A year and a half ago, in a movie theater, Timothée Chalamet, dressed as Bob Dylan, responded to those who asked him what he wanted to be with: “Whatever they don’t want me to be.” Now the Michael Jackson portrayed by Jaafar Jackson (his nephew) faces the same problem: he must decide what to be, and once again the answer would be something others don’t want him to be—namely, a solo artist. It is primarily his father who opposes this, while he feels the need to be free and independent. Unlike A Complete Unknown, however, Michael simplifies this battle as much as possible rather than complicating it, until it boils down to a sudden clash between the good guys and the bad guys, without any real development. It’s the preconceived notion of charm (having managed to make it) versus the more elusive concept of charisma (having managed to make it by becoming a villain).
After all, Michael is a biographical film commissioned, promoted, and co-financed by the Jackson family—a whitewashing effort that was originally intended to counter all the allegations of pedophilia that periodically resurface, and only due to a legal technicality was it rebranded as a film about fathers and sons. From his early performances with the Jackson 5 to the release of the album Bad, the story told is that of how Michael Jackson gained his independence and managed to free himself from the yoke of a father who wanted to control him.
Throughout this story, told through broad strokes and brief vignettes every two or three years, Michael is primarily concerned with addressing the many rumors (Why did he turn white at some point? What was wrong with his hair? Why did he get a nose job? Why did he have that childish attitude?). The goal is to provide a reason for everything, so that in the end “it doesn’t seem strange after all.” That, and of course, to cram as many songs as possible into the film, in a long playlist interspersed with scraps of plot—very, very insufficient—and accompanied by dancing, perfectly imitated by Jaafar Jackson. It’s the celebration you’d expect, behind which, however, you can glimpse a better film that never came to be.
At the helm is Antoine Fuqua, who rose to fame with Training Day and went on to direct action films, though he has a background as a music video director—one who has made films far superior to this cobbled-together mess with its nonsensical ending. That’s why, even after the film is over, you’re left with the impression that a whole series of hints aren’t random. Michael is, in fact, full of potential storylines that are never truly explored, but at least they’re there. Which is far more than can be said for Bohemian Rhapsody. For example.
First and foremost, there’s a broader exploration of fathers and sons that goes beyond the relationship with his biological father. Michael’s life is portrayed as filled with figures who could have replaced his father—from his early producers to the bodyguard offering sound advice, all the way to Quincy Jones, and even, at one point, the ruthless Mike Myers, who plays the head of the CBS music label. But none of these “fathers” ever truly enters into a meaningful relationship with the protagonist; they are merely supporting characters.
Then there’s the issue of being looked at: Michael’s problem from a young age is that he can’t play with other kids because he’s already a star—he’s already more of a media image than a human being—and they don’t see him the way they see others. No one sees him as a normal person, not even his father, who always sees him as a child, so he fills his life with animals that, on the other hand, see him just like anyone else. Here, too, however, the film chooses not to follow through, backing off just as things get most interesting—that is, when he begins to lose his human traits and truly becomes more and more of a media image, a character rather than a person.
There is so little intention to truly address anything that in the finale—where something could have been addressed—the film shifts the balance between narrative and musical segments, with the latter becoming the norm, interrupted only occasionally by the former (but only briefly, mind you!). As if any doubt the viewer might have (“Hey, but isn’t that Neverland estate the one where they say the kids were invited…”) were to be swept away by the most famous and catchy choruses of all time.
Only one of these approaches manages to be even remotely convincing. It’s the film’s very distinctive way of pairing Michael’s childlike, ever-smiling demeanor—set to funky, upbeat, and positive music—with the endless bitterness of his loneliness: friendless, without a loving father, and with no one to confide in except his bodyguard. It’s a curious form of bittersweetness that, unlike the rest of the film, seems written and directed by a human being rather than a lawyer. Otherwise, Michael is a film steeped in syrup, crudely edited to make its protagonist the best person on the planet. That’s why it’s never believable, but utterly fake. How can you believe someone who portrays his father discussing business with Don King over cigars and cognac in front of a fireplace as if they were the empire of evil? Yet in all of this, that terrible loneliness is real, and it’s the only form of empathy you can feel while watching.
