Michael

People have been asking why there’s such a difference between viewer and critic ratings for this alleged musical biopic. Best I can come up with is this is not really a movie at all, any more than Melania was. This estate-approved, sugar-coated curiosity is a trite rags-to-riches story. And while you sit there in the dark wondering how the filmmakers are going to deal with the stickier bits, the horrifying allegations later in the star’s life, the end credits start to roll. Wait! What? Warts and all, without the warts.

It goes without saying that the musical performances are the best bits, but jeez, if you’re making a juke-box musical, put more music in! The too-long gaps between the songs are filled with industrial-grade, colossally dull family soap opera. Director Antoine Fuqua can make better movies, and scripter John Logan can write better ones. But with a guaranteed billion-dollar box office, what the hell, why bother? Could have been so much more insightful if it weren’t so toothlessly hagiographic and heavy on the music-movie cliches. 

Pluses: Jaafar Jackson has his uncle’s moves down, though his acting is perfunctory at best. He does not do his own singing. An intense Colman Domingo is scary as the man’s harsh, control-freak father Joe Jackson, and Nia Long excels as his mom. 

This is movie for people who know little about the King of Pop and are quite happy to keep it that way. In a way, it accomplishes something thought impossible: it makes Michael Jackson uninteresting. (127 min)