When you look at the patterns and developments that have culminated in the lead-up to the long-awaited release of Michael, the final product, as it is, shouldn’t be surprising — the iconic status and allegations surrounding its real-life star, the legal ramifications revolving the production of its third act, and, of course, the recent string of the most paper-thin biopics known to man, following in the footsteps of Whitney Houston: I Wanna Dance with Somebody (2022), Bob Marley: One Love (2024), and Bohemian Rhapsody (2018).
All the signs lead to what was virtually inevitable, so it truly is a mystery why it’s still so shocking that a biopic revolving around one of the most casually famous people to walk the planet can end up even more insanely bland than you’d expect. The answer lies in what Michael constantly tells us, over and over, without seeming to understand any deeper meaning behind it. No matter what one’s thoughts may be on Michael Jackson, he was an undeniable moment of pop culture, and anything but bland or rote, a true enigma that changed the world of pop forever, so for a biopic about him and everything around him to be as safe and fabricated as possible is a complete antithesis to his stardom.
Michael isn’t just another in the ever-growing line of assembly-produced biopics; it’s a prime example of what’s made them so mind-numbingly dull for years now. It’s a glorified Spotify playlist on full blast, disguised as a film, sanitized to create the most tasteless product imaginable to appease crowds and do nothing else to intrigue in either narrative or filmmaking terms, and it is truly agonizing to watch.
Michael covers most of the events with the first half of the star’s life, from his beginnings with the Jackson Five in the 1960s to the end of the Bad tour in the 80s. From a very young age in Gary, Indiana, we already witness an uncomfortability between Michael (Juliano Valdi) and his brother’s relationship to their father Joe Jackson (Colman Domingo), who pushes his sons to their limit in their performance, and any resistance from Michael himself leads to beating after beating from his father.
Throughout his growing years, any presumed solace Michael finds comes from his admiration for animals and the media he watches, and from small moments with his mother, Kathrine (Nia Long). Once Michael reaches adult age (now portrayed by Jaafar Jackson) wants to grow into his own person producing his own albums you just might of heard of like “Off The Wall” and “Thriller,” getting a new manager, John Branca (Miles Teller), and finally standing up to his controlling father as we learn, very broadly, about how the king of pop rose to the top.
From the film’s opening moments involving the most generic opening imaginable for a biopic, cutting from Jackson at the peak of his popularity to the very beginnings of his music career, it’s immediately clear that John Logan’s screenplay has no interest in remotely challenging its audience or delving into the inner psyche of its star. The movie is far more concerned with going through its history as fast as humanly possible, throwing montage after montage in the audience’s faces, hoping that they will clap like seals at the shiny iconography and familiar tunes they might hear; essentially, a comic book movie, or reference movie culture now fully formatted for films of real-life events.
The film’s need to provide only the same emotional catharsis you can get from a jukebox wouldn’t be as egregious if there was quite literally any initiative to dig deeper into its subject matter that isn’t the most insipid of brushstrokes. Any moments where impactful touchstones of the singer’s career are brought up, like his skin condition and body surgeries, the deeper meaning behind his connection to animals, or his fight against MTV’s prejudice against artists of color, are glossed over to check off another box along the list of the biopic formula.
A lot of Michael Jackson’s family life and lack of true fatherly connection with anyone, because of his father’s abuse, was one of true pain and inner sadness of further emotions that lie behind the star’s life. A biopic actually offers the perfect opportunity to add more to things we already know, so we can view them from a new and unique light, but Michael doesn’t want to say anything about anything. When it rarely does through the vaguest of illusions, it’s housed in the most robotic of “I want to make the world a better place” dialogue, or in some cases, is quite literally words like “be free to create” written on notebook pages by Michael himself, so the audience can read aloud what are already paper-thin themes.
Even the performers in the film leave much to be desired. Jaafar Jackson is undeniably exceptional at capturing his uncle’s magic on stage, and Domingo convincingly portrays pure evil, but the problem lies in the fact that neither role rises above that basic foundation in emotion or writing. Jaafar and Domingo are relegated to just recreating things a general audience will recognize, imitations of real-life people and nothing more.
It doesn’t help that the film paints the two people with the most plain strokes possible, with Joe basically being the film’s exaggerated cartoon villain and Michael being a flaw-free blank slate of perfection that only exists to finally stand up to Joe in the most predictable outcome. There exists zero nuance between any of the writing or performing here, only an obvious person to root for and against, always telling you exactly what to think and feel in every moment.
Antoine Fuqua’s direction can’t even save the film’s lightspeed pace as he helms a flatly made biopic in nearly every aspect. You’d think the electric music that’s at play here would be enough to carry scenes showcasing the performance of “Bad,” “Beat It,” and all the greatest hits, but both the editing and camera placement in on-stage sequences are preposterous. Jaafar Jackson is nailing the dance moves, but there’s never a moment where the camera can decide where it wants to set its focus. It zooms all over the place from different sections of the crowds to cuts all over the stage, completely removing any electricity that the performance or music itself can bring to a scene alone.
The trite blandness of nearly every aspect of Michael isn’t new in the never-ending churning of the modern biopic, but it’s so willing to do and say nothing potentially intriguing about the real-life pop star that it represents a new frontier of corporate sludge. An aimless biopic that only serves to be recognizable memorabilia in performance and imitation of famous iconography rather than providing a worthy dissection of its real-life subject matter while cleverly implementing its greatest hits; a deeply soulless affair that’s a product disguised as a film.
Review Courtesy of Joshua Mbonu
Image Credit to Lionsgate and Universal Pictures