There are movies that, like the vast majority of bags of potato chips, are designed to be liked. They have it easy. We all love potato chips, and, focusing on what we are here for, we are all capable of humming the most catchy parts of Michael Jackson's songs. Even if we don't exactly know what we are saying and despite the obscene ridicule every time we attempt the famous Moonwalk. After all, Michael has the endorsement of the artist's environment, giving its director, Antoine Fuqua, unrestricted access to the complete discography from his childhood days in the Jackson Five. And indeed, whether due to the undeniable appeal of the irresistible playlist or the highly skilled imitation by its lead, Jaafar Jackson (the nephew of the honoree), the main goal of the highly anticipated biopic of the king of pop is to recapture the original flavor that the genius's music had before our palate acquired a bitter taste due to revelations about the shameful intricacies of his private life.
However, as the Latins taught us, De gustibus non est disputandum. In other words, matters of taste can be problematic because it's difficult for us to agree. But, furthermore —and this is a bigger issue—, the complete lack of self-criticism or, from the opposite end, the film's sanctifying effort is so shameless and abrasive that it irreversibly undermines the collection of good intentions almost beyond repair. Michael is not so much a typical biopic with its ups and downs as it is a very immodest celebration of a dazzling myth accompanied by a formal staging (nothing like the glorious days of Training Day and, indeed, with the best imaginable song catalog.
To stay on track, the film, similar to the acclaimed Bohemian Rhapsody by Bryan Singer, portrays the irresistible rise of a unique talent from the humblest of depths to the highest peaks. The nemesis (the enemy to be defeated) and the driving force of the action is the obsessive, domineering, and suffocating father (portrayed by Colman Domingo with questionable overacting) who both instilled in the child a perfectionist drive and condemned him to the most erratic and solitary of existences. The victim's trick, once again. The film completely overlooks the dark episodes related to the accusations of pedophilia in such a cheerfully unconscious and shameless manner that the more modern maxim (unimagined by the Latins) of separating the author from the work now becomes an outrage. At times, and to draw any comparison, it could be like narrating World War II while skipping the atomic bomb part.
Michael could be saved if instead of trying to be a film with its three acts, dramatic tension, and hero's journey, it were simply an exercise in communion with Michael Jackson's music. But it's not. And it's that forced effort to be what it can no longer be that discredits it. The insistence on creating an epic and even hippic mythology (no horses appear, but there are flames and giraffes) around the musician makes everything seem out of tune; in other words, exactly what his creations never were. Portraying the enormity of his musical talent through a supposedly exemplary life of a victim (first punished by his father, then condemned by excessive success, and later literally burned by the stage accident...), without making any reference to the real victims of his dark and well-documented delusions, let's call it that, can only be justified by the absolute guilty frivolity of an increasingly frivolous and guilty film industry. That's how it is.
Nevertheless, if one can detach, focus on the songs, keep enjoying the always-liked potato chips, and not pay too much attention to the actor's feigned voice, congratulations, upon leaving, you will be stamped with a certificate qualifying you as a perfect separator of artists, works, and crimes.
Director: Antoine Fuqua. Cast: Jaafar Jackson, Juliano Krue Valdi, Colman Domingo. Duration: 127 minutes. Nationality: United States.