Michael only partially does Jackson’s achievements justice. We see little of how he created his art and persona. The mastering of dance steps in the small hours in cramped hotel rooms, the beatboxing into tape recorders in lieu of being able to competently play any instruments himself, the days-long studio sessions repeating takes dozens upon dozens of times are largely missing. His album Thriller, still the biggest-selling of all time, seemed to come together in a breezy afternoon after lounging in the sun. The real story — of perfectionism, serendipity and tearful compromise — is skipped. Audiences will leave the theater having learned nothing about Jackson’s songs they didn’t know already. That is underscored in Bubbles the chimp having more scenes than Quincy Jones, the peerless producer who had almost as much hand in Jackson’s success as Jackson himself. Read it all: The Michael Jackson Biopic Avoids the Man in the Mirror
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