This is It — Review
Philip Martin
Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
The worst fears for Kenny Ortega’s This Is It were that it would beexploitative and sad, a cynical attempt to salvage something from thewreckage of Michael Jackson’s derailed career and the desperatecomeback attempt that was abrogated by the singer’s death June 25.Given the disheartening reports and lurid gossip surrounding Jackson’sdemise, we might have expected to see the merest ghost of Jackson’spast shuffling through the motions of his greatest hits in grimpreparation for what was sure to be a grueling 50-show stand atLondon’s O2 arena.
Instead, what we get is a deeply interesting, occasionally moving andstrangely uplifting portrait of a very odd genius at work. This Jacksonis bizarre but competent, and thoroughly involved with the look, soundand choreography of a vast and complicated show. As difficult as thetabloid rumors make it to believe, this Jackson appears genuinely happyin his work.
Of course, we understand this is a selective portrait, and Ortega — whowas involved in directing these rehearsals as well as this film — couldvery well have chosen to edit out any footage that cast Jackson in aless than saintly light. But there are plenty of voices out therewilling to castigate Jackson as a pedophile and infantilize him as aspooky waif with terrible body image issues and the emotionalintelligence of a toddler. Let’s also acknowledge that there has neverbeen a greater song-and-dance man.
Unlike a lot of concert documentaries, This Is It doesn’t pretend togive us any backstage insight into the star it limns. There are a fewcursory talking-head shots of the (un)lucky dancers and musicians whomade up his last troupe — they uniformly praise the man and marvel attheir fortune.
Backing up Michael Jackson may not be a sure road to stardom, but itcan’t be bad for one’s resume. If you’re looking for an A Star Is Bornmoment, it might be when Jackson leans on his 24-year-old girlieguitarist Orianthi — who handles the Eddie Van Halen break on “BeatIt.” She’s an amazing player, who’s cute enough for viddies and notabove innocuous power pop.
And while the music is well mixed and spot on, it understandably lacksthe feeling and power of an actual concert. Jackson mainly cruisesthrough his catalog’s greatest hits, and the title song — a newcomposition — is as insipid as any he has ever recorded. (Jackson’schief weakness after his mid-1980s peak was his insistence on writinghis own lyrics — he had no gift for it.)
But the man dances — if not with the explosive athleticism of hisprime, with a lithe wit and subtlety that sometimes shames the buffprofessionals who back him up. Jackson is a middle-aged man, presumablyin poor health and suffering from self-induced malnutrition, yet he’sabsolutely mesmerizing, a stick figure who, while his joints may havestiffened a bit, still exhibits a preternatural control over his body’ssilhouette.
Jackson mastered a private gestural language, a physical cuneiformbeyond language through which he was able to connect across cultures.(Had the aliens landed during his lifetime, could we have done betterthan to send MJ as our emissary?) What people miss when they dismissJackson as a “mere” entertainer was his magical command of sound andmotion — his thrilling ability to dance down the furies of hell andheaven. He was a visual — as much as a recording — artist.
Ortega works simply but shrewdly to show this off to good effect, oftenusing a split-screen effect to give us twin Jacksons (in various formsof colorful rehearsal mufti) spinning and sliding and stepping inotherworldly precision or jazzy counterpoint.
In scenes of him working with musicians and choreographers, Jacksoncomes across as a soft-spoken yet stern taskmaster — he insists on ithis way, but he chides his employees “with love” and he’s tuned in tothe sometimes slippery problems of communicating inchoate musicalnotions. “He knows his music,” rhythm guitarist Tommy Organ says, andwe are to understand this is the highest compliment that can be paid.
Ortega also gives us a preview of the aborted concerts, presenting newvideo material for “Smooth Criminal” that has Jackson interacting withRita Hayworth in Gilda and Humphrey Bogart in In a Lonely Place and“Thriller” with updated ghouls. Less engaging is the eco-parable videothat was shot for “Earth Song,” a set piece featuring an endangeredchild that was to have ended with a bulldozer rumbling onto the stage.
That probably would have been overmuch, and one is left with theunsettling idea that this film — which was originally conceived as astraight-to-DVD souvenir for true believers — isn’t more satisfyingthan the London concerts, with their emphasis on golden oldiesnostalgia, would have been. It’s too easy to surmise that Jackson wasonly truly alive while performing, to contrast his apparent alertengagement with his onstage “family” with his real-world isolation anddisconnection from reality.
This Is It is just a footnote to a complex, creative life that cannotbe reduced to a cautionary tale. It is a glimpse of joy, a sequinshining amidst the ashes.
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