On Michael Jackson's This Is It

I caught Michael Jackson's This Is It today. I hadn't initially planned to see this, at least not in theaters. I figured I'm really over Michael and his overexposure at this point. Don't we all feel that way by now? But my mom-in-law wanted to see it on her birthday, so we took the whole family, and ... and ... and apparently I'm totally wrong about being over the MJ thing, because I was genuinely moved by the film.

I haven't been starstruck by Jackson in years. When he slipped off the deep end and became a pop-culture joke, it was hard to look at his physical appearance and not just shake your head, remembering What Once Was. But I had the same experience that so many people my age had after his death when we were all subjected -- or in my case subjected myself to -- a couple of days of nonstop Michael music: Damn. A lot of the songs from his peak in the 80s are truly amazing and just about give him the ammunition to live up to his self-proclaimed pop royalty. The nice thing about this movie is that it once again reminds you of Jackson's brand of genius, and it does it in a way that no other Jackson-related product ever has.

By chronicling an unfinished MJ product, This Is It has a quality that Jackson had seemingly become incapable of supplying: subtlety. We see where he was going with these London concerts (and when you realize the sheer scope of the spectacle, you ache for what we'll never experience), but if Jackson had lived to perform those concerts and release the inevitable DVD/movie of the concert experience, it would be glossy, slick, Teflon, and lacking in soul. Instead, we get this cinematically static (which turns out to be refreshing) series of small moments showing the sometime-banality of Jackson at work.

You sense his clear vision -- a singularity that I'm certain goes hand-in-hand with many of his other "eccentricities." He knows precisely what he wants from the concert, especially the music. He gives clear direction on precisely when a drum fill should occur (usually on his personal cue) because he has an innate sense of the best timing for the theatricality of the moment. Finding just the right feel for a keyboard line or a bass riff ... working with his backup dancers on refining a unique move ... all of it is done his way, period. No one questions him. Most of the time they bend over backwards to give him precisely what he has asked for. Jackson wielded an extraordinary amount of power on stage.

Considering that, it was nice to see that, like so many perfectionist genius monarchs, Jackson wasn't a dick to his fellow performers: all criticism and direction is imparted with love and a tender reminder that "we'll get there" or "that's why we have rehearsals." The closest he comes to an explosion is his frustration with new in-ear monitors that are causing him great discomfort.

Another key player in this movie is his supporting performers. We have always been fascinated with Jackson's fans, watching their theatrical crying and passing out in his presence. But there is no audience for these performances, save the crew and, on a number of occasions, backup dancers who are not needed on stage at that moment. From my own experience, I would expect performers on break to be doing anything but paying attention to what's going on onstage. But it's a different story at MJ rehearsals: if Jackson is on stage, those dancers are right there in the "pit," swaying, singing, screaming, hanging on Michael's every note (even though he is preserving his voice and barely whispering many passages) and move (even though he is clearly still getting a feel for his personal choreography). It's almost as if they knew that their time with him was short, and they were going to savor every moment in his presence. Watching the insanity of teenage-girl screaming in Jackson's presence never communicated to me his rapport; but the looks on these dancers' faces finally got across to me the palpable sense of Jackson's magnetism.

(It's also difficult to shake the creeping sense of devastation, knowing that these poor dancers, some of whom dropped what they were doing from halfway around the world to perform with Jackson, never got to take the stage with him in front of a paying audience.)

In this month when I'm thinking about process, perfectionism, artistry, This Is It turned out to be surprisingly relevant. To watch Jackson work is to see the devotion one needs to one craft in order to realize it as fully as possible. It also puts me square in front of the man in my mirror, asking him if he still has what it takes to guide his own vision to a finished product.