I Tell You Once Again, It’s Bad

Everyone who goes to the movies is after something different. Relaxation, stimulation, escapism—all are valid. That’s why it’s hard for me to reconcile exactly who “Michael,” the Michael Jackson musical biopic, is meant for and if its existence is healthy for culture and society at large.

The film ends in 1988, at the height of the “Bad” era, which seems disingenuous at best and wildly offensive at worst. Ending before Neverland Ranch, before the child sexual abuse allegations, before the tumultuous tabloid shenanigans cynically makes sense to me, I suppose, based on a conversation I heard in the lobby of the theater after the film. Two older women were discussing the film when one of them said, “Well, I was surprised the film ended when it did,” and her friend responded, “Well, I’m glad it did because most people just want to remember his genius.”

I could write ten thousand words about American culture’s moral relativism and whether “separating the art from the artist” is healthy or hypocritical, but, ultimately, my opinion doesn’t matter: if you want to go to the movies and watch the greatest MJ impersonator in HIStory dance to a jukebox musical of hits, then “Michael” is for you.

However, if you want a film that reconciles genius with a tarnished legacy, avoid “Michael” like the watered-down, sanitized hagiography it is. Judged as a movie, it’s abysmal, even as director Antoine Fuqua tries his best to instill every song, every dance move, with high kinetic energy; even though Jafar Jackson (a son of Jermaine) uncannily channeling his Uncle, what you’re still left with is a movie so creatively bankrupt that it feels less like a movie and more like a piece of propaganda designed to sell Michael Jackson records. With the Jackson estate acting as producers, that’s exactly what it is.

I don’t know what MJ did or didn’t do. I do know that the documentary, “Leaving Neverland,” offers more insight in five minutes than “Michael” does in over two hours. With Wade Robson and James Safechuck’s $400 million lawsuit heading to trial in November, perhaps Fuqua and team are waiting to see how the dust settles before a sequel covers dangerous ground.

If they believed in the story enough, “Michael” could have been a bold pushback from his estate against the allegations and the tabloid narrative of his later years. Instead, we’re left with a hollow, homogenized script by John Logan that strands the excellent Colman Domingo (doing his best to play family patriarch Joe Jackson) with soft-boiled clichés like “Everything I’ve ever done has been for this family.” The film fails the primary test a biopic must pass to justify its own existence: it must reveal the artist, even if just a little, for the audience. Jackson remains an enigma because we never understand his thought processes. Scenes with Jackson playing Twister with Bubbles the Monkey, or learning how to C Walk, feel like future highlights from a parody like “Scary Movie 6,” built for laughter, not drama.

“Michael” has already made millions and will most likely make hundreds of millions more, so my plea comes too late, but instead of seeing it this weekend, check out two recently released independent films that actually deconstruct the price of fame.

Artists at work in “The Christophers.” Credit: Neon

First is “The Christophers,” a deliciously dry dramedy directed by the great Steven Soderbergh, who, after this and last year’s electric “Black Bag,” is having a lovely career renaissance, making emotionally complex, dialogue-driven chamber pieces. Starring a flawless Ian McKellen as a faded painter and an otherworldly Michaela Coel as a broke art forger hired by his greedy children, it’s a lovely film with a sumptuously written script by Ed Solomon. (John Logan should pick Solomon’s brain about how to reveal the soul of an artist).

“The Christophers” is so moving and life-affirming that it had the entire audience spontaneously burst into applause during the credits. McKellen and Coel are so nuanced and effortless together that watching them discuss art is more exhilarating than watching Jafar Jackson moonwalk his way across the screen.

Coel vs. Hathaway in “Mother Mary.” Credit: A24

Or, for those who want something a little more existentially ambiguous, there’s “Mother Mary,” a new, visually stunning, hyper-specific, messy vision from filmmaker David Lowery (the singular mind behind “A Ghost Story” and “The Green Knight”). A never-better Anne Hathaway plays Mother Mary, a globally famous popstar, who, just days before a comeback performance meant to put her back on top again, rushes off to the English countryside to beg her old costume designer, Sam (Coel again, frighteningly luminous and having a legendary 2026), to make her the “perfect” dress.

Set almost entirely in Sam’s atelier as we bear witness to the two women reconciling their damaged friendship, the ghosts of their collective traumas and the sometimes inaccessible catharsis of artistic creation. It’s a complexly simple film that most will find obtuse and bizarre, but it’s mostly a darkly revelatory unpacking of female friendship. “Mother Mary” is the definition of “not-for-everyone,” but for those who want to be challenged and shown something beautiful, it’s a truly singular experience.

Both films deconstruct fame and artistry in ways that “Michael” ignores. “Michael” avoids every uncomfortable question the world has been asking for thirty years. It’s a possible “Part One” that feels like a defensive crouch disguised as a victory lap. It’s handsome, it’s loud, and it’s a total coward. People will love it.

“Michael”
Dir. Antoine Fuqua
Grade: F+
Now Playing

"The Christophers”
Dir. Steven Soderbergh
Grade: B+
Now Playing

“Mother Mary”
Dir. David Lowery
Grade: B
Now Playing

This article appears in the Source April 30, 2026.