This year two films have inspired a particularly mawkish curiosity, due to the untimely deaths of their stars. The first is Terry Gilliam’s The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, starring the late Heath Ledger; the second, This Is It, the documentary footage of rehearsals for what would have been Michael Jackson’s 50 date residency at the O2 in London. It was the latter movie which Filmknitter and I ended seeing last night, despite our intentions. Still, it’s fair to say the life of Michael Jackson was nothing if not fantastical, so on that level I suppose we didn’t lose out too much …
The death of Heath Ledger was shocking and completely unexpected. By contrast, it’s fair to say that the death of the self-proclaimed King of Pop wasn’t exactly a total surprise - given the tabloid freak show he became and the tawdry tales which surrounded him, it seemed inevitable that he would meet the same fate as Elvis Presley and other deflated American Dreams, dogged by controversy and morbid media speculation.
I can’t deny I’m fascinated by the spectacle (spectre?) of Michael Jackson, so wasn’t too disappointed by the change of plan; he’s produced some of the best pop songs ever made and the yelp of euphoria in ‘Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough’ encapsulates a joy in performing which defies imitation, try as Mr Timberlake may. The image he created of himself was a media personality like no other, taking the idea of a public face to whole new levels. His Wacko Jacko persona (persona is Greek for mask, don’t forget – ironic huh?) wasn’t solely confined to bizarre newspaper stories of oxygen tents and adopting chimps; he actually re-made himself. By the early nineties Jackson was unrecognisable as the sweet little boy who captured people’s hearts when he sang with the Jackson 5. Of course, we all recall the confessional interviews – aged 10, I remember being fascinated by him as he bared his soul to Oprah about his traumatic childhood – and the denials about the extent of his plastic surgery, but it was the child abuse allegations which dogged him for the latter part of his life which were the most perplexing and disturbing. Was Jackson a harmless eccentric, a man who pined for the normal childhood he never had and who was retarded in a pre-adolescent state, unable to realise that his relationships with young boys were unhealthy irrespective of whether there was anything more sinister at work? Or was the Wacko image disguising something darker; was he an arch manipulator caught out, a man whose wealth and fame insulated him against criminal action for the most reprehensible of crimes?
Personally I am inclined to believe the former. Watching This Is It I feel validated. There was no real glimpse of the ‘man behind the mask’ (oh how impossible it is to write about Jacko without resorting to cliché), but the behaviour we did witness was infused with the naïve egotism of a child, from his complaints about the decibel levels in his ear piece to the pleas of tour director Kenny Ortega to him to hold the bar of the stage lift for safety, whilst Jackson was more eager to hear the strains of his music playing as they tested the machinery. At the same time, the documentary illustrated the sycophantic ‘yes man’ culture surrounding Jackson – this was a man who was never told ‘no’; was this lonely, I found myself wondering as I observed the damaged man-child giggle over the word ‘booty’ and heard the embarrassingly overwrought, teary Jackson tributes from his dancers? Coming from a country which invented therapy, I couldn’t help wondering why the hell he’d never had any (which had worked) beyond his often ill-advised TV interviews?
I don’t want you to think by these comments that the enterprise was designed to elicit sympathy for Jackson. Rather it seemed to want to emphasise his hands on approach to the tour, show him as a powerhouse of agility and ideas. How successful it was in achieving this is doubtful, and hardly helped by vital insights such as the comment that Jackson ‘knew his own records’ from one of his band …
As you’d expect, the whole thing was dripping with congratulatory, embarrassing praise for Jackson and there were many cloyingly sentimental moments which drew particularly English snorts of derision from the audience – typical Jackson stuff, such as the saccharine montage for Earth Song with Jacko’s Jesus complex in full mode. And even as the film started, declaring the footage to reveal Jackson’s ‘passionate gift’ to the world, I couldn’t restrain a snigger.
The documentary also strove to present its subject as fit and healthy. And granted, in spite of his cadaverous appearance Jackson still seemed fairly agile. Even if he wasn’t as swift as his dancers, he still had the moves, albeit a little dated to a contemporary audience. What couldn’t be doubted was how Jackson revelled in performance – although a supposedly sexy number with a curvaceous female dancer was excruciating to watch by dint of the absence of any chemistry at all between Jackson and his companion.
The whole thing was obviously hastily put together to try and make a hero out of Jackson – and more cynically, a fuckload of cash. As a result, it feels a little ... thin.
That's a shame given the rehearsals hinted that this would have been one helluva show, had Jackson lived to see things through. The work on the special effects looked really exciting and it’s clear that the O2 residency was designed to be the apotheosis of everything 'Michael Jackson'. Given the frail appearance of Jackson and the concerns he expressed about tiring his vocal chords, it’s easy to speculate about whether the pressure was too much for him and contributed to his increasing dependency on drugs and eventually, his death. But we’ll never know, and this movie offers no clues. We’re promised we’ll meet the man we never knew, but are kept at arms length throughout. Whilst it’s interesting enough to watch the rehearsal footage, half an hour could have been shaved off easily and the project would have lost nothing. It’s a shame we couldn’t have seen more direct footage of Jackson, but I’m sure his Estate have got that covered …
A diverting enough, if bland, offering.
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