It was the casual giraffe cameo that finally broke me.
Everyone will have their own OMG-WTF moment, their own personal Rubicon, when it comes to “Michael” – the biopic about Michael Jackson that has been widely praised by its producers. Just like everyone has their favorite Jackson song. Maybe it’s one of his early hits with the Jackson 5, the band in which seven-year-old Michael played with his brothers. Or a track from his acclaimed 1979 solo album “Off the Wall”, the follow-up colossus “Thriller” or the last of his Quincy Jones collaborations, “Bad”. Unless it’s an obscure deep cut, you’ll hear your personal MJ favorite in full before the credits roll – Because the Jackson estate literally relies on the nostalgic feelings of listening to the King of Pop’s music to push away any more complicated thoughts surrounding him.
But back to the giraffe. By this point in director Antoine Fuqua’s retelling of Jackson’s story – from the creative cradle to, well, well before the end of his reputation (the film tellingly stops at 1987) – we’ve already seen young Michael (Juliano Valdi) practicing with his siblings in Gary, Indiana, unmistakably standing out from his brothers as a child prodigy with a soulful falsetto. We watched Joe Jackson (Colman Domingo) rule the household and Michael’s fragile psyche with an iron fist, short temper and a leather belt at the ready. We see Michael recording at Motown and enjoying much-needed positive reinforcement from surrogate father figure Berry Gordy (Larenz Tate). There will be montages – lots of them – but we’ve already seen the first of many, when the Jackson 5 mega-hit “ABC” knocked the Beatles’ “Let It Be” off the top spot in 1970.
Giraffe at the window
We’ve flashed through the ’70s, with Joe building his Jackson Inc. empire in Encino, California, and Michael already starting to acquire a menagerie ranging from llamas to rats. The fact that the filmmakers didn’t include the scene in which young MJ explains to his family that the latter are not mere pests, best known for lugging slices of pizza down subway stairs, but beautiful, loyal creatures – with “Ben”, the title song from his 1972 album, which also served as the theme song to the rat revenge horror film of the same name, is a wasted opportunity. The scene takes place in 1971, a year before either came out, but accuracy isn’t the film’s primary goal anyway. The biopic has completely different, far more pressing concerns in mind – like the dollar signs dancing in front of his eyes.
We got to know the adult Michael Jackson (Jaafar Jackson, Michael’s nephew in real life), ready for emancipation and eager to finally capture the new music in his head on record. We met Bill Bray (KeiLyn Durrel Jones), Michael’s security guard, who is so omnipresent in the film that he could almost be described as a second main character. We met Quincy (Kendrick Sampson), Katherine Jackson (Nia Long) – the only island of sympathy and reason in the Jackson estate – and a computer-generated version of Bubbles the chimpanzee straight out of a nightmare.
More importantly, we were introduced to the most saintly corporate lawyer to ever tread God’s green earth: John Branca (Miles Teller). Of course, the fact that Branca is involved in the film as a producer has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he is portrayed here as a human counterpart to the llama that Michael loves unconditionally and uncritically. However, as far as we know, the llama never visited Jackson in the hospital after the Pepsi commercial shoot went horribly wrong – we’ll see that too – and presented him with a stuffed Mickey Mouse doll, which is what Branca does in the film. Bonus points for Branca.
After impressing his client in a legal representation interview with his belief that MJ is destined to become the biggest, most influential and unstoppable pop star in the world, Branca is tasked with freeing Michael. Joe is perched in his study – decorated in perfect Don Corleone chic – when his fax machine comes to life. The lawyer fired the patriarch from his self-appointed job as Michael’s personal manager. Colman Domingo’s performance, by far the most compelling and psychologically complex element of the entire film, has been somewhere between “King” Richard Williams and Richard III all along. settled. His mustache may be modest, but he still spent over an hour twirling it inside. As he watches his world collapse because of a single fax sheet, a parade of emotions flashes across his face. Betrayal! Indignation! Pain! Despair!
Camp in its purest form
And just as Joe’s already seething anger is about to erupt into a nuclear explosion, a CGI giraffe calmly strolls past a third-floor window.
This mix of the dizzying and the breath-taking, of absurdity reaching for the sublime and the final product ending up as the purest distillation of camp, characterizes “Michael” as a whole. Yes, we know: haters will hate and so on. And the fans – those for whom it matters whether the less easily digestible chapters of Jackson’s story are black or white, and who see as an attack any suggestion that Neverland was not an Eden with a Ferris wheel – will celebrate this blockbuster-format biopic as a triumph. And the people who care about Jackson’s legacy will make a lot of money from this version of Michael as a victim of horrific abuse and emotional blackmail at the hands of his monstrous father who still managed to become a beloved global superstar.
Of course, there was never a real biopic about Michael Jackson. There are too many contradictions, too much gray area, too long a list of things that need to be discussed. It’s better to blindly celebrate a well-known back catalog and let Mike Myers do a “Coffee Talk”-esque imitation of Walter Yetnikoff, right? But that doesn’t mean we necessarily had to get a movie in which Michael plays Twister with Bubbles, regularly drops platitudes like “music can bring everyone together” (can we fact-check that?), and moonwalks backwards at the slightest hint of a deeper look.
You may have heard that the film was delayed due to allegations, lawsuits and settlements, and that Fuqua filmed a raid on Neverland that would have clearly biased the story. This had to be cut for legal reasons, although it is hinted that such scenes could appear in possible sequels. Given what happens after 1987, the Jackson Cinematic Universe may be better off as a one-off endeavor.
The Passion of Saint Michael
Also, this isn’t really a biopic. This is the Passion of St. Michael, realized with great care and emphasis on Jackson’s undeniable suffering and his equally undeniable talent. Jaafar Jackson actually bears a striking resemblance to his late uncle, clearly mastering his signature moves, his physical fluidity, his radiant smile that he reserves for fans, animals and hospital patients. But watching Michael’s greatest hits – the showstopper at Motown 25, the choreography for the “Thriller” video, the gang summit that becomes a rehearsal for “Beat It” – being recreated with breathtaking precision is, frankly, a little depressing. You’re reminded of the first time you heard Jackson’s music and how overwhelming the hooks, the production, the skill, the sheer energy of his live performances and videos were – everything that earned him the title of King of Pop.
And you’re also reminded that all of this is still burdensome – even if the film contorts itself so that you don’t even think about it. The innocence you need to listen to these hits carefree is long gone. “His story continues,” announces an end credits fade-in, while the echoes of a London stop on the “Bad” tour fade away on the soundtrack. To paraphrase a Jackson song: Please stop. It is enough.
