The first question every biopic has to answer is which story does it tell? In this case, is it the story of Michael Jackson, the icon? The philanthropist? The billionaire who disappeared inside his own Xanadu, like Charles Foster Kane? The man who faced not just judicial scrutiny, but decades-long trial by media against allegations of child abuse? Or is it the story of a man who, after a stolen childhood at the hands of an abusive father, rose to the top for a brief moment as the most recognizable person on the planet?
In the case of Michael, the hagiography produced by the Jackson estate and one of his long-time producers, it is a little of everything, but mostly about nothing. Well, at least nothing that would require thought or contemplation. Because either would force us to ask questions about the enormity of the implications, and such thoughts always threaten the bottom line.
In a film that depicts Joe Jackson, Michael's father, as a cartoonish Satan hovering over his family like a demented puppet master, it is not without irony that the Jackson estate clings so tightly to every element of this production.
Michael is a minimum viable product. It is a cynical, committee-made replica of the real thing that refuses to treat anyone it depicts as a real person. In isolated, solitary moments, it catches brief glimmers of the talent and charisma embodied by Michael Jackson. But those moments are few and very far between.
As a result, Michael is a surprisingly lifeless event, even in the moments when it steps back to let Jaafar Jackson, Michael's real-life nephew, emulate the pop icon with striking conviction. While almost every aspect of the film drops the ball in some way, I have nothing but praise for Jaafar's performance. To portray a family member is a challenge. It is even harder to capture even an inkling of a person beloved by the entire planet at one point in time. Somehow, Jaafar succeeds in both.
But even as Jaafar's performance is heartfelt and committed, the script and direction remain distant and flat. This is a commercial for Jackson, the product, not a celebration of Jackson, the person. As such, it refuses to engage with any darker element of his life beyond superficial recognition. Michael's loneliness, disconnection from society, and eventual descent into substance abuse are played out like Greatest Hits moments instead of the painful and tragic building blocks that were weaponized against him.
And no, the film doesn't even register the allegations and numerous court cases that Jackson faced later in his life. The story ends in 1989 with the release of Bad.
That will undoubtedly leave those looking for salacious gossip annoyed. Those who've chosen to hate Jackson will never have enough blood in the water, while those who defend him will find the film too cautious for its own good. It is a no-win scenario with no easy answers.
A better film would help us forget that and focus on the complexities of stardom. Here, Michael attempts that, and falls flat on its face. It is, in essence, a coming-of-age story that happens to involve the most recognizable figure on the planet. The triumph is not conquering pop culture, but in standing up to a tormenting parent.
Yet that story is told through pantomime and ugly tabloid-level pettiness. Jackson's siblings are either vague caricatures or not present at all. They exist to prop up the idea of Michael as a gift from the gods, regardless of the questions that it elicits.
The film hops from one momentous event to the next without grace or insight. We could tell the same story to ourselves through a YouTube playlist, and it would serve the same function. Antoine Fuqua is a talented filmmaker, and writer John Logan has scripted great films in the past. They are here in the service of the Jackson estate, which has no interest in introspection.
Michael is a frustrating event film. It is going to be a wild success because it is a part of Michael Jackson's enduring legacy. It shouldn't be expected to answer every question and doubt we have about the artist. But it should, at the very least, offer an insight into why Jackson became the icon that he was. The moments that spark joy are due to the music. Jackson's artistry is never in question. But we don't need a cynical advertisement to tell us that.
Those who weren't around even during his waning popularity will never understand how impossibly famous Jackson was, and Michael, the film, does nothing to help with that. Instead, it turns Michael into a wax figurine, forever preserved in mid-performance, without an opinion or personality of his own. Something that is sold at a gift shop for the ultimate parasocial experience.
There is no indication of his brilliance in the craft. No insight into his passion for filmmaking. No question about his darkness or inner demons.
There is only the dance and the mannerisms and the music, echoing out into eternity, a repeated encore to a performance that will never allow Jackson to rest. Surely the audience deserves better. Michael certainly does.
