In his biopic "Better Man", Robbie Williams decided to be an ape

For the biopic Better Man, which revisits his personal and musical life, Robbie Williams chose to be portrayed as a monkey. An animal that had already appeared in his career, recalling some of the live performances from the 2003 Escapology tour in Knebworth, where the montage alternates animated inserts with footage of the singer literally hanging by his feet and lowered onto the stage—as also seen in the film—alongside imagery with an entirely early-2000s aesthetic, questionable yet representative of the era's first decades. The fans numbered 375,000, making it the most-attended event in British history. A concert conquered with the cry of "For the next two hours your ass is mine!" and one that cemented the pop star as an undisputed musical icon. But how much effort did it take to get there? And why is Robbie Williams a monkey in Better Man? “I’ve never felt evolved,” admits the singer, as he also confesses in the film. Always lagging behind, always making mistakes, always chasing fame that served only one purpose: to feel loved. If the “born entertainer,” as he calls himself, has so far only shown the surface, after Michael Gracey’s film (The Greatest Showman), it will no longer be possible to avoid questioning his vulnerability. Even though hairy and primitive, the figure in the work offers an intimate and painful portrayal of a child with the dream of pleasing his father, only to be abandoned by him in favor of small performances in local pubs. Become famous or be no one. Hence Robbie Williams becomes a monkey. To be noticed by people, to be noticed by his father.

Although the choice to represent himself through a primate may seem like a mere mannerism, within the narrative of the singer’s life, it takes on a higher and broader meaning. It is the performer’s body being questioned and removed to don a more fitting costume, once again reflecting on the significance that flesh and blood have had in achieving the career of the boy from Stoke-on-Trent. A young man who joined the Take That at fifteen, was immediately exposed to the vices and myriad ways of inflicting harm upon his body. First came media exposure. Initially captivating queer nightclubs later transformed into idols for teenage girls, the five boys at the height of their fame in the early 1990s were elevated to the quintessential boy band. Their resonance was further fueled by the explicit sexualization of their personas, an image that had to matter as much, if not more, than their vocal performances. Robbie Williams quickly succumbed to depression and the haze of alcohol and, even more so, drugs, finding in these islands of refuge an escape from the unease that pursued him every time he stepped on stage—a recurring theme in many scenes of Better Man.

Then there is the body of the individual, the one who broke away from the machine perfected by Take That, now too damaged to continue. And in exposing himself, another mask. The more he strips down, the more he covers up. It’s ironic to think that, even in its animalistic version, the monkey in the film is more clothed than Robbie Williams has ever been in his life. The body repeatedly resurfaces in the singer’s musical and performative career. A body subjected to substance addiction and an ongoing battle with dysmorphia (still unresolved even after losing around thirteen kilos two years ago, not shying away from the help of a few injections). A persistent stripping, as if to reveal his deepest self. It’s astounding how, by googling Robbie Williams’ name alongside the words “nude” or “naked,” the possibilities offered by the web are endless. It’s not just *that* album, photo, video, or cover. It’s *those* albums, photos, videos, and covers. He even makes songs about the body, like Bodies in 2009 and earlier, in 2002, Come Undone, which brings him back to the seminal fluid that, one day, would make him a person (“Because I'm scum and I'm your son, I come undone”). “The body has always been my outlet for my mental health,” explains Williams during the film's promotion in Italy. “I’ve always been prone to all sorts of addictions, including food. I’ve quit alcohol, I’ve quit drugs, I’ve even quit sex” (he laughs, ironically—or perhaps not, editor’s note), “but I’m still at war with my body. It’s a neurosis that’s still with me today. My weight issues and the battle between me and my body have never ended, remaining a source of so much suffering and pain for me.”

And even though today he says, “I’m damn sexy,” he insists, his self-loathing and constant search for acceptance is precisely what Better Man puts on display, and it’s evident even when meeting him in person. Transforming the biopic into an example of superior exploration and entertainment beyond the conventional scope of such works, laying bare not just his physicality but reshaping it to reinforce the idea of performance with which he has always used it, Robbie Williams hopes to be “seen” through Better Man. Being portrayed as an animal is not dehumanizing but rather deeply empathetic. He is a child who sang with his father and continues to do so to reconnect with him. He is a boy who feared being nobody and dreamed of performing before 375,000 people to confirm that yes, I exist. He is a man who, to feel something (“I just wanna feel”, he sings in one of his most famous tracks), had to expose himself. He did so with Better Man too. And perhaps this is the truth of wanting to be someone: not just having that “something” but being willing to give everything. To put your soul into it completely and, above all, your body.