Michael Review: Jaafar Jackson Is Electric, The Movie Is Not

There's a peculiar moment that happens when a crowd sings along to a song they've known for decades, you stop hearing the performer and start hearing memory itself. 

That feeling, that collective nostalgia, is precisely what a film like Michael leans on. 

It doesn't ask you to understand the man so much as remember the myth, to sway along rather than look too closely. And for a while, that trick almost works.

In the wake of glossy, crowd-pleasing biopics like Bohemian Rhapsody and Rocketman, a film about Michael Jackson seemed destined to be both spectacle and scrutiny. 

Instead, what arrives is something far safer and far more frustrating. Directed by Antoine Fuqua and starring Jaafar Jackson (Michael Jackson's nephew), Michael is less a biographical drama and more a carefully curated exhibit, polished to a high sheen but curiously hollow at its core.

To its credit, the film gets one crucial thing right: Jaafar Jackson. He doesn't merely imitate, he inhabits. The voice, the posture, the elusive rhythm of movement that made his uncle electrifying on stage, it's all there. 

In performance sequences, particularly the recreations of iconic moments, he becomes almost indistinguishable from the real figure. 

It's not just mimicry, it's muscle memory, instinct, and an uncanny physical understanding of presence. If the film had trusted him with more emotional depth, it might have had something truly special.

Because whenever Michael lets the music take over, it comes alive. The stage becomes a sanctuary where the film briefly sheds its stiffness, and you catch glimpses of what made Jackson a phenomenon rather than just a celebrity. 

These sequences are vibrant, immersive, and occasionally exhilarating. They remind you, almost painfully, of the artistry at the centre of all this.

But outside of those moments, the film struggles to justify its existence.

The narrative unfolds like a checklist of milestones rather than a story. Childhood, rise to fame, creative breakthroughs: they're all present, but rarely explored. Scenes don't build, they transition. Emotions don't evolve, they're implied. 

The result is a film that feels less like a biography and more like a highlight reel assembled by committee. You move from one iconic moment to the next without ever feeling the weight of what connects them.

Part of the issue lies in the film's perspective, or lack of one. It presents Jackson as a near-mythic figure: gifted, gentle, and perpetually misunderstood. 

Conflict is externalised, most notably through his father, played with intensity by Colman Domingo. Domingo does what he can with a role that borders on caricature, embodying menace and control, but the film's insistence on simplifying dynamics leaves little room for nuance. 

Complex relationships are flattened into archetypes, and entire figures from Jackson's life are sidelined or erased altogether.

And then there's the silence, the kind that says more than any dialogue could.

For a figure as scrutinised and controversial as Michael Jackson, omission becomes its own form of commentary. The film deliberately avoids the most difficult chapters of his life, stopping short of the period that complicates his legacy. 

What remains is a version of Jackson that feels... curated. Sanitised, even. Not inaccurate, perhaps, but incomplete to the point of distortion.

This isn't just about what's left out, but how what remains is framed. Moments that could invite introspection are softened into sentimentality. Behaviour that might raise questions is presented without tension. 

The film gestures toward complexity but never commits to examining it. In doing so, it transforms a deeply complicated individual into something more digestible and far less interesting.

There's also an underlying sense that Michael isn't entirely its own film. It often feels like a product shaped by competing interests: a tribute, a brand extension, a cautious act of legacy management. 

That tension seeps into the storytelling, making it feel restrained, almost anxious about stepping out of line. 

Even its structure, ending at a conspicuously convenient point, suggests a larger strategy at play, one that prioritises continuation over conclusion.

And yet, despite all this, the film isn't without appeal. It's watchable. Occasionally engaging. Fans will likely find moments to cherish, especially in the musical recreations. There's a baseline level of craftsmanship that keeps it from collapsing entirely.

But that's also the problem. For a subject who redefined spectacle, innovation, and cultural impact, "watchable" feels like a profound underachievement.

Michael is a film that plays it safe at every turn, smoothing over edges, simplifying contradictions, and avoiding the very things that might have made it meaningful. It celebrates the icon while sidestepping the individual, offering admiration in place of understanding. 

And while Jaafar Jackson's performance hints at a far more compelling film struggling to break free, it's ultimately confined within a narrative that refuses to take risks.

In the end, Michael doesn't fail because it's incompetent. It fails because it's cautious. Because it chooses comfort over curiosity, familiarity over honesty. It wants to honour a legend, but in doing so, it forgets that legends are only compelling because of their complexities.