A figure as vast as Michael Jackson — artistically, culturally, controversially — demands a film that is as daring as the man himself. With Michael, director Antoine Fuqua takes on that burden. What emerges, however, is a film that reveres its subject to a fault. It delivers spectacle and nostalgia in abundance, but refuses to dive in fully.
Michael traces Jackson’s journey from his early days with the Jackson 5 to his meteoric rise as a solo artiste who would redefine global pop culture. Structurally, it’s a familiar arc — one that music biopics have leaned on for years. There’s the prodigious child star, the domineering parent, the breakout moment, and the superstardom that follows. The film checks each of these boxes, but rarely ventures beyond them.
The film’s greatest strength is, without question, Jaafar Jackson in the titular role. It’s an Oscar-worthy performance. There are moments where the line between actor and icon genuinely blurs. Jaafar captures not just the voice and the physicality, but the elusive aura of Jackson’s stage presence. His renditions of classic performances are electric, recreating the magic that made Jackson a once-in-a-generation phenomenon. It’s a breakout turn that matches Rami Malek’s Academy Award-winning turn in Bohemian Rhapsody. Sadly, the script doesn’t fully support him.
The screenplay treats Jackson less as a complex individual and more as an infallible protagonist gliding from one triumph to the next. There are glimpses of conflict, particularly in his relationship with his father, Joe Jackson (a fabulous Colman Domingo). But the film rarely lingers long enough on these moments to explore it with the required depth.
Instead, Michael opts for a sanitised narrative. The more troubling and complicated aspects of Jackson’s life — his loneliness, his struggles with identity, and the child sexual abuse controversies — are either glossed over or avoided entirely. What remains is a version of Jackson that plays to the gallery.
Michael often plays like an extended highlight reel. The music sequences are undeniably thrilling, meticulously staged and performed with precision. But they also serve as a crutch, compensating for a lack of narrative depth.
The supporting cast does solid work within these limited confines. Nia Long brings warmth to the role of Katherine Jackson, while Miles Teller lends a steady presence as John Branca. Appearances by figures like Quincy Jones and Berry Gordy function more as narrative markers than fully realised characters.
There is also a noticeable absence, though. Janet Jackson, one of the most important figures in Michael’s personal and professional life, does not feature at all. It’s a curious omission, and one that speaks for itself.
Fuqua’s direction is uninspired. Known for bringing grit and intensity to his films, he adopts a surprisingly restrained approach here. The storytelling is linear, the visual style perfunctory. It’s a safe film about an artiste who was anything but safe.