While the whole thing was only marginally more tasteful than the version of the biopic that was initially pitched to Sacha Baron Cohen by May and Taylor (in that one, Freddie died at the midway point, and the rest of the movie would be about the band’s brave fight to move on), it remained a distasteful smudging of Mercury’s legacy and queerness. It also made close to a billion dollars and sent sales of Queen albums soaring. As far as many listeners were concerned, they got what they wanted from Bohemian Rhapsody: an extended concert littered with bouts of simple and pseudo-inspiring exposition.
From this success followed a slew of other musician biopics that stuck to this stifling but profitable formula: Rocketman, perhaps the best of the lot, was savvy enough to turn Elton John’s life into a musical but did not push any boundaries in telling his life story; Respect made Aretha Franklin, one of music’s most dynamic talents, boring through its sludgy retread of her early years; I Wanna Dance With Somebody flinched at tackling the full scope of Whitney Houston’s talent and struggles; One Love reduced Bob Marley to a face on a dorm room poster; Back To Black seemed eager to ignore Amy Winehouse’s real story; and Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere stretched itself to find enough drama for a plot, but not so much that its subject would look bad. There were exceptions, biopics that took big stylistic swings (Elvis and Better Man come to mind), but even they were hindered by a distinct timidity when it came to tackling the more controversial parts of their subjects’ histories. The artists themselves, or the families running their estates, always have more interest in what would boost Spotify streams than convey the truth of their lives.
Michael is a bleak viewing experience, not simply because its attitude towards historical fact is, at best, lackadaisical, or because its director has been so callous about Jackson’s accusers, but because it is a film stifled by its proud limitations. Surely it would have been interesting, and beneficial to the movie’s PR-focused agenda, to delve deeper into what made this undoubtedly talented man the King Of Pop? Yet even that seems too edgy for this project. Just shut up and play the hits.
But again, this is par for the course with the genre. Take Bob Marley: One Love, which came and went without much fuss but still made a healthy profit. The film was conventionally told and predictable at every turn, and the artistry of his work and its inextricable politics were diluted into vague pleasantries about standing up for your rights. It told the audience nothing about Marley’s beliefs and how they explicitly shaped his work. Back To Black, the Amy Winehouse biopic, treated her own prodigious talents with a similar lack of concern. The making of her second album, the one the movie’s named after, is treated as such a curious afterthought that its producer, Mark Ronson, isn’t even featured in the film. The hard work of being a so-called genius is dismissed in these biopics because it’s far easier (and better for the brand) to pretend they didn’t have to work at it.
It’s hard to sell records when you bum your audience out, and that’s the primary aim for this current generation of estate-endorsed musical biopics. They’re here to strengthen a brand and introduce it to a new generation with disposable income. Biopics have been fudging history for decades—check out Night And Day, the 1946 biopic of Cole Porter that pretends he was 100 percent straight—but in an era where fans are more aware of their idols than ever, and every detail of their lives can be googled, the rush to erase uncomfortable details and prominently rewrite history feels more pointed. Back To Black flinches in depicting the agony of Winehouse’s much-documented drug addiction, meaning her downfall and the press’ cruel treatment of her struggles do not pack the necessary punch. One Love completely ignores Rita Marley’s own admission that her husband was abusive. Michael was left to clean up a big mess in reshoots regarding the 1993 trial the singer faced for child sexual abuse, meaning we were at least spared a well-budgeted hit-job on his accusers, but would anyone have been surprised (or his fans opposed) had they moved forward with that angle?
Even if you truly do not believe Jackson’s accusers and think that part of his life has no business in a biopic, surely every other part of his extremely troubled life cannot also be erased. A truly honest MJ biopic—one that delved into his childhood abuse, his drug dependency, his proudly sharing a bed with other people’s children, his changing appearance, and his descent into paranoia—would end up being an undeniably bleak film. It would put Michael Haneke’s work to shame in its piercing yet hopeless portrayal of the destructive nature of fame, racism, money, and delusion. To fully encapsulate the surreal and all-consuming frenzy of being the most famous person alive would be no damn fun at all, and that’s a problem when you’re one of his siblings, and you have a lifestyle to finance. How do you listen to Thriller or buy a t-shirt if all you can think about is a child being beaten by his father and a bedroom full of kids waiting to say goodnight?
Fans seem giddy over Michael‘s mass whitewash of both the past and its subject’s inner pain. They got what they wanted, which is another reassurance that their devotion to their idol is correct. It’s not uncommon for particularly zealous fandoms to rally their powers to attack dissenters, be they a reviewer bringing down a Metacritic average or someone who has made damaging accusations against their favorite. Fans who believe it’s their job to make their idol the victor aren’t keen to hear any narratives that put dents in that glistening armor. They don’t want to see addiction destroy Amy Winehouse. They don’t want to see Elvis seduce a teenage girl. They don’t want to see Bob Marley rape his wife. They might just prefer the fanfiction in their heads, which often serendipitously aligns with the PR cleanup jobs of these biopics.
That certainly seems to be the case with Jackson’s family, who have been vocal in hectoring the press and claiming they don’t get “to control the narrative anymore.” But who really controls the narrative of Michael, if not a bunch of estate managers and executives whose primary goal is to keep making money by any means necessary? Michael is pretty transparent as a piece of propaganda, but many fans didn’t need to be swayed. Jackson’s albums continue to be massive sellers. A Broadway musical of his life, which also treated the abuse accusations with callous dismissal, won four Tonys and is still running in New York. A Cirque Du Soleil show (one of two made by the company) has run in Las Vegas for 13 years. As the director of Leaving Neverland succinctly noted when asked why Jackson continues to be worshipped by the masses: “People just don’t care.”
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