes, it does. But it was great while it lasted.
