MICHAEL struggles to be genuine amid the soaring vocals and thrilling moves of a rising Jackson. Action director Antoine Fuqua, best known for the critically acclaimed crime thriller Training Day, turns a new leaf into the biopic genre as he attempts to tell a story about a brief time in the life of Michael Jackson. Jaafar Jackson, nephew to Michael, embodies his uncle with startling attention and accuracy as the film bounds across musical numbers. The film does not have to work hard to get necks swinging and toes tapping in the audience, but it falls short in offering a fresh and nuanced perspective. I found myself wondering, what is the point?
Despite the film’s shortcomings, it is important to acknowledge the uncanny work of Jaafar Jackson in this role. Before the premiere of this movie, there was much speculation about how Michael’s iconic voice could possibly be replicated by an actor, but Jaafar approaches the role with authenticity. Jaafar told Today that the vocals were often a combination of his and Michael’s vocals except in a cappella sequences where his own seamless impression could shine. This shine could not come without hard work and devotion — much like the narrative in the film. A two-year casting process with the young singer dedicated to training in the stylings of his uncle finally led to his starring in the film. Undoubtedly, this will be a hallmark in this younger Jackson’s career.
The film’s performance scenes shimmer with familiar aesthetics and nostalgic groove, but does it only have nostalgia to stand on? The film spans from 1966 to 1988, which is only a brief period in the musician’s life, and is concerned almost exclusively with palatability and family drama rather than a more honest look at the complicated person that was the star. Most of Michael is, in earnest, a recreation of easily recognizable concerts and music videos with the type of staccato pacing found in a Baz Luhrman flick (hey, I’m a fan), veering from high-octane musical thrill-ride to slow crawl towards an obvious conclusion.
The plot is simple: Michael is a unique talent whose abusive father exploits him and his siblings as he grows into his artistic prowess until Michael finally stands up to his father. The film goes to laughable lengths to demonstrate how Michael was a friend to animals, the sick and children — the latter being a point that is probably ill-advised at best given the multiple allegations of child sexual abuse first leveled against him five years after the scope of the film. The script seems unable to pick a tonal lane: Is it a comedy about a boyish wunderkind who loves his chimpanzee, or is it a drama about a young boy who rises out of immense pain through his hope-inspiring talent? Perhaps it had the potential to be both, but the film I saw failed to reconcile the quirks of its subject as a ramification of the severity of the child abuse exhibited in the movie’s first 10 minutes. “I have to be perfect,” Michael says before his nose job in a nearly touching scene that attempts to reveal something about Jackson’s psychology. Fuqua does not keep the pressure on. Whatever nuances about the impacts of trauma there were are lost behind CGI animals and the laughs the film attempts to render with their antics. The film ends in 1988 during the Bad Tour, merely scratching the surface of Michael’s life and rendering the film another impotent, disingenuous representation of a musician that chooses to capture nearly exclusively the talent and perseverance of the subject. These qualities are almost never the entire story.
This film will be comfortable to many due to its investment in the glitz, glam and artistry of Michael Jackson and its clear avoidance of challenging, culturally ubiquitous narratives surrounding the King of Pop. It appears to have two goals that both take form in the sonic undeniability of the source material: to inspire a new, younger generation of fans and to serve as a pacifier for Jackson’s kin (and fans) amid the inculpatory allegations and bodily/surgical speculation that mar his career. I overheard people two generations older than me walk out of the theater saying, “I loved that.” Mission accomplished, I suppose. PG13. 127M. BROADWAY, MINOR.
Sasha Senal (she/they) is a writer, environmental educator and aspiring farmer. She can be found exploring Humboldt forests (not unlike her home redwoods on the Sonoma Coast) and considering Black eco-feminism.
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This article appears in Know Your Rights.
