When living through a cultural watershed, we’re often not aware of its significance. It’s only in retrospect that it comes into view. There are times however, few and far between, when it’s evident in the moment. The Black Panther franchise is an example from the recent past that comes to mind. I would suggest that the new Michael Jackson biopic is another such phenomenon.

It says a lot about the enduring appeal of MJ that promotion for the film began years before its release. Before filming even began. Simple casting news was buzzworthy. 

When trailers for Michael started to surface in 2025, I was eager but soon had my doubts. I voiced my concerns to sis whose aspirations, like many a professional dancer from her generation of the Hip-Hop variety, in no small part began with many hours of childhood spent getting down to Mr. Jackson’s œuvre. Sis also happens to be good friends with two of the biggest MJ stans. She consulted one of them, also to share her misgivings.

You see, we of the Xennial (micro)generation are some of MJ’s staunchest fans and defenders of the legacy. It was our formative years that coincided with his 80s and early 90s heyday; when his career climbed to heights no other solo artist before or since has achieved, as much as some have tried (yes I’m looking at you Mars, Knowles and Swift).

Back to the reservations over the Michael trailers. The makeshift committee of me, sis and her MJ-stan friend were all agreed that the production values were giving off TV movie energy; The Jacksons: An American Dream, to be precise. Michael also appeared to cover a similar timespan.

The early 1990s mini–series was a cult classic in its own right. Featuring some established names like Vanessa Williams and Angela Bassett (who provided several memorable melodramatic scenes), it was also where you could see a young and relatively unknown Terence Howard. It was a breakthrough role for Jason Weaver, who played pre-adolescent Michael, was also the singing voice of young Simba in The Lion King and would go on to be a staple of US 90s teen sitcoms. Heck, Boyz II Men even made a cameo.

A heavily censored version of …An American Dream (as I now know) was aired one weekend in the UK during my early days of secondary school. The following week, my classmates and I were singing the soundtrack. At home, we’d eventually record the series on VHS with the ads cut out, when it was repeated on ITV. Over thirty years later, I still have chunks of the …An American Dream dialogue committed to memory, to which my mother could attest when we recently (re)watched it on YouTube.

In short, if Michael were just a rehash of the…Dream, that’s not what adherents were looking for. But who were we kidding? It’s a biopic about MJ. We would watch it regardless.

At this juncture, I must address the (casting) elephant in the room. Michael is depicted by a close relative, Jaafar; his down-to-earth, perfectly telegenic nephew and son of one of the better known Jacksons, Jermaine. When initially watching interviews with Jaafar, I had the distinct impression he wanted to play down this connection as much as possible to minimise any cries of foul play and nepotism.

‘Why not just own it?’ I thought. Of course, I can imagine there were millions of talented hopefuls around the world who would have done anything for the role. Yet, as unjust as it sounds, you’re probably not going to do better than someone who had enough proximity to the King of Pop to obtain a masterclass, at least in theory, any time he wanted. Plus, bonus asset, Jaafar is blessed with the trademark disarming Jackson smile.

To be fair, Jaafar, not previously an actor or having any such ambitions, was approached by the film’s creative team, including director Antoine Fuqua. Jackson has made a point of still having had to audition for the role and rehearsing to his feet hurt, inspired by his late uncle’s machine-like work ethic.

As the Spring 2026 release date crept up, I couldn’t help but be drawn in. There was so much to be excited about. Diehards were producing wonderful homages in anticipation; from ingenious sketches to super-slick medleys. I paid little heed to the controversy surrounding the film. I still don’t know exactly why sister Janet and ‘daughter’ Paris have beef with the biopic, for instance. I’ve chosen to ignore the haters in the press, who seem personally invested in impeding (in vain) the success of the project. I wouldn’t join in with those who carry on as if certain allegations made against Michael are not heavily disputed, or that he wasn’t exonerated by a court of law. (In addition, non-disclosure orders purportedly hobbled the film’s creators’ attempts to broach the subject).

With the exception of a glowing critique from muso of musos and self-professed MJ superfan, Questlove and the gushing plaudits from surviving Jacksons, I’ve sidestepped reviews.

So. With that epic (no pun intended) preamble out of the way, what to say of the film? 

There’s little point going over biographical detail with a life so very much in the public domain. I could talk about the many anachronisms, now well documented; chronological inconsistencies such as the Jackson Five performing Motown hits before they’re signed to the label. The pedant in me can point to excessive artistic license, such as the suggestion that MJ came up with the famous vamp in Wanna Be Starting Something, rather than Quincy Jones and Michael appropriating it from Cameroonian saxophonist, Manu Dibango’s Jazz-Funk classic, Soul Makossa – a dispute that turned litigious. Judging from Fuqua’s biopic, La Toya is the sole Jackson sister. (I won’t even go into the ethnic inaccuracy of the casting). No sign of Rebbie or Janet. Janet(!): the only other Jackson to come close to her brother’s stardom. Incidentally – or maybe not – La Toya is the one Jackson sister who shares executive producer credits.

Whereas the major influence of James Brown is rightly underscored (no JB, no MJ arguably) and Michael’s admiration for Fred Astaire is referenced, there’s absolutely no mention of legendary choreographer Bob Fosse, from whom MJ adapted several of his signature moves. Bubbles the Chimp is so obviously (and unnervingly) a CGI creation… and so on and so forth.

