Directed by Antoine Fuqua | Written by John Logan | ▲1/2 | In Cinemas
The best I can say about this box office-busting Michael Jackson biopic is it’s professionally made — how could it not be from the Hollywood journeyman director who gave us The Equalizer franchise and the writer of Gladiator and Skyfall? It’s also surprising, given their experience, the film’s story is so basic, so obvious. That speaks to the influence of the producers, the Jackson family and their advisors doing their best to burnish Jackson’s legacy. Sure, the music allows for emotional connection, but even that — we get no effort to explain the inspiration in the songwriting, or why Jackson never really wrote love songs. Look elsewhere if you want anything resembling genuine insight.
Also, look elsewhere if you’re looking for the troubling accusations of pedophilia around the pop superstar. No surprise given those same producers have worked to remove the incendiary 2019 documentary, Leaving Neverland, from streaming services. I gather Michael was initially going to be a full-on reputation scrubbing exercise, the third act of the movie depicting “greedy parents” of children Jackson welcomed to his Neverland ranch extorting money from him, making “false claims” of grooming and sexual assault. They reworked the film when the small print of a court case settlement from the 1990s demanded certain complainants in those cases couldn’t be depicted. Instead, the filmmakers end the story in 1988 with the release of Jackson’s third album, Bad, prior to those icky claims.
So, let’s talk about what this movie is, not the one people might wish it was.
It starts in wintry Gary, Indiana, at the home of steelworker Joseph Jackson, his wife Katherine (Coleman Domingo and Nia Long), and their many sons. Joseph is a cruel taskmaster, driving his sons to be performers and rehearsing in the home’s living room. He beats young Michael (Juliano Valdi) with his belt. Other brothers have a line or two, but no personalities at all. The key relationship here is between the controlling Joseph and the mild, terrified, but hugely talented Michael (eventually played by Jaafar Jackson, Michael’s nephew and Jermaine’s son).
Jaafar brings a deer-in-the-headlights impersonation of his uncle to the screen. He reminds me of Johnny Depp’s version of Willy Wonka — lots of grinning and glowing, picket fence teeth. The dancing and singing impresses, recreating those beloved tunes and accompanying visuals, but not much else. The quality of the drama is set firmly at daytime soap, with every line the most obvious to emerge from the actors’ mouths, every beat predictable. Domingo, a terrific, Oscar-nominated actor, plays Joseph like a cartoon, a single-setting performance.
The movie wants us to identify with Michael’s innocence and quirkiness but misjudges this, too. His assembling a personal zoo, including the CGI chimp, Bubbles, is weird and creepy. His inability to relate to people other than his fans or children in cancer and burn wards is weird and creepy. His being a grown man and surrounding himself in plush children’s toys? Weird and creepy. But then it’s hard to separate what we know about Jackson from this glossy, soft-focus official account.
The triumph of the Thriller album and the recreation of that famous title-track video is impressive, but then we get a scene where it appears Jackson has assembled a group of gang members to be in his “Beat It” video, and with almost no rehearsal they match his every move. The filmmakers want every dance, every song, to substitute for actual narrative, and it can’t. The music and performances save us from boredom, but don’t provide any insight. Actors like Laura Harrier, Larenz Tate, and Miles Teller look mildly embarrassed to be there.
Maybe the most tiresome thing here is the way the filmmakers present Michael like some kind of religious prophet, a saintly figure with the power to bring all the people of the world together, his acolytes losing their minds over his sparkling white socks.
As someone points out early on, “In this business, you can make up just about anything.” This movie is nothing more than propaganda slop for the undemanding fan, a new low point in the musical biopic.
