If ever a film arrived in theaters bulletproof of critical harangue, it is director Antoine Fuqua’s biopic on Michael Jackson, simply titled “Michael.” Chock full of hits, with winning performances by Juliana Valdi as the young Michael of the Jackson 5 era, and Jaafar Jackson as the adult solo superstar version, the film delivers the tunes and recreates many of Jackson’s defining moments (ABC, Thriller, and the moonwalk performance at the Motown 25th Anniversary special). For those who came to see commonly known history repeat itself, the film went over like gangbusters. Just three weekends into the movie’s release, Michael has already grossed more than half a billion worldwide—an astonishing figure.
Critics received the film much differently. Metacritic, a website that aggregates the critical opinions of top-shelf media outlets, delivered a miserable “Metascore” of 39 (out of 100). The primary complaints made by the professional film cognoscenti were centered on the surface-level take of Jackson’s ascent from lead singer of a Motown group to the biggest solo recording star in the history of earth.
As a film writer who enters every screening with the hope of having a good time, I wish I could disagree with that 39 Metascore. In fact, after viewing the film, I felt a bit embarrassed for the relatively small number of critics who posted favorable reviews. To refer to Michael as a “thumbnail sketch” of a man who lived a very complicated life is to insult the relative depth of the cliche. As a person who grew up in the ‘80s and had a front-row seat to the Michael Jackson phenomenon, my heart continually sank to new depths throughout the film’s 131 minutes.
Sure, the family patriarch Joe Jackson (the great Colman Domingo saddled with a one-note role) is presented as an abusive and controlling father who takes that “spare the rod” bit from the Bible more than a little too far. But when casting someone as terrific as Domingo, how could this film, written by the very talented John Logan (Gladiator, The Aviator, Skyfall), be so bereft of nuance for such a seminal figure in Michael Jackson’s story? I wish the film’s issues had begun and ended there.
Motown’s Berry Gordy (played by Larenz Tate), the man who signed the Jackson 5 and plotted their initial success plan, barely registers. Even more stunning is the short shrift Quincy Jones (Kendrick Sampson) is given in the film. Jones, the architect of Jackson’s three most successful records, Off the Wall, Thriller, and Bad, isn’t given much more to do than be seen as a passing figure in the studio. Strangely, in a film about a musical icon, there is very little depiction of Jackson’s creative and collaborative genius at all.
Nia Long, as the matriarch of the family, finds what modest subtlety she can in the underwritten role of the woman who countered Joe Jackson’s brutality, but the screenplay or the direction gives her no help. Furthermore, Jackson’s brothers (Jermaine, Marlon, Jackie, and Tito) barely register at all in the film. A fact made all the more stunning by the knowledge that Jaafar Jackson, who embodies Michael’s moves, voice, and mannerisms so well, is the son of Jermaine. As far as Jackson’s sisters, Rebbie, Latoya, and Janet, they either barely exist in the film, or in the case of Janet (who declined to be depicted in the film), not at all.
The most damning sin in the film is the almost complete lack of inner being given to the film’s subject. The tale of Michael Jackson, outside of the fame and fortune, is one of stunted growth. Michael is presented as Peter Pan (a relentless theme in the film), the boy who never grew up. There should have been enormous depths to dig into to discuss Jackson’s development (or lack thereof) into adulthood. Jackson and the audience deserved more than an overly simplistic story of a boy who eventually pulled himself away from his father’s clutches.
Jackson’s unusual affection for animals is shown but not depicted meaningfully. For a boy who spent so much of his childhood being exploited by adults, it makes perfect sense that Michael would find love, safety, and comfort in the unconditional love of animals, but in Michael, the psychology of the choice is portrayed with superficial eccentricity.
Even more offensive and disturbing is the lack of any mention of the child abuse accusations that resulted in two trials (both in which Jackson was acquitted). To be fair, due to an overlooked non-disclosure agreement with one of the accusers, the film was not allowed to use his name or depict any events that formed part of his claim. Originally, the film was intended to end in 1993, on the cusp of the accusations coming to light, with a sequel focusing on the latter portion of Jackson’s life. Instead, significant portions of the film were reshot, and the picture now ends with the first date of Jackson’s Bad tour, with the singer performing the title track.
Despite the legal challenges, it’s hard to believe that Fuqua and Logan couldn’t have found some way around these hurdles to at least show Jackson taking unrelated young boys on tour with him, and at least referring to the fact that there were accusations that held enough merit to be taken to court. Instead, we only see Michael interacting with sick children in hospitals, creating a saintly portrayal of the subject that is all light and no darkness.
Why were more creative efforts not taken? That’s a question for Fuqua, Logan, and most notably, the Jackson estate. The easiest way to look at it is to say the estate thought better of creating a three-dimensional character and instead delivered a simple hero’s story. But all of the responsibility can’t be left at the feet of the estate. The film’s studio, co-distributors Lionsgate and Universal, were likely relieved at the opportunity to dispense with any and all controversy surrounding Jackson. It’s so much easier to sell the film to the masses without making Michael Jackson a figure capable of complexity and even darkness.
In truth, we’ve seen this act play out many times before with biopics based on famous musical artists. Bohemian Rhapsody (2018) so soft-pedaled Freddie Mercury’s sexuality that it barely seemed to be that important a factor in his life (it’s worth noting that in Michael, Jackson is presented with no sexuality at all). Baz Luhrmann’s unsurprisingly over-the-top 2022 film about the king of rock and roll (Elvis) papers over the then 24-year-old Presley’s relationship with his future wife, Priscilla, who was just 14 when they began “dating.”
