Words by JANE CROWTHER
That a biopic made with the blessing of the Jackson estate would be a hagiograph of the King of Pop should hardly surprise – so don’t arrive at this rhinestone-covered account of MJ’s rise to superstardom expecting any reference to his personal life or allegations made against him. There’s potential for a probing character study of a damaged Peter Pan figure and the horrors of fame, but this is not that film.
The movie went into reshoots and was recut after a historical legal NDA was unearthed preventing any deviation from the narrative of The Gospel According to St Michael – so leaving the elephant in the room out of the equation, is Jackson, purely as an artist, brought alive?
Certainly, if you want to see spot-on facsimiles of his most famous pop-culture moments then Antoine Fuqua’s almost mechanical recreations hit the spot. We meet Michael as an Indiana moppet in 1966, the 10-year-old lead singer of a sibling band with stars in his eyes and belt strap welts across his back. Terrorised by unforgiving patriarch Joe Jackson (Colman Domingo with gimlet-eyed intensity) who doesn’t intend to work in a steel mill for the rest of his life, Michael (Juliano Valdi) and his brothers are drilled in their performance with the promise of violence, regardless of the time or the quiet pleas of their mother (Nia Long). Joe’s vicarious drive for fame and fortune takes the Jackson 5 up the charts, to Motown and onto LA where Michael’s growing obsession with animal ‘friends’ and his need to escape his father coalesces.
As a young man denied a childhood, suffering from vitiligo and squirming under constantly being called ‘big nose’ by his Dad, Michael (Jackson’s real-life nephew, son of Jermaine, Jaafar Jackson) begins to craft his own identity; musically and physically. He starts work on the solo album Off the Wall, sets off on his life-long plastic surgery odyssey, hones his uniform (make-up, aviators, military chic, sequinned socks) and learns to moonwalk.
There’s no denying that Jackson is uncanny as Jacko; nailing his breathy voice, the dazzling smile, the dance moves and the performative shyness. And there’s also no denying the global success of MJ with the bangers that are reenacted with his real vocals. Beat It, Thriller, his electric turn of Billie Jean at the Motown 25 celebration and the iconic Bad tour showstopper are highlights and genuine cultural touchpoints, while fans are catered for with extended worship of his performance of Human Nature at the 1984 Jackson 5 Victory Tour. The dazzle and sparkle, the spins and tippy-toe flexes are all on point, the costumes unimpeachable, the hair and make-up masterful.
But the film comes unstuck in trying to find the soul. Michael is defined only by his hurt and his publicised childlike, messianic qualities (his menagerie of pets, his visits to hospitalised kids, the donation of his payout from Pepsi to a burns unit, his love of Neverland). We are never invited in to understand his unique and bewildering point of view. ‘I want to be a mystery,’ he tells his team, and he certainly remains that here. His motivation, his damage is kept as intangible as all the CGI animals (yes, even Bubbles is rendered in uncanny valley visuals). And leaving the film in 1988 with the promise ‘his story continues…’ allows for any later unpleasantness to go unaddressed.
Viewed merely as a jukebox musical, Michael works – as shiny and showbiz as a bejewelled white glove. As an intimate portrait of an artist and a person, it fails to wrestle with the man in the mirror.
Words by JANE CROWTHER
Pictures courtesy of Lionsgate
Michael is in cinemas now
