Obviously, Michael wants to portray Jackson in a positive light. But the best biopics engage with the good, the bad and the ugly about a person to build an accurate picture of who they were. This refusal to treat Jackson as anything other than a flawless, prodigal manchild with a heart of gold is not only inane – it’s a disservice to his legacy.
Michael is the most frustrating kind of biopic. It boasts a fascinating subject matter in the King of Pop, with no shortage of ways to explore his interesting, if controversial, life. But it opts for mechanical storytelling and a sanitised portrayal so vacant of nuance or substance that it leaves one unsettled. The film clearly loves Michael Jackson and his music, but it’s painfully uninterested in understanding him.
Directed by Antoine Fuqua and made with the approval of the Jackson estate, Joseph Jackson (Colman Domingo) was a 1960s steelworker determined to make a better life for his family. For years, he put his five sons – the Jackson 5 – through gruelling rehearsals, training them to be the greatest band in the world. Chief among them was his son Michael (Juliano Krue Valdi), who possessed extraordinary singing and dancing abilities, yet was worked to the bone, denying him a real childhood.
Much of the first act details Michael’s tumultuous childhood, with Joseph meting out discipline with an iron fist. Years later, an older Michael (Jaafar Jackson, the real Michael’s nephew) desires both independence and a more refined career. Torn between going solo and his dedication to his family, Michael navigates the musical industry and his father’s controlling eye.
Bizarrely, this film is similar to Melania in that it’s more interested in shallow glorification than genuine exploration of its human subject. Michael, in fairness, looks like Casablanca compared to the abhorrence of Melania, but that’s not a high bar to clear. The synopsis above would make for an engaging first half of a film. Even the dramatic framing around Michael and Joseph’s famously uneasy father-son dynamic is a compelling choice. But whether through legal circumstance or deliberate creative choice, the film is concerned solely with presenting a curated, unblemished image of its subject matter, wilfully ignoring anything that might jeopardise it. The plotline finishes in 1988, five years before the first allegations of Jackson sexually abusing children arose, which is like telling the story of Roman Polanski and conveniently stopping at the success of Chinatown.
You could argue that’s not the tale being told here. That still doesn’t account for the bland plot and characters. No one comes across like an actual human – merely pieces in a whitewashed machine going through the motions of a rise-and-fall story, only without the fall. Joseph Jackson was an antagonistic person, but his motivations were relatable – the desire to escape poverty and make his family successful, despite a vocally anti-black society. That doesn’t excuse his abusiveness, but you’d be hard pressed not to empathise with that goal. The Joseph depicted here might as well be a cartoon villain. His corny lectures on family, his short-fused temper, his pontificating attempts at manipulation – not once does any of it feel authentic thanks to the heavy-handed script, which force-feeds the themes instead of letting them bloom organically.
Domingo, usually so formidable, is left floundering. His attempts to bring aggression to this paint-by-numbers villain are more hammy than intimidating. But he gets off lightly compared to his son’s Disneyfied treatment. We’re treated to many elements of Jackson’s character – his longing for childhood, his fixations on animals (Bubbles the monkey is portrayed by a CGI monstrosity) and his love of Peter Pan. But these elements are treated as trivia to be acknowledged rather than gateways to his humanity, turning Jackson into a whimsical object to gawk at. He’s not a person in this film – he’s a fairytale character without the charm or finesse.
Nepotism aside, Jaafar Jackson does a solid job of physically recreating his uncle’s mannerisms. Michael’s physical abilities as an entertainer were unprecedented, and Jaafar embodies that kinetic energy well enough. However, take away the singing and dancing, and we’re left with a stilted replication rather than an intricate portrayal. When conveying the narrative drama, Jaafar comes across as detached, wooden, and a little creepy. His high-pitched voice and caricatured expressions are not unlike his uncle’s, but the binary nature of the script hinders all potential nuance, Jaafar doubling down on the flatness rather than capturing the role’s hidden depths. It’s uncanny acting, but not in the way that’s intended.
Obviously, Michael wants to portray Jackson in a positive light. But the best biopics engage with the good, the bad and the ugly about a person to build an accurate picture of who they were. This refusal to treat Jackson as anything other than a flawless, prodigal manchild with a heart of gold is not only inane – it’s a disservice to his legacy. Even if he was innocent of the worst allegations levelled at him (and that’s a big if), Jackson, despite his talent as an artist, still had severe mental health issues and a juvenile outlook on life. Much of that was born of his turbulent childhood, as portrayed in the film, but to paint his, frankly, weird behaviour, particularly around animals and kids, as angelic rather than as a complexity feels, at best, lazy and, at worst, dishonest.
The rest of the film is a half-baked highlights reel instead of an actual story. Tension between Joseph and Michael over the years pops up to give the impression of a coherent narrative, but it’s otherwise a hodgepodge of songs and family conflicts strung together. Fuqua is a strong filmmaker – just watch Training Day – but this has director-for-hire plastered all over it. His direction is as detached from Jackson as the script, offering no earnest insights into his mind beyond what the clunky dialogue already dictates.
Sweeping cinematography captures the energy of Jackson’s dancing, but erratic editing makes it hard to fully lose yourself in, and the time skips make the narrative progression feel patchy. Dark lighting gives the picture a hideous visual look, a stark contrast to Jackson’s love of colour. Combine this with the film’s glaring omissions on the back half of Jackson’s life, and this feels less like a biopic and more like a cynically produced infomercial to be consumed by impetuous fandoms.
Candidly, the tantrums thrown by audiences about the critical reception only embolden this case. Film critics are used to being dehumanised and undervalued, but the faux-outrage from some audiences is an indictment of their insecure obsession with art, not their love for it. Critics like Robert Daniels and Clarisse Loughrey, two of the best in the business, have endured disgraceful amounts of petulant mudslinging for the crime of doing their jobs and reporting their opinions, influenced by their years of expertise. If anything, the vitriolic conduct against any voice of dissent, or even gentle criticism, demonstrates that many Jackson “fans”, like Michael, view him solely as a singing, dancing commodity rather than a real, complicated human being. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.
Michael is now showing in cinemas nationwide.
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