4/12 ForReel Score | 1.5/5 Stars

Oh, the musical biopic, how I loathe you so. With all eyes and ears on a fluctuating sense of “superhero fatigue” amongst moviegoers, musical biopics quietly became just as oversaturated after Bohemian Rhapsody’s baffling Oscar sweep. Other than the uncomfortably honest Robbie Williams biopic Better Man and the parodical Weird: The Al Yankovic Story, these films seldom break out of the finely carved mold of image-rehabilitating cinematic exercises. Between last year’s Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere, Song Sung Blue, and The Testament of Ann Lee (the best of the bunch), musical biopics show no sign of slowing down, especially not after Antoine Fuqua’s Michael. The final boss of all musical biopics, Michael has no interest in peeking behind the King of Pop’s curtain.

Admittedly, I wasn’t aware of the cultural zeitgeist during Michael Jackson’s heyday—in fact, I wasn’t even born yet. My familiarity comes from a childhood friend’s mother, who introduced me to Jackson and wept the day he died. As an impressionable seven-year-old, that type of stardom was unheard of; a status reserved for the Holy Trinity. The only superstars in my life were Thomas the Tank Engine and Batman, so imagine my surprise when I saw footage of people literally passing out at his concerts. Such godlike power is inhuman, allowing a biopic to humanize the face behind the Aviators—the hand beneath the glove. Instead, Michael goes the opposite route, deifying and immortalizing Jackson via the silver screen in the most inoffensive way imaginable.

One could argue that Michael is “for the fans,” which isn’t exactly wrong. The problem is that there’s nothing to learn about Michael that isn’t modeled after his carefully crafted public persona. From the casting of Jackson’s nephew, Jaafar Jackson, in the leading role to the involvement of Jackson’s own Optimum Productions, the pungent smell of vertical integration wafts throughout Michael. Though the story is set to continue via a sequel, are we supposed to tolerate another two hours of coddling? Since Fuqua reshot the third act to avoid touching on the Jordan Chandler controversy for legally binding reasons, how much unfiltered story is there left to tell? “Here comes the airplane!” Michael signals, as “Beat It” blares in your eardrums at full volume.

At the core of Michael is a star-making turn for Jaafar Jackson (in his first feature role), though he’s barely given a sliver of substance to work with. His imitation of his uncle is certainly staggering, but is it a surprise when a blood relative (with lots of makeup and voice training) looks and sounds like another? Whether it’s young Michael, played by Juliano Krue Valdi, or adult Michael, half of the movie consists of him smiling with a Mother Teresa-like radiance. Michael is depicted as a dainty little flower next to the genuinely abusive Joseph Jackson, played by Colman Domingo, whose talent is wasted on your average “mean music manager” and “disapproving father” archetypes. You’ve seen this before, and you’ll definitely see it again.

For a subgenre as sodden as the musical biopic, you’d think the umpteenth entry into the never-ending canon would try doing something new. The idealistic youth, the hardened father figure, the warm-hearted mother, the “good times” montages; this has all been done before, and it’s all been done better. It plays into almost every trope that parodies like Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story satirize without an iota of self-awareness, coming across as high-budget condescension geared towards playing the hits for doe-eyed fans stuck in the 80s. It’s physically impossible not to jam along to Billie Jean’s bassline, but I can get the same experience from Spotify. If you’re looking to understand Jackson more as a human being, you’ve come to the wrong place.

What makes Michael so aggravating is its unwillingness to be anything other than a crowdpleaser. It’s so frivolously inoffensive that John Landis is essentially excluded from the production of the “Thriller” video. I wouldn’t go as far as to call Antoine Fuqua an “auteur,” but Michael feels entirely authorless—directed by Jackson’s estate rather than an actual artist. There’s almost a reluctance towards visual creativity, falling to the wayside compared to maximalist efforts like Baz Luhrmann’s glitzy Elvis. For a movie about an inspired artist hyperfixated on theatrics, Michael is anything but. The last thing I either expected or wanted was to feel bored by Michael Jackson's music, yet here we are. A less-jaded version of me would be disappointed; instead, I feel vindicated.

With not one, not two, but four Beatles biopics coming around the corner—all directed by Sam Mendes to release simultaneously on April 7, 2028—the rampage of the musical biopic shows no sign of slowing down. We’ve seen moldbreakers in recent years like Rocketman, Weird: The Al Yankovic Story, and Better Man, though maybe that’s because the people who made those films are either genuinely creative or have seen Walk Hard. Michael plays so far into almost every trope that it reads like parody, though I suppose it’s fun to hear MJ on an IMAX sound system for two hours. Like it or not, this is a genre that fills seats, wins Oscars, and creates superstars; if only the movies were better.

Movie Review: I Don't Wanna Be Startin' Somethin', I Just Wanna See A Better Biopic Than "Michael"