These sorts of flagrant screen sins are odd, given that even moderate fans with average knowledge of MJ trivia, like yours truly, would pick up on them. Comparisons to An American Dream…are also hard to avoid although in the end, there are strong contrasts. The time period covered is notably different, with the bulk of the film centred on the early days of Jackson’s (adult) solo career. A comparatively fleeting time is dedicated to the Jacksons’ impoverished Gary, Indiana upbringing and the early Motown era. It’s a shame, as it means less screen time for the charismatic Juliano Valdi, who plays little Michael.

Even a film of two-hours plus cannot cover the breadth or depth of a mini-series twice its length. An American Dream…focused a lot more on the Jackson family dynamics, including sibling rivalry. There’s no such character exploration in Fuqua’s biopic. The rest of the Jackson clan are little more than smiling, singing and dancing cyphers, with scant dialogue. All roads lead to Michael. The references to his specialness take on prophetic, almost sacrilegious, proportions.

Sometimes the lack of detail in Michael is a mercy. Whilst Colman Domingo, in an admittedly excellent transformation from his camp and colourful off-screen persona, incarnates very well the bullyboy tactics of the Jackson patriarch, the depiction of the physical violence he inflicted on his children isn’t as stark and frequent as in the mini-series. Joe’s infidelities are also completely effaced. Domingo sought to humanise, if not exculpate Joe as a man who was just greatly committed to the family vision. Hmm. Even with such a sympathetic portrayal, blue-eyed Joe is still repellent, not to mention terrifying, something that the film conveys with conviction. Adult Michael hides behind lawyers and producers anytime he wishes to confront his father. Domingo is a shoe-in for Best Supporting Actor nods come next award season.

Nia Long’s Katherine Jackson is more stoic but a lot less feisty than Angela Bassett’s. It’s reflective of the strange evolution of Long’s career; from the plucky protagonists of her youth to playing taciturn mothers.

By now, you might have the impression that I didn’t care much for Michael – that I’m somewhat ambivalent. Not a chance. It is a fabulously entertaining feature. Sure, it doesn’t break new cinematic ground, which seems to be an excuse for some mainstream media to pan it.  It was never going to be that type of movie. This is a film for fans and not critics. The busy late afternoon screening I attended received a round of applause. To an extent, this is to be expected. You’d have to be a pretty awful film-maker to screw up a Michael Jackson biopic. The music, as we know, is incredible. If nothing else, you can bank on sheer nostalgia to keep the punters coming. 

It’s not just nostalgia for Michael’s music but a different era of the industry. Yes, it was still governed by the rules of capitalism – at the time neoliberalism was reaching its ‘greed is good’ apex. However, the industry hadn’t yet sunk to the current soulless, digital nadir. Physical units were the only option in town. We bought LPs, cassettes or CDs and studied the inlay cards for the artwork, as well as the production and musician credits. Artists did signings at Tower Records and HMV. Record stores could be found in every urban shopping centre and on every high street.

The Michael creative team nevertheless don’t rest on their nostalgic laurels. The strategic placement of Jackson classics at different points of his group and solo career is extremely well done, right down to the judicious choice of This Place Hotel (live) for the closing credits. There are also several recreations of MJ’s key performances, such as that Motown 25^th Anniversary dance routine (naturally) and a full live version of Human Nature from the Jacksons’ farewell Victory tour. It’s one of several reminders of Michael’s prodigious vocal gift; an aspect of his talents that doesn’t get nearly enough attention. Thus, if it’s true that Jaafar re-produced some of his uncle’s vocal performances, perhaps that’s the greatest feat of all. 

As for Jaafar’s overall portrayal, it’s so compelling that it moved older relatives to tears and justifiably so. The younger Jackson proves he earned the role. Not only does he do an uncanny impersonation of Michael’s unmistakeable speaking voice, it’s an all-round layered and mature performance. Not bad for a first-timer. With the exception of the surprisingly underwhelming reprisal of Thriller, Jaafar also does a creditable job of emulating Uncle Mike’s mannerisms. (I would put this down to the genetic Jackson advantage as much as diligence.) 

Kudos to the main cast for generally solid performances. If Jaafar and co had not delivered the goods, Michael wouldn’t have amounted to much more than expensive but cheesy memorabilia. 

Despite the sinister presence of Poppa Joe, Michael is celebratory in tone. The film is preoccupied with Michael’s creative propulsions, his ambition and humanitarianism (although, as with …American Dream, his more radical politics are muted). The rest is academic, apparently. 

Notwithstanding the recognition of Michael’s propensity for self-mutilation through plastic surgery, informed by Eurocentric beauty standards, not much is said about the torment behind the genius that led indirectly to his untimely death. Immersed for over two hours in a tribute to the singular legacy MJ left behind, I nonetheless find myself revisiting a perennial question of mine: was it all worth it?

Somewhat predictably, in spite of the tepid ‒if not outright hostile ‒ response from much of the bad faith press, within a few days of its release, Michael had already broken all biopic records. There were kids at my screening who would hardly have any memory of Jackson before he died, if at all, let alone to have witnessed him conquering the planet. As one of my sis’ MJ-stan friends would say, Michael has fans that aren’t born yet.

The role has reportedly opened up other acting opportunities for Jaafar. The fear is that playing Michael dwarfs anything else he does. Meanwhile, there are already rumours of a sequel, unusual for a biopic. It’ll inevitably be a darker film since Part One ends in the late 80s with the Bad tour, when MJ’s on top of the world and before the troubled 90s and 2000s. But I’m here for it all, as are millions of others.

This review also features on the I Was Just Thinking…blog