Antoine Fuqua’s Michael has moments that remind you just how singular Michael Jackson was, but the film surrounding those moments never quite figures out what it wants to say about him. The result is something that feels oddly hollow… and at times, unintentionally silly.
The film begins with little Michael staring out a window, longing to play with the other kids. He giggles in that trademark Michael way before his overbearing father, Joe Jackson, forces him into rehearsal with his (largely nameless) brothers. He’s a sad kid who’d rather be outside, and when he falls short of expectations, he feels the sting of his father’s belt. So begins the legacy, from pint-sized powerhouse to pop legend, but only up through the Bad era, and even that is barely touched on. This is clearly positioned as Part One. The more complicated material, the skin condition, the drug use, the allegations, the balcony incident, Neverland, the increasing eccentricity, is either being saved for a sequel or quietly avoided. And because this is produced by the Jackson family (with Janet Jackson notably absent), the result is a sanitized, wish-fulfillment version of Michael with little depth or perspective.
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The biggest issue is the uncanny valley effect that hangs over the entire movie. Between the heavy prosthetics and layers of makeup on Jaafar Jackson and Colman Domingo, the effect is more distracting than transformative. There are scenes, especially early on, where the attempt to alter Michael’s nose subtly is so unconvincing that it pulls you right out of the film. Later changes occur without any acknowledgment at all.
And it’s not just Michael and Joe. Miles Teller at times looks like he’s wearing a mask as manager John Branca, and an almost unrecognizable Mike Myers shows up as CBS Records head Walter Yetnikoff, looking like he wandered in from one of his Austin Powers disguises. Everything is just slightly off, enough that the uncanny valley effect seeps into nearly every frame.
Written by John Logan (Alien: Covenant, Spectre), the film never establishes a clear point of view. Is this about Joe’s control? The loss of childhood? The psychology behind the man? It gestures at all of it but commits to none, playing instead like a series of Cliff Notes moments strung together without deeper meaning.
Key elements of Michael’s life appear with little buildup or purpose. Bubbles the chimp. A giraffe. The Peter Pan fixation. They’re presented as quirks rather than explored as symptoms of something deeper. The film keeps telling us he didn’t have a childhood, but never examines why that manifested the way it did. At one point, there’s even a fleeting, ambiguous moment with a Peter Pan image that almost suggests something more complicated, but like everything else, it’s quickly abandoned.
Even major events feel oddly framed. During the Victory Tour Pepsi commercial accident, the film repeatedly insists Michael “almost died.” And while it was serious, the dramatization is so overstated that it starts to feel unintentionally funny. You find yourself questioning the movie’s sense of proportion.
What’s most surprising is what’s missing. For a once-in-a-generation artist, we barely see him create. There’s no meaningful look at how songs come together. Thriller is reduced to a vague spark rather than a process. Nothing here deepens what we already know; it just repackages it, and often with less insight.
There are also glaring omissions. Janet Jackson, arguably one of the most important figures in his life and career, is nowhere to be found. The brothers blur together, given no identity or voice. Entire relationships feel erased.
Performance-wise, Jaafar Jackson gives it his all. In the concert and dance sequences, his performance is genuinely astounding, a near mirror of the man the world knows. But outside of those moments, the portrayal exists in a constant tension between mimicry and something more empathetic, almost reverent. It’s a tough balance, especially with the weight of the family legacy clearly hovering over his sparkly shoulder. He commits fully, even when the material doesn’t quite support him.
Colman Domingo brings strength where he can, though again, the prosthetics don’t help. The standout is Nia Long, who manages to inject real warmth and humanity into a film that often feels emotionally distant.
By the time it ends, Michael feels like there was a lot of buildup to very little. It never digs deep enough to justify its existence. It plays less like a definitive portrait and more like a carefully managed, slightly awkward TV movie from another era.
Which is frustrating, because the story of Michael Jackson is anything but shallow. Maybe a second installment will take the risks this one avoids. But as it stands, Michael doesn’t illuminate the man. It keeps him at arm’s length, polished, protected, and ultimately unknowable.
Michael opens in theaters and IMAX on April 24, 2026.
