You can blame Bohemian Rhapsody, the visually and spiritually ugly Queen film that won four Oscars and earned $910m worldwide, for the recent surge in soulless, estate-approved musician biopics. With Bob Marley: One Love (2024), Back to Black (2024), and Whitney Houston: I Wanna Dance with Somebody (2022), the line between “cinema” and “merchandise” has come close to being obliterated.
The draw of Michael, Bohemian Rhapsody producer Graham King’s turn at the life of the King of Pop, isn’t the desire to understand Jackson as a person or as an artist, or to grapple with the weight of his legacy as one of the most pivotal cultural figures of the 20th century. It exists to be consumed as an act of allegiance, as proof of fandom. It resists story in favour of content, in making sure fans see what they expect to see, whether that be the “Thriller” video or “Bad” performed live at Wembley in 1988.
