I’ve Loved Michael Jackson Since the Jackson 5

Somewhere in Hollywood, someone is probably doing a victory dance to “Billie Jean.” Who could blame them? Antoine Fuqua’s “Michael,” the long-awaited biopic of Michael Jackson, has become a box-office phenomenon. As of August 2026, the film has grossed roughly $1 billion worldwide, making it one of the most commercially successful music biopics. Its audience approval is equally striking: Rotten Tomatoes reports a 97% audience score, while the critics’ Tomatometer sits at only 38%.

That enormous gap tells us something important. People loved seeing Michael Jackson on a giant screen. What I am not convinced they love quite as much is the movie. That distinction matters to me because I have been a huge Michael Jackson fan since the Jackson 5’s early days. I remember the extraordinary emergence of that little kid with an enormous voice, charisma, rhythm, and a seemingly impossible ability to command an audience. I watched Michael evolve from the Jackson 5’s remarkable young lead singer into one of the greatest entertainers the world has ever seen. I bought into the magic long before Michael Jackson became “Michael Jackson.” That is precisely why I walked away from Michael disappointed.

The problem is not that the movie celebrates Michael Jackson. He deserves to be celebrated. The problem is that it celebrates him so aggressively that it often forgets to examine him. Michael is not a bad movie. It is something more frustrating: a potentially great movie that repeatedly chooses the safest possible version of its subject.

The first problem is structural. Michael tries to compress an extraordinary life into 127 minutes, covering Jackson’s journey from the Jackson 5’s beginnings in the 1960s through the 1988 Bad tour. That is an enormous amount of history. The result often feels less like a dramatic narrative than a scrolling through Michael Jackson’s greatest hits on fast-forward.

One moment, we are watching the Jackson brothers rehearse under their demanding father, Joe Jackson. Suddenly, we are at Motown. Then the Jackson 5 are famous. Then Michael is recording Off the Wall. Then comes Thriller.   Then MTV. Then the moonwalk. Then “Beat It.” Then “Billie Jean.” Then “Bad.”

The film moves so quickly that important events become illustrations rather than experiences. Some have described it as “a filmed playlist in search of a story,” an unusually effective description. The songs are spectacular, the performances are often exhilarating, and Jaafar Jackson does an astonishing job of reproducing his uncle’s movements. But the music often does the emotional heavy lifting that the screenplay should.

That is the fundamental difference between watching a great concert and watching a great biographical film.  A concert is meant to make you feel. A biopic is meant to make you understand.

Michael is extraordinarily good at the first and surprisingly weak at the second one.

Jaafar Jackson deserves enormous credit. He is arguably the film’s greatest asset. He captures his uncle’s physical mannerisms, dance style, vocal delivery, and stage presence with uncanny precision. Critics across the spectrum have acknowledged this achievement. There are moments when the screen seems to come alive, and you almost forget you are watching an actor rather than archival footage of Michael Jackson.

But that achievement creates another problem: Jaafar is often asked to reproduce Michael’s work rather than interpret him.

We see the moonwalk. We see the costumes. We see the choreography. We hear the songs. We recognize the videos. We remember where we were when Michael was at the height of his fame. The movie becomes a colossal nostalgia machine, and nostalgia is extraordinarily powerful. It can make an ordinary movie feel extraordinary by tapping into memories that existed long before the opening credits.

That may explain the remarkable 97% audience score. When “Billie Jean” begins and Jaafar starts moving like Michael, the audience is not merely watching a movie. It is reliving Michael Jackson. Those are two very different experiences.

The film becomes considerably more problematic when it delves into the darker corners of Michael’s life. Or, more accurately, when it refuses to explore them.

The movie ends with the “Bad” era, before the allegations of sexual abuse that became a defining part of Jackson’s public legacy. Jackson denied the allegations, but they remain an unavoidable part of the historical record and the debate surrounding his life. The film does not address them.

