Michael Moonwalks Around the Mess
I did not walk into Michael as a neutral observer.
I walked in as someone with an “I ❤️ Michael Jackson” ring in her jewellery box. When I was a kid, my pediatrician gave me that plastic ring, and to this day I treat it like the Crown Jewels of my jewellery box. Some people inherit diamonds. I have plastic proof of excellent taste. During the bleak COVID days, when everyone was baking sourdough and pretending Zoom birthdays were fun, I decided to learn the Thriller dance. Not the cute 13 Going on 30 version. The real one. The shoulder snaps. The zombie shuffle. It took me two intense weeks studying the video like the Zapruder film. Every hand flick. Every head turn. Every undead little step had to be just right. It was ridiculously hard but now I have it in my arsenal. (If you’ve seen me do it on Halloween, count yourself blessed.) So yes, I went into Michael with affection. Not blind worship, but affection. I know the songs. I know the moves and that is exactly what this movie is banking on.
The film follows Michael Jackson from the Jackson 5 years through his rise to global superstardom. The strongest part, by far, is Jaafar Jackson as Michael. He is excellent. His performance is so precise it borders on eerie. At times it feels less like acting and more like a very expensive séance. Colman Domingo is chilling as Joe Jackson, playing him with a cold menace that makes every rehearsal feel like a hostage situation. Nia Long, unfortunately, has less to work with as Katherine Jackson. Onscreen, her character has the energy of someone watching a house burn down and offering everyone inside ice cream. Then there is Bubbles. I was shocked to learn Bubbles is still alive and living in a sanctuary. Who would have guessed the chimp would get the peaceful retirement? History is weird that way. But while Jaafar is giving a full performance, the movie around him is telling a partial truth.
Michael is not really interested in wrestling with Michael Jackson. It is interested in restoring him. The movie wants the genius and the trauma but it does not want to get its white socks dirty. Director Antoine Fuqua plants little shadows: the pain medication, the isolation, the obsession with lost childhood. However, the movie points toward darkness and then immediately changes the lighting. That is the problem. A great biopic should not just polish the statue. It should chip at it. Walk the Line did not pretend Johnny Cash was just a handsome man with a guitar. It showed the drugs, the womanizing, the wreckage. That is what made him human. Here, Michael is treated as wounded and brilliant but rarely responsible. It feels less like a biography and more like a closing argument set to a greatest-hits album.
Still, the movie does one thing very well: it reminds you of his scale. Michael Jackson was not just famous. He was gravitational. He made movement look supernatural. As I write this, I’m listening to his music, which is probably the movie’s greatest achievement: it sends you straight back to the songs. No offence to Tate McRae, Sabrina Carpenter or whatever current pop star is being marketed as a generational earthquake because they can whisper over a synth, but nobody touches Michael at his peak. That is why Michael is enjoyable, but enjoyable is not the same as honest. It is a good night at the movies, but not a brave one. This is the kind of movie that makes you forgive it while you’re watching and then side-eye it in the parking lot. Leaving the theatre, an usher told me he had seen it eight times. I understood. The movie is designed for that. It gives fans like me the magic and keeps the mess at a polite distance, like an embarrassing classmate at a high school reunion. So yes, Michael works. But it works the way a great tribute concert works, not the way a great biopic should. It gives you the glove. It gives you the genius. It gives you the chills. But when it comes time to really look at the man in the mirror, the movie lowers its eyes.