The Michael Jackson biopic: A Bad movie that can’t find its own rhythm or point of view

Behold the miracle of Michael. If that single-word title sounds saintly, then it’s apt for a film that feels equal parts hagiography and hologram. It’s a fawning biopic of the arrested-adolescent boogie-Jesus. And it’s an accurate replication of his pivotal performances by Jackson’s nephew Jaafar Jackson, who takes over from the button-cute youngster Juliano Krue Valdi. Jaafar’s act is holographic – visually arresting, even though you can feel there’s really nothing there. A trick of the light.

As a musical biopic created by those who have successfully fought to keep Jackson’s earning power alive since his death in 2009, it’s perhaps not surprising it’s so sanitised. Weirdly, at least three siblings are expunged, and the other four members of the Jackson 5 barely get a line. There is, though, a lot of Joe Jackson, (Colman Domingo). As the case is put, he was the most awful dad-manager in pop history, an Ike Turner with his own Brady Bunch.

The film follows producer Graham King’s earlier Bohemian Rhapsody – a music biopic whose troubled production and historical inaccuracy didn’t stop it becoming both a blockbuster and an Oscar Best Picture nominee. He engaged director Antoine Fuqua, a man these days best known for Denzel Washington action films.

Michael had its own production glitches. A third act was filmed covering the impact on the singer of the 1993 molestation allegations but was ditched after an out-of-court settlement revealed a clause that prohibited the mention of the accuser, Jordan Chandler, in any movie.

Instead, the film ends on the 1988 concert at Wembley, as did Bohemian Rhapsody, and a line: “His story continues”. While it’s a mercifully brief 127 minutes, it also rushes through so much. It’s all of five minutes after the opening credits before Joseph is taking his belt to 8-year-old Michael. And from there, the film just barrels on, not stopping to breathe or ponder the weirdness of a young kid who sang like an adult, albeit in a very high voice, who then became an adult who never made it out of his childhood.

There are few of the usual pop biopic pleasures, like watching a mega-hit first come down the assembly line. The relationship between Jackson and producer Quincy Jones deserves its own movie but it’s a sideshow here. Elsewhere, John Branca, Jackson’s lawyer, executor of his will, and an executive producer on this, is portrayed (by Miles Teller) as the only genuine white guy in a music industry of, ah, brown-nosers in suits. At home, between constant angry scenes with Joe, then conciliatory ones with his mother Katherine (Nia Long), Jaafar’s main co-star is chimp Bubbles, delivered in CGI (Andy Serkis is that you in there?).

It offers some behind-the-scenes insights, such as when, on the Thriller video, Michael asks director John Landis to shoot full length because Fred Astaire said audiences need to see the dancer’s feet. Fuqua certainly doesn’t shy on footwork footage, but it’s also a reminder that as well as Landis, Jackson’s videos had directors such as Martin Scorsese, David Fincher and Spike Lee. It’s a pity Michael couldn’t attract film-makers of that calibre – it might have acquired a point of view. Or something resembling a rhythm. But it’s cut like a scratched record on the wrong speed. So yes, that it’s a Bad movie, you can blame it on the lack of boogie. And dad, the bogeyman.

Rating out of five: ★★