Stardust

With David Bowie’s 2016 death still fresh in the minds of many fans, Stardust carries a bittersweet shadow that’s hard to shake.

Of course, it doesn’t help that this heavily fictionalized biopic of the iconic singer’s early years — prior to the invention of his Ziggy Stardust celestial alter-ego — rarely captures Bowie’s trademark flamboyance or steadfast nonconformism.

Instead, it chronicles some of the darkest days for the British rocker, which might have been internally influential on his music and his subsequent rise to fame, but aren’t especially compelling otherwise.

The film is set in 1971, when David (Johnny Flynn) is two years removed from his breakthrough “Space Oddity” and reeling from the disastrous reception of his latest introspective album, The Man Who Sold the World.

“People don’t want records that make them think,” explains an exasperated publicist (Julian Richings), who nevertheless pulls some strings and connects David with Ron Oberman (Marc Maron), the only executive at his American label who doesn’t want to drop him.

Ron organizes a grassroots tour for American audiences, as well as a series of interviews during which an aloof David fails to convey the rationale behind his brooding androgyny and perplexing songs. Feeling pressure from his pregnant wife (Jena Malone) back home, he realizes his career is on the line.

The film hints that David’s social awkwardness, drug abuse, and borderline mental illness stem from residual trauma from his past. One method of escape is through an invented character, in this case the space alien Ziggy Stardust.

To its credit, Stardust isn’t a very flattering portrait. However, that’s probably the reason his estate didn’t authorize its production or allow use of his musical catalogue, and that void is felt throughout.

Bolstered by a committed performance by Flynn (Emma) that delves deeper than mere mimicry, it also depicts him as a performer ahead of his time in terms of gender fluidity and personal expression through fashion.

Yet the screenplay co-written by director Gabriel Range (Death of a President) becomes caught between a deeply internalized character study of a tortured artist combatting an identity crisis, and a more generic behind-the-scenes portrait of the economic realities of the music business.

Opting for a straightforward rags-to-riches trajectory, the film doesn’t sufficiently get inside the head of its subject. Bowie devotees might appreciate the modest insight, but others won’t be prompted to sing along.

Not rated, 109 minutes.