'Michael' Aims for Celebration Over Complication, With Mixed Results
Imperative as it is to always review the product itself, not what one wishes or hoped the product would be, that’s especially hard in the case of Michael. The controversial music biopic, arriving in cinemas this week, takes a decidedly hagiographic approach to its troubled subject on the way to delivering something surprisingly amiable if entirely familiar. Miraculously, Antoine Fuqua’s picture is not undone by ignoring the allegations of child abuse which surround the musician’s legacy and have only grown louder in the 17 years since his death. But should the sequel-promising conclusion come to fruition and we get subsequent episodes from Jackson’s life, these omissions will be puzzling, to say the least.
Michael Is an Enjoyable If Routine Music Biopic
Michael will not reinvent the biopic wheel, but it’s a much sharper and surer-handed product than Bohemian Rhapsody (2018) or last year’s Springsteen saga Deliver Me From Nowhere. Charting Jackson’s rise from a child star alongside his siblings at the hands of domineering and abusive father Joe (Colman Domingo) to a solo icon, the picture is deftly edited and splendidly rendered. Barbara Ling’s production design (with set decoration by QYawger) and Dion Beebe’s cinematography uncannily capture the texture and light of the three decades over which the story unfolds.
Fuqua, whose CV includes Training Day (2001) and Olympus Has Fallen (2012), is a perfect match for this material. The pace is right on the money (it runs just under two hours, sans credits), and the screenplay (by John Logan) is commendable for including each of the unmissable highlights from Jackson’s career without pandering to either those familiar or unfamiliar with the musician. There are exactly zero eye-rolling moments for which these music biopics are infamous; the script spares anyone telling Jackson, “You know, you’re bad,” before cutting to him laying down the track.
As the musician, Jafaar Jackson gives an all-consuming performance of great magnitude. Nailing Jackson’s iconic dance moves, rhythms, and posture in an uncanny form, the young actor proves himself to be a star even though it’s unlikely this will result in awards consideration. As Jackson’s parents, Domingo and Nia Long play out a quietly affecting double act that’s often more compelling than the industry drama at the story’s forefront. As Berry Gordy and Suzanne De Passe, producers who give a young Michael his first break, Larenz Tate and Laura Harrier steal the opening act with little effort; but it’s Juliano Krue Valdi, playing the youngest version of the titular star, who’s the movie’s MVP.
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Michael Skillfully Avoids Its Subjects Complicated Legacy, But Future Films Shouldn't
Much has been made of the fact that Michael was extensively retooled to remove any mention of the criminal allegations that defined Jackson’s later years. Reportedly, the singer’s estate (presided over by John Branca, played here by Miles Teller) ponied up $15 million to reshoot the film’s conclusion, which originally featured law enforcement descending on Neverland Ranch and serving Jackson with a search warrant. In its finished form, Michael ends with dual triumphs: circa 1984, Jackson sticks it to his father by announcing his retirement from family touring; and then, four years later, brings down the house at Wembley Stadium with a rousing rendition of “Bad.” The picture fades to black as Jackson soaks in the audience’s applause, with a title card promising, “His Story Continues.”
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In fact, the revised ending makes much more thematic sense considering what has preceded it. The entire film is about Jackson, who is here depicted as an animal-loving, child-befriending Pollyanna who craves the childhood he never had, breaking free from his father’s reign. Though it skirts issues about the singer being robbed of his adolescence and surrounded as a child by adults who worked for him, these elements play more like setups for future films rather than plot strands in need of resolution. From a story perspective, any mention of the allegations which later dogged Jackson would be confusing and extraneous here. If included, they would seem like a peculiar concession towards what we all know about the singer rather than a fluid evolution of the film we’ve been watching.
That said, if Jackson’s story does continue on screen (and box office receipts suggest it will), it seems unimaginable that the allegations would not be addressed. Michael is a celebration of the best parts of the artist at its center; and because of the period on which it focuses, it largely gets away with being a goes-down-smooth piece of corporate-produced hagiography. By the skin of its teeth, Fuqua’s film avoids having to mire itself in the complicated legacy of its subject. But it will be impossible to rationalize or accept if future installments avoid the issue.