The one thing that Michael, Bohemian Rhapsody, and Elvis all have in common (outside of whitewashing their subjects—all three films are rated PG-13) is that they were all massive box office successes. The estates, the studios, and the masses were all given exactly what they wanted: a feature film-length version of a greatest hits album.
Musical artist biopics that stray from the formula seldom achieve the level of box office success of Michael, Bohemian Rhapsody, or Elvis. While hardly a film that went far beyond the numbers when depicting the extraordinary life and career of Elton John, Rocketman (2019) was honest about Elton’s sexuality, becoming the first film from a major studio (Paramount) to depict a gay male sex scene. While Rocketman was still successful, grossing nearly $200 million worldwide, its turnstile returns were nearly $100 million short of Luhrmann’s Elvis, and likely less than a fourth of the final take of Bohemian Rhapsody, and the projected returns of Michael.
Well-lauded but financially less successful than even Rocketman, A Complete Unknown (2024), James Mangold’s film on Bob Dylan, carried an R rating for its relatively honest depiction of the counterculture movement of the ‘60s. A Complete Unknown pulled in $140 million worldwide. A solid return on investment, but far from blockbuster territory.
The most telling recent example of a more honest musical biopic falling short at the box office would be last year’s Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere. Starring the white-hot Jeremy Allen White as Bruce Springsteen, Deliver Me From Nowhere (ably directed by Scott Cooper), focused on an emotional and artistic turning point in the career of the legendary rocker. Coming off the most successful tour of his career (for the album The River) and scoring his first top-10 single (Hungry Heart), Springsteen is shown creating the most stark and disturbing album of his life: Nebraska. A record that finds the man behind the music toiling with the longstanding effects of growing up in a home with an abusive, alcoholic father.
Deliver Me From Nowhere received modestly favorable reviews (though much better than Michael and Bohemian Rhapsody), but was a commercial disappointment, grossing just $45 million against a $55 million budget. While some critics found the film too dour, too lacking in the joy of Springsteen’s best-known works, the film was honest in its depiction of the creative process, the failings of its hero, and the toll of untreated mental illness.
Of the many factors that set Rocketman, A Complete Unknown, and Deliver Me From Nowhere apart from Michael, Bohemian Rhapsody, and Elvis is the level of involvement those films received from their subjects. It’s not just that Elton, Dylan, and Springsteen approved of the productions; they did not live in fear of the depictions of their flaws. All three men behave badly during the film. They aren’t just difficult; they are, at times, in ways both intentional and unintentional, hurtful and selfish. I’m not suggesting that anyone who views Rocketman, A Complete Unknown, or Deliver Me From Nowhere will conclude that any of those three films is the Raging Bull of musical artist biopics, but they are most certainly extensively more dignified and honest than Michael, Bohemian Rhapsody, or Elvis. The subjects of the former trio weren’t afraid of being portrayed as less than virtuous; the estates of the latter triptych, well, that’s another matter.
If you’re holding out for a great film about Prince or Madonna, two massively successful musical artists who defined an era, place your bet on Madonna over Prince. Madonna has often been an artist who has embraced her flaws and shortcomings. Most importantly, she is still alive. As for Prince, his estate is controlled by a messy LLC that agreed to make a documentary series on the star with Netflix, to be directed by the Oscar and Emmy-winning documentarian Ezra Edelman, the filmmaker behind the defining documentary on OJ Simpson, OJ: Made in America. That project met with a fatal outcome when the estate disapproved of Edelman’s final cut, which didn’t shy away from the occasions upon which its subject was cruel, or even abusive. The estate pulled the music rights from the series, a resounding death knell for the project.
The reason why you’ve never seen a defining narrative or documentary film on Jimi Hendrix, widely thought of as the greatest guitarist in the history of the instrument, is that his estate won’t release his music to any production that doesn’t indulge in hero-worshipping hagiography. Hendrix frequently experimented with psychedelics and other drugs, and ignominiously died of choking on his own vomit due to an accidental overdose. The Hendrix estate has no interest in any film that honestly showcases his drug use, and will therefore not make his music available to any production that would, you know, tell the truth. And without the songs, well, there’s no commercially viable film.
As I mentioned at the beginning, critiques from those who have studied movies and write about them for a living have no impact on the success or failure of what amount to (in the case of Michael, Bohemian Rhapsody, and Elvis) tribute films. I would go as far as to say that these aren’t really films at all; they are fan service. If the film’s subject is a big enough star, if the production leans into nostalgia over story, and if the film is even marginally competent in its delivery, it has a great chance of being wildly successful. Never has there been a time in the relatively short existence of the art of moving pictures that the voice of the critic meant so little. The days of Dorothy Parker, Pauline Kael, Siskel & Ebert are likely lost and gone forever. Certainly, the number of publications that continue to drop the role of in-house critic (see Michael Phillips’ dismissal from the Chicago Tribune last year) further the point: the era of the expert, erudite critic may not be completely over, but it’s running short of oxygen and ink space. “All things must pass,” George Harrison once sang (be on the lookout for four films on the Beatles shot from the individual points of view of John, Paul, George, and Ringo, and directed by Sam Mendes in 2028). Those of us who take the medium seriously may be slow-walking down the path of the dodo bird, and films like Michael, Bohemian Rhapsody, and Elvis are signposts on that road.
They say, “Give the people (and the estate and the studio) what they want, even if it isn’t very good.