Bad news: the Michael Jackson movie’s kind of a blast. You hear about pure cinema now and then. Michael’s been purified of depth, honesty, and critical intelligence, and what’s left is 134 minutes of slick, fast-paced, brilliantly done whirl-a-gigging. Fuqua directed himself a hack job here, but he did it with platinum-grade skill and peerless dedication. John Logan wrote an estate-approved standard biopic, but he did it with a trimness that’s beautiful. Scene after scene dances by and each flashes its meaning in your face. “But your fans love you,” LaToya says to teenager Michael, and we see the living room floor covered in cards and letters, and then the shot’s gone. Michael, still teenaged, writes in a notepad on his knee and we see “Take control of who you are. Make the music you want,” which he underlines twice.
Most of the movie is made up of these flash cards, with the exception being the titanic set pieces featuring Michael in performance. The concert sequences are what sell the movie, and Jaafar Jackson (Jermaine’s son, Michael’s portrayer in the film) does them justice with a fine duplication of his uncle’s brilliance. But I prefer the rest of the film, the galloping flash cards. As an exercise in cinema, that stunt’s a beauty and it goes on at virtuoso length. The critics blast the movie for being dishonest and dim; the experience remains.
The gallop was supposed to be just one element of the film, though a big one. There were also scenes that didn’t recap, that showed Michael living through the 1993 crisis when Jordan Chandler’s parents called the police. That crisis was supposed to be the frame for the movie, with the fast trot coming in as a series of flashbacks before Michael resolved the crisis and the movie wrapped up. Now the fast trot has to be the whole show, since Jackson resolved the crisis not just by handing over $23 million but also by legally promising never to depict the boy or the boy’s family. His estate’s legal team didn’t stumble on this fact until the original Michael had been shot, which was awful for the filmmakers but funny for anybody who laughs at high-powered lawyers. Incredibly these same guys had dug up a nondisparagement clause in a long-ago contract so they could force HBO to drop Leaving Neverland. Apparently they forgot that their side also signs the contracts.
Because of the doodoo heads, as Michael might put it, we have a movie blessedly free of child abuse, alleged or otherwise. Everything ends in 1988: Wembley, the crowds, Michael’s the biggest star in the world. Michael has triumphed, in this case over his father’s harshness and whatever else keeps a person from living a life entirely on their own gigantic terms. That’s the movie’s new story arc, as cobbled together by Fuqua through edits and reshoots: Michael survives childhood and his dad to become what he was meant to be, a galactic superstar who collects llamas and comforts children. The catch is that Michael was already the world’s biggest star about 25 minutes before, when Thriller hit and we saw the concert numbers and crowds that went with it. The movie’s running the same climax twice. Faced with a story problem, it falls back on another immense slam-bang concert sequence because when you have a hammer, etc. The man next to me looked at his watch.
So greatness has its flaws, and a vapidly perfect contraption’s been set wobbling by Jackson’s activities with a boy who had lawyers. Luckily for the moviemakers, the story of Michael Jackson remains remarkable no matter what. He’s still a brilliant prodigy who became a man of surpassing accomplishment; he’s still a beaten and emotionally-cheated child who grew into a titan and constructed his own world. A more honest and thoughtful film about Michael would look at the egotism and possible cruelty of Michael’s self-constructed world. But as long as we’re not being honest, Michael’s about the best Michael Jackson movie possible.
Jaafar Jackson’s good as Michael speaking and very good as him dancing. Juliano Valdi’s remarkable in his brief scenes as little Michael, both as a dancer and actor. Nia Long seems monumentally patient and resigned as Mrs. Jackson; the sculptural crest of her hair adds to the effect. Colman Domingo’s scary as Mr. Jackson—a sweating, brutal menace. The rest of the Jacksons get fewer lines than Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. The boys shift a lot on the sofa; Mr. Jackson lays into little Michael, and the boys bite their lips and shake their heads. But Michael’s time is coming; his father’s world will be pushed aside by Michael’s world. The anonymous love of millions allows him to import a family of his own, one cuddly animal after another until a giraffe’s looming outside the window when Mr. Jackson gets word he’s no longer Michael’s manager. Next comes Neverland and fewer Jacksons but more animals and little kids. And good luck telling about that part.