Nothing is more fateful than being born to love

Rating: 10/10 (15 July 2019)

This band could have been a simple boys band and they were not because they had something more powerful in their guts and they dared to put it on the stage, set it up for us, the audience who wanted to rock and roll but a music that spoke about our real world, not the real world that we suffered all along but the real world that we suffered all along carved in the stone of our victimized minds that provided us with the glyphs of ecstasy in some codex of a cosmic ritualistic calendar of eternal time. Queen was able to bring together for us the real world and the way we experienced it in our minds, to the point of us becoming mental, to the point of getting so far into the margin and so deep into the unknown that at the time, and we were in the 1970-80s we could not imagine Queen was anything else but the truth coming from ahigh, from the sky, but the sky of our own existential madness.
There were many other artists in those days who tried to show us the world through our own belly button windows, as Jimi Hendrix called them because our eyes only saw what we suffered and enjoyed experienced and ran after all over in our life, in this life that has no return ticket to the other side of normalcy, or fashionable normalcy, the normalcy of those who accept to be nothing but bone, flesh, and blood droppings from the nest of some god or monsters who dominates our minds so much that we cannot even go into the closest Water Closet without being accused of some onanistic crime. And if we by any chance met someone in this Water Closet we would be accused of some mental and diabolical fornication, and fornication is an understatement for these moralistic deranged people because they visualize all the things they would like to do and yet never do at all, except when they find enough courage to push the door of the local Maison Close, as they call them in French in the text, and buy from the Madame the human thing they need to do all the things they want to do that are not allowed in any ethical treatise. We all have a Marquis de Sade in our dendrites.
But what enthused us then? What in us made us love this music and these lyrics and the noise they caused all along their way, along our way, because we projected ourselves into them and we transferred our minds into their spiritual experience and we became the loving human animals that could really shock our parents, our friends, our relatives, if we dared to say it, to tell it, to publicize this transference activity of ours, being Freddie Mercury and his band, and getting into his clothes at first and then into his skin not to satisfy our hormonal desires with him but to engulf ourselves into the bliss of satisfying all our desires through, via, by sheer dint of Freddie Mercury himself and his band. We were becoming the ghost in the Opera of this Queen band of extra-real extra-social extra-cultural both geniuses and devils. And we finally could paint the city red, blood red mind you, "Mama I've just killed a man," and finally as William Burroughs would say in "The Soft Machine" in over some odd 140 pages "a young captive was tied to a stake and the priests who were translucent lobster men with wild blue eyes and shells of flexible copper, tore his s** off with white-hot copper claws to throw the writhing remnant of the emasculated boy into the brown iridescent lagoon infested with sting-ray, freshwater shark, Arequipa, candirus, water boa, crocodile, electric eel, aquatic panther and other noxious creatures," dreamed up by the never lying Freddie Mercury, "which infest our minds with marginal ambitions and ritualistic symbiotic human cannibalism." We enjoyed these visions of fatal, lethal, morbid and supremely enjoyable blissful, I mean full of bliss, orgasmic realization of our deepest impulses and fears because we were both the young captive and the Mayan priest. Were we ready to perform the self-sacrifice this Mayan priest required, take the stingray spine and pierce our penile being to offer our penial blood to the climactic discharge of our souls into the eternity of cosmic life?
That was Queen for us, and the film magnificently recreates this nostalgia with the necessary softening not to frighten the younger souls who may wonder why we liked such barbaric exploration of what we had deepest in our marrow and spine. The actor is of course surprisingly able to impersonate the artist who will at the end be himself in their final concert in Wimbledon or somewhere else for Bob Geldof and Midge Ure's Live Aid campaign.
Most of us though, would not admit that depth and brutal viciousness of our mental world that only finds its way out in a war when all is permitted on one side or the other, on all sides actually because there often are more than two, provided it is wrapped up in nationalism, patriotism, socialism or simply the revolution like today's Artificial Intelligence revolution. As Lee Harvey Oswald would say "Have you read Karl Marx?" and he would hand us the Manifesto of the Communist Party, as a first step towards our liberation that implies that we torture and execute all those who disagree with our revolution. "Good Morning Vietnam" as another actor would say in a famous film. But it is nowadays something like "Good Bye, Lenin!" for this Freddie Mercury who sang in all the tones and colorations possible that "I was born to love you!" Would you really refuse to be loved by such a Luciferian archangel? In the time of the yellow vest turned black blocks I am afraid Freddie Mercury has wasted his love on all those who came after him. He is singing in a desolate, desertic, and empty jungle of many million wild spiders in one small pot. Then it is real body language indeed, or should I say the Mayan Centipede is back again on Les Champs ElysÃ©es for Bastille Day 2019. Can you hear them singing "What can we loot, what can we raid, what can we spoil?" I am sure it is high time to get all these Queen's lyrics and read them as if they were a flame in the night, to follow Leonard Cohen's testament poetry book.
Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU