Michael Review | Antoine Fuqua’s Play-It-Safe Michael Jackson Tribute Moonwalks Far Away From Nuance

Every once in a while, a biopic comes along that resurrects parasocial fan armies who dedicate their lives defending every mediocre piece of media with their idol’s name on it. As much as I was hoping for a silver lining, Antoine Fuqua’s Michael (2026) is shockingly uninterested in portraying a complex, layered character or possessing a nuanced storytelling voice of its own. Though, it would still be foolish to assume that there’s no larger intent behind such a light-handed approach. 

Michael, the first feature-length cinematic biopic of the star, decides to selectively tell the story of a rags-to-riches breakout artist from Gary, Indiana. It is 1966 and Michael is still a young boy living in a humble working-class house with eight siblings. The film follows the first 30 years of his life, building up to a climax at the Wembley Stadium concert in 1988. At that point, he had already been crowned the “King of Pop,” coincidentally, five years before the first abuse allegations against him surfaced. The number of Jackson family members listed in the credits as producers gives significant weightage to his legacy. Although his sister Janet Jackson and daughter Paris Jackson distancing themselves from the film for not being accurate, is noteworthy. 

It follows the same generic template set by the near-billion-dollar-grossing “Queen” biopic Bohemian Rhapsody (2018). It is a film in full music-video energy—a 13-track tribute act with Jackson’s most iconic songs. Young Michael played by Juliano Krue Valdi and older Michael played by Jaafar Jackson (son of Jermaine and nephew of Michael) are terrific performers, dancers and singers—given this film being their acting debut. Two incarnations of Michael, dominate the big screen with commanding presence. 

Glitter-laden concert imagery and impressively faithful recreations of Michael Jackson’s choreography create a striking cinematic spectacle. The ensemble cast painstakingly lift the barebones of this film’s otherwise frail narrative structure. There is an unmistakable effort to polish his public image, amidst conversations around Jeffery Epstein and Sean Combs “Diddy” increasingly resurfacing. The film sidesteps many of the more contentious chapters of his life with the blind optimism of a “live laugh love” wall-poster.

While tracing Michael’s early years, it sketches a Black-American household defined by a domineering father and manager “Joe” Joseph (Colman Domingo) whose discipline dangerously slips into cruelty with graphic belt-wielding scenes. This happens to be one of the only instances wherein the film emphasises the complexities of the dark chapters involving Michael’s life. He’s a profit driven figure who treats his children as assets rather than individuals. Sort of resembling Terrence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons) in Whiplash (2014) who can never be satisfied. Among the scarce figures offering a sense of paternal steadiness in Michael’s world, his longtime bodyguard (KeiLyn Durrel Jones) stands out as a quietly dependable source of safety and trust.

At the same time, the narrative gestures toward Michael’s isolation, portraying a child propelled into stardom yet deprived of genuine companionship. In a quiet moment, he sits beside his mother Katherine (Nia Long) and admits that he is “not like the other boys.” That he has no friends his age who are interested in friendship beyond clicking photographs with him. The line carries a faint echo of justifying later controversies involving Jackson’s friendliness toward children, though the film resists handling such suggestions with a heavy hand. 

The storytelling remains committed to presenting him as a figure of innocence in his youth and determination in adulthood, yet this evolution unfolds without any real resistance apart from his father’s looming influence. Like Peter Pan (the boy who refused to grow up), his persona is framed through an enduring sense of youthful enchantment that extends well into adulthood. He is seen planting a kiss on his pet llama, darting through a toy store with unrestrained delight and playing Twister alongside his ASL-trained chimpanzee, Bubbles. After releasing his solo album ‘Thriller’ (1982), Michael is portrayed to have no other industry-related obstacles in making one chart-topping hit after another. 

Across the film, the idea of Michael as “exceptional” and set apart from his brothers is repeated insistently. At first, it borders on self-congratulatory, yet it quietly invites sharper questions about its cost—did such elevation diminish his brothers or justify choices that advantaged him while disadvantaging others? There is surprisingly little sense of inner turmoil or tension within the band Jackson 5. Even if Michael’s siblings get screen time, they’re handed no substantial lines since they’re not “special” enough. 

The narrative seldom resists the urge to glorify him: “There’s no one like you and there never will be,” gushes his lawyer and manager John Branca (Miles Teller). Fuqua stages the moment as a declaration of self-reliance and breaking free from his father, though it lands more as evidence of a carefully curated echo chamber populated by people-pleasers. The film leans on an almost saintly innocence that defines him from start to finish, leaving the character curiously one dimensional. He beams with an infectious smile while visiting ill children, as he signs autographs. He is the poster-boy of charity while acquiring exotic animals for his private collection. 

The film seizes every opportunity to invoke “Neverland,” the singer’s private island. Scenes depicting him ritualistically reading an illustrated version of Peter Pan (1904) beneath the covers gestured towards an imagined place meant to be a sanctuary to his inner-self and by extension, other children. In the lead-up to the film’s release, reports have resurfaced claiming he “protected” children from Epstein’s island by bringing them to Neverland. The timing invites a raised eyebrow, if not outright suspicion about how such narratives re-enter circulation. 

Nearly every tension in Michael’s life is framed through his struggle to step out from under his father’s shadow, a man who casually wounds him by calling him “big nose.” During his first rhinoplasty, he admits to a doctor, with unsettling clarity, “I have to be perfect.” In a similar vein, the film dutifully addresses another long-debated point, asserting that his changing appearance stemmed from vitiligo rather than any desire to alter his racial identity. These explanations appear tidily stuffed between musical set pieces, as though ticking items off a checklist. Yet for all its careful framing, the narrative leans too heavily toward celebration, presenting his journey as a straightforward ascent when it bears the unmistakable contours of tragedy.

For an artist who hated being capitalised and commodified by those closest to him (as per the dialogues in this film), this film does little to honour his contradictions or inner turmoil. One cannot ignore the parallel between Joseph and the film’s own intentions—read into that as you will. Long after his passing, the Jackson family still appears intent on marketing his legacy, shaping a narrative that feels driven more by revenue than tribute. In the end, even in absence, Michael remains an asset that continues to yield returns. 

A sequel appears all but assured, signalled by a post-credits note that “His story continues,” a clear nod to ongoing commercial ambitions of a sequel. One can only hope the next instalment engages more directly with the darker accusations that lie beyond this chapter’s carefully framed narrative timeline. The film is all set to pull in packed theatres, driven by zealous fans on a mission to “prove critics wrong.” It squarely targets viewers who are either conveniently apolitical or too deep in their parasocial devotion to care.

Anyone hoping for an actual story will likely come away disappointed. The real winners here are those happy to sit through a glossy IMAX tribute that plays more like an extended MJ concert. Regardless of its grounding in fact or selective framing, the film stretches beyond two hours yet still finds no space to engage with the complexities surrounding Jackson’s controversial persona. What remains is a black-and-white (no pun intended) generic music biopic, polished to a fault and curiously empty where nuance should have been.