Michael

Jaafar Jackson

I was pleasantly surprised by Antoine Fuqua's Michael. Expecting a hagiographic waxworks, I was never bored by the, for now, all-time grossing biopic. I suspect that even if Michael was terrible, it would have been a reasonable hit given the entertainer's still fervid fanbase. This is due to a discography that will appeal to tots, teens, and other music fans until the earth is obliterated and beyond. John Logan's script covers the years 1968 to 1988, so there is no decline. Logan and Fuqua do a good job of sketching Michael's main musical collaborators: drill-sergeant father Joseph (Colman Domingo), Barry Gordy ( Larenz Tate), and Quincy Jones (Kendrick Sampson). Those who are omitted are cited in the film's exhaustive end credits. The main omission, besides Michael's sex life or lack thereof, is Janet. She is not listed among the film's many executive producers named Jackson and is absent from the film. Nary a peep about her.

Given the restrictions inherent in an authorized biopic, Logan does a pretty good job at outlining the rise of a pop icon. The film has a propulsive rhythm to it, with Fuqua aligning the visual choreography in sync with the music. Logan has logically constructed his screenplay. Even the gaps in the narrative, the biggest leap is from 1971 to 1978, make some sort of sense. This leap serves to introduce Michael the young man (nephew Jaafar Jackson) as we say adios to Michael the boy (Juliano Valdi). The gap also eliminates a few speed bumps, like the shift from Motown Records to Epic and the film version of The Wiz, to the film's up, up and away trajectory. Joseph (deceased 2018) is the heavy of the film, though I think he was worse in real life, and, not surprisingly, Mr. Domingo threatens to run away with the film's acting laurels. However, the cast is uniformly excellent. Jaafar Jackson is not the disaster one feared and, in particular, moves as adeptly as his uncle. The filmmakers were wise to blend Jaafar's singing voice with Michael's, as the original was singular. I also appreciated the efforts of Nia Long, Miles Teller, KeiLyn Durrel Jones, Laura Harrier, and, playing another gross and comic record executive, Mike Myers. Fuqua keeps the cast loose limbed and focused.

By stopping the narrative in 1988, the picture avoids the Wacko Jacko lowlights like the accusations of pedophilia and his face falling off. The flick ends with the warning, "the story continues", but I don't think anyone is brave enough to tackle Michael 2. Fuqua and Logan plant the picture with cultural touchstones (Peter Pan, James Brown, The Three Stooges) that underpin Michael Jackson's legacy. As with Elvis Presley, that legacy encompasses all that is good, bad, and weird about American culture. Michael is not as contrary to the facts as such traditional Hollywood biopics as Night and Day. It does feature plastic surgery and Bubbles the chimp. However, Michael does not have the audacity to truly portray how weird the subject was. My fantasy version of Michael 2 would include the vignette provided by that undependable narrator Dr. Z (aka Dana Gould): Bubbles, exiled to an outdoor pen after becoming too big and violent to live in the mansion, hurls his excrement at handicapped visitors to Neverland Ranch.