As someone who grew up worshipping Michael Jackson, the new biopic Michael was never going to be just another biopic for me. It felt personal before the lights even dimmed. As a child, I found a kind of order and emotional clarity in his music that I struggled to find elsewhere. His rhythms were predictable in the best way, his performances precise, his voice somehow both powerful and gentle. He wasn’t just an artist to me, he was a safe place. So sitting down to watch a film that attempts to tell his story came with a mix of excitement, protectiveness, and, if I’m honest, a bit of fear.
Director Antoine Fuqua opens the film as a sweeping, glossy introduction to Michael’s rise—from his early days with the Jackson 5 to his transformation into the biggest pop star on the planet. Structurally, John Logan’s screenplay follows a traditional cradle-to-superstardom narrative, moving through key milestones: Motown, Off the Wall, and the explosive success of Thriller. It’s worth noting that this film was made with the evident blessing and involvement of the Jackson family. That influence is felt in almost every frame. And that’s where the film becomes complicated.
Story-wise, Michael is undeniably a sanitised portrayal of the King of Pop. The only true antagonist here is his father Joe, played with chilling intensity by Colman Domingo. His abuse is front and centre, and the film doesn’t shy away from depicting the damage it caused. But beyond that, Logan’s narrative is conspicuously selective. The well-documented allegations against Michael are never addressed. Instead, the story concludes in 1988, during the Bad World Tour’s London dates, just before the most controversial chapters of his life begin. It’s a creative decision that feels less like focus and more like avoidance.
The film does, however, attempt to plant seeds explaining his later struggles. A pivotal moment is the Pepsi commercial set accident — this resulted in the singer sustaining 3rd degree burns to his scalp — which is portrayed as the starting point of his dependence on painkillers, a thread that quietly foreshadows his tragic death years later. It’s handled delicately by Fuqua, but also somewhat strategically, as if offering context without inviting deeper scrutiny.
Where the film truly shines, and where it won me over despite my reservations, is in the performances. Jaafar Jackson, the son of MJ’s brother Jermaine, is nothing short of remarkable. His physical embodiment of his late uncle is uncanny, but it’s the smaller details, the stillness, the softness, that feel most authentic. Watching him perform those iconic tracks was unexpectedly emotional for me. It didn’t feel like imitation; it felt like memory.
The supporting cast is equally strong. Miles Teller brings charisma to legendary entertainment lawyer and manager John Branca, Nia Long adds warmth as Katherine Jackson, and KeiLyn Durrel Jones gives a grounded, human presence as Michael’s trusted confidant Bill Bray. Even brief appearances from Quincy Jones to Berry Gordy help build the world around Michael.
That said, Logan’s dialogue often feels overly scripted and predictable, leaning into cliché rather than complexity. There are moments that should feel raw but instead come across as rehearsed. Normally, that would be a major flaw, but here, it’s almost overshadowed by the sheer power of the music. The soundtrack carries the film in a way few biopics manage. For fans like me, hearing those songs in a cinematic setting is enough to stir something deep.
In the end, Fuqua’s Michael is a beautifully performed but carefully curated story. It celebrates more than it questions, remembers more than it reveals. As someone who found comfort in Michael Jackson’s art growing up, I was moved—but I also wanted more honesty.