That omission is understandable from legal and production perspectives. The Jackson estate was deeply involved in the project, and reports indicate that legal restrictions stemming from a settlement limited what could be included. Scenes addressing the allegations were reportedly removed, prompting reshoots and a substantial restructuring of the film.

But understanding why something happened does not make the artistic result any better.  In fact, it makes the movie’s biggest weakness even more apparent. A great biopic need not condemn its subject. It need not even reach a final verdict. But it must wrestle with contradictions.

Michael Jackson was a musical genius who also led an extraordinarily complicated life. He was a child star who became an adult superstar, apparently carrying enormous pieces of his childhood with him. He was simultaneously one of the most famous people on Earth and one of the most isolated. He could command 70,000 people in a stadium yet project an almost painfully fragile private persona.

Michael was a fascinating human being. Yet the movie repeatedly sands away the contradictions that would have made him fascinating.

The film depicts the complex relationship with Joe Jackson in a typical Hollywood way: a demanding father, a hurt son, and eventual independence. Colman Domingo delivers a strong performance as Joe. Still, the script often reduces their relationship to a clear good-versus-bad conflict, missing opportunities to delve into how abuse, ambition, discipline, fear, and love intertwine within the Jackson family. Critics note that the film fails to explore Michael’s anxieties, trauma, and frustrations adequately.

Then there is Janet Jackson. Her absence is astonishing. Janet was not some distant relative who happened to share Michael’s last name. She became one of the most important pop stars of her generation. Yet she is effectively absent from the movie. Janet herself declined to participate, and other family members also declined to be included at their own request.

I understand that filmmakers cannot force anyone to participate in a movie. But artistically, Janet’s absence leaves an enormous void. The Jackson family was central to Michael’s development, and Janet understood the extraordinary pressures of growing up in it better than almost anyone.

The movie also has a curious habit of treating Michael’s eccentricities as charming decorations rather than as opportunities for psychological exploration. The pet chimpanzee, the unusual lifestyle, the childlike qualities, and the strange public persona appear on screen, but the film rarely pauses to ask the most interesting question: why?

What happened to a boy who became famous before he was old enough to understand what fame meant?  That, to me, was the movie that was waiting to be made.

Instead, the movie feels like a carefully curated museum exhibit. Look at this achievement. Remember this song. Here is that dance. Here is that costume. Here is the moment everyone remembers. Please proceed to the next room.

And yet I cannot completely dismiss it, because when the music takes over, the movie can be thrilling. That is the irony. The filmmakers had Michael Jackson’s greatest gift at their disposal: his music. The recreated performances are often spectacular, and the climactic concert sequences deliver the kind of emotional rush that explains why audiences have embraced the movie.

But spectacle is not the same as storytelling.

The high audience score tells us something real, though perhaps not what we think it does. It tells us that millions of people and I still love Michael Jackson. It tells us that hearing “I Want You Back,” “Billie Jean,” “Beat It,” and “Thriller” in a theater remains an almost foolproof recipe for nostalgia. It tells us that Jaafar Jackson can make an audience believe, for a few glorious minutes, that the King of Pop has returned.

What it does not necessarily tell us is that Michael is a great film. For me, that is why the movie is overrated. Not because it lacks talent. Not because Michael Jackson was undeserving of celebration. And certainly not because I have suddenly stopped being an eternal Michael Jackson fan. 

It is because I expected more!

 I wanted the movie to take me behind the moonwalk, not simply show it to me again. I wanted to understand the man behind “Thriller,” not merely hear “Thriller” once more. I wanted the contradictions, the vulnerabilities, the ambition, the loneliness, the genius, and the mystery.

Instead, “Michael” offers us a dazzling greatest-hits concert disguised as a biography.

Michael Jackson spent his career proving he could do things nobody else could. The movie about his life should have taken the same risk.

It didn't.  It gave us the King of Pop.

I wanted Michael.