Why All Music Biopics Feel the Same: How ‘A Complete Unknown’ broke the cycle

A Complete Unknown isn’t a film trapped by the conventions of the biopic genre. It deliberately avoids delving into Bob Dylan’s childhood, family history, or eventual legacy. There are no flash-forwards to his later years, no deep dives into his formative upbringing. Instead, the film hones in on a pivotal, short period in Dylan’s life: the years when he arrived in New York City and ascended to stardom. This omission of backstory isn’t a flaw — it’s intentional.

In recent years, biographical films about iconic musicians have surged in popularity — and audiences either love or hate them. Why do these films, despite their goals, so often fail?

Movies like Walk The Line (2005), Nowhere Boy (2009), Bohemian Rhapsody (2018), Rocketman (2019), Elvis (2022), Bob Marley: One Love (2024), and Back to Black (2024) rocked the screens with trailers that promise explosive, emotional, and transformative journeys. But the films themselves often feel like a rushed, sanitized, greatest-hits playlist of their respective musician’s lives.

Why? Because truth is stranger — and messier — than fiction, and when reduced to a predictable formula, the magic gets lost. But, studios keeps trying, and we keep showing up.

A Complete Unknown avoids dissecting Dylan’s origins because that’s not the point. Dylan’s story isn’t about where he came from; it’s about the message he delivered and the mystery he embodied. By stripping away the conventional trappings of the genre, the film offers something rare: a biopic that doesn’t over explain its subject, allowing his legend to speak for itself.

The familiar template of musician biopics:

1. The Rise. A young, undiscovered talent stumbles upon their first big break. Often, an iconic hit is introduced in a seemingly casual moment — a spontaneous tune shared with a friend or partner. The audience, in on the secret, feels a knowing satisfaction as history quietly unfolds.

2. The Fame: Stardom comes with pressure, expectations, and compromises. The music takes a back seat to the demands of celebrity life.

3. The Fall: Addiction, heartbreak, and disillusionment lead to a downward spiral. Relationships crumble, and the protagonist hits rock bottom.

4. The Comeback: A triumphant return, often culminating in a climactic final performance that reaffirms their love for the music and their connection to the audience.

Most musician biopics follow this familiar narrative arc. The formula for most music biopics works on paper, but often feels predictable and hollow in execution. Most have adhered to this familiar template — splitting their focus between the musician’s background, relationships, emotional struggles, and creative process. However, A Complete Unknown breaks away from this mold.

The absence of details about Dylan’s life becomes part of the film’s charm, a striking contrast to typical biopics that obsess over their subject’s motivations and origins. Here, we don’t trace Dylan’s roots or learn what shaped him; we meet him fully formed.

The movie opens with him hitchhiking into NYC, penniless, carless, and with no identifying details. Even his mail is eventually addressed to a different last name. Dylan’s mystery is the essence of his appeal.

Unlike its predecessors, A Complete Unknown doesn’t try to get inside the musician’s head. We never experience Dylan’s inner thoughts as we do with Freddie Mercury, Elvis, or Elton John. Instead, we see him through the eyes of those around him. The audience learns as others do — through fragmented anecdotes, and cryptic responses.

The recurring carnival stories, which Dylan claims to be from his days working a carnival at age 13, serve as a running joke throughout the film. Each time he tells one, the reactions are a mix of curiosity and amazement. Only Joan Baez (played by Monica Barbaro) confronts his carefully crafted persona.

“Who taught you to play?”

“Oh, I taught myself. I picked up a few things at the carnival.”

“At the carnival?”

“Yeah…these chords I learned from a cowboy named Wiggle foot.”

“…You are so completely full of shit.”

We see a slight smile on his face. She’s the first person to not believe him.

The film contains standout performances from Timothee Chalamet, Monica Barbaro (as Joan Baez), Elle Fanning (as Sylvie Russo), and Edward Norton (as Pete Seeger), each of whom brings depth and nuance to their roles. Their portrayals shine with humor and humanity, infusing the film with moments of raw authenticity and charm.

The film’s seamless ability to shift perspectives sets it apart from traditional biopics, which often feel constrained by their rigid adherence to predictable formulae. We begin with Dylan, but the narrative subtly transitions to Pete’s point of view, almost imperceptibly. Through Pete’s eyes, we come to see Dylan, and before long, the focus shifts again — this time to Joan.

One particularly striking moment occurs when Joan finishes a low-key performance in a dimly lit, smoke-filled bar. The scene is so immersive that when the camera abruptly cuts to Dylan in the audience, it feels like a jolt, as though we had forgotten he was the subject of the story. His face blends into the crowd, appearing as just another onlooker in a packed room.

Chalamet’s portrayal of Dylan is particularly striking, capturing the artist’s signature mix of aloof arrogance, sharp wit, and humor. He leans into Dylan’s “don’t care” attitude, delivering biting one-liners and comedic dialogue that had the audience laughing throughout.

Boyd Holbrook’s portrayal of Johnny Cash is another highlight, transforming the iconic figure from an idolized hero into a tragic comedic foil. This clever characterization showcases Dylan’s evolution from a wide-eyed admirer to a legend in his own right.

Despite the distance created between the audience and Dylan, we still care — because the film makes us care. It’s not just emotionally compelling; it’s a genuinely good time. Few films manage to elicit participation from the audience, but this one does so effortlessly. The sharp, witty one-liners got huge laughs, yet it also made us feel the deeper, more painful moments. When Dylan got punched in that bar, it hurt.

One reason audiences continue to enjoy musician biopics, despite their flaws, is the thrill of knowing how the story ends. There’s comfort in watching these narratives unfold, knowing the characters will achieve greatness. It’s not a whodunit, but a how-they-did-it.

While A Complete Unknown avoids many of the genre’s pitfalls, it can’t entirely escape them. Dylan and Baez’s legacies are too vast to condense into two hours. Key details are inevitably left out, leaving the narrative feeling incomplete. However, the film excels in capturing the spirit of its time. Whether it’s the haze of cigarette smoke in a 1960s Greenwich Village café, or the electrifying chemistry of Dylan and Baez on stage, A Complete Unknown transports viewers to an era of rebellion and reinvention.

Musician biopics will never fully encapsulate their subjects’ lives. By condensing the uncontainable, these films sacrifice complexity for cohesion. Yet, they resonate because they remind us why we fell in love with the music in the first place.

It’s not about the full story — it’s about moments: the thrill of a song coming to life, the rush of a concert scene, or a moment of silence that says it all. For a few hours, it transports us, connecting us to the magic of the songs and the artists who created them.