Michael turns the King of Pop’s life into a sanitized, cynical biopic, sacrificing complexity and truth for spectacle, nostalgia and profit.

It must be acknowledged from the outset that a film about Michael Jackson cannot please everyone. Between his prolific career, his complex personality and life, and the multitude of allegations, attempting to bring the King of Pop’s life to the screen is a delicate balancing act.

Even before its theatrical release, the production of Michael was fraught with complications, including multiple reshoots and, notably, the Jackson family’s intervention in the production. Beneath all these interventions surely lies another film, one more focused on Michael’s complexity—from an abused child to an abuser himself. But none of this appears in the final product, which is so sanitized that nothing interesting can emerge from it.

Summarizing Michael is straightforward: we follow Michael’s life from his early days with the Jackson 5 under the firm guidance of his father, Joseph, through to their final tour together, and above all, Michael’s solo projects and his emancipation as an artist.

Now is the time to get to the heart of the matter: Michael is a deeply cynical film. It’s an attempt to critique his father’s exploitation of Michael for financial gain by a film that serves no purpose other than to present an idealized, almost fictional version of Michael in order to generate nearly a billion dollars.

Michael is surely the most expensive Wikipedia page in existence—a mere collection of key moments in the artist’s life with no real connection between them. We jump from year to year, watching Michael succeed at everything he undertakes without any adversity. And if there is adversity, it’s brushed aside in the five minutes that follow. This quickly renders the film aimless, drifting from date to date, from single to single.

But at times, we catch glimpses of the film hidden beneath, one that shows a Michael who refuses to grow up—a star who craves independence but remains a child at heart. But all of this is quickly dismissed by a version of Michael who is so polished, idealized, even deified, that seeing the many scenes where Michael visits children in a hospital and works for their well-being seems all the more disturbing when you know the film’s original intention was to show Michael’s darker side. It’s like a radical U-turn by a marketing team.

Everything is done to show Michael effortlessly surpassing, creating, and conquering the world, despite the film’s insistence on having Michael repeat his desire to be free.

Visually, Michael doesn’t seem to stand out either, with flat direction, featuring only a few moments that adopt a documentary style during certain concerts. Director Antoine Fuqua fails to infuse this film with a distinct identity, as Baz Luhrmann did with Elvis or Michael Gracey with Better Man.

Despite all this, we can still applaud Jaafar’s performance and the numerous choreographed sequences, which do a good job of bringing to life the magic of Michael on stage.

Everything in Michael seems calculated, from the narration to the editing, placing an excessive focus on Michael while sidelining everyone who contributed to his success, such as Quincy or John Landis. And despite this, Michael is nothing more than a string of YouTube clips showcasing the highlights of his life. For an artist who always wanted to stand out by doing things differently and innovating, Michael is the most impersonal, insignificant film one could find in the realm of biopics. A mutilated film, butchered to serve the Jackson estate and present an image of Michael’s life that bears no resemblance to reality. A pure product of studios and lawyers, scientifically engineered to showcase only the best, the perfect, and the purest aspects of Michael, featuring a non-stop soundtrack of the artist’s singles, and generating $900 million at the box office.