Death returned Michael Jackson’s humanity, and in a curious, tentative way
so too does “Michael Jackson’s This Is It,” a rushed and ragged monument
to the man, his work and the commercial interests of those he left behind.
At once a greatest-hits compendium and a suggestive glance at what might
have been, the movie — which had its premiere Tuesday and opened Wednesday
on a staggering 18,000 screens worldwide — has been so nakedly designed to
serve so many different agendas that it seemed unlikely anything would be
left for Mr. Jackson’s fans beyond the sheer spectacle of such colossal
posthumous exploitation.

Yet something remains here, though it’s hard to know whether it’s the
ghost or our love, perhaps both. Whatever the case, the on-screen results
are weird and watchable, by turns frustrating and entertaining, and
predictably a little morbid. Directed by Kenny Ortega, the movie has been
stitched together from more than 100 hours of taped rehearsals for the 50-
concert comeback tour that he and Mr. Jackson were creating together when
the singer died in June after a drug overdose. Mr. Ortega, working with
four editors (Don Brochu, Brandon Key, Tim Patterson and Kevin Stitt), has
punched the material into classic behind-the-scenes documentary shape,
complete with teary testimonials from the show’s demonstrably wowed
dancers, the occasional impromptu moment and plenty of canned sentiment.

The movie opens, after a bit of scrolling text, on a worshipful note, with
a number of the concert dancers weeping and excitedly talking into the
camera about the gig and their love for (the still living) Mr. Jackson.
It’s an easy way into the material, but it’s also smart, partly because
these tears help prime the audience’s pump. The testimonials add to the
overall deification that comes with any larger-than-life star production.
But more important, they instantly invest some authentic feeling into a
project (product) that has seemed devoid of soul from the minute it was
announced. With their wet cheeks and halting words, these visibly moved
young men and women are the sobbing, yearning embodiment of fan love.

It doesn’t take long to remember why Mr. Jackson inspired that love.
First, though, you have to wade through a somewhat baffling montage
featuring Lady Diana, Mother Teresa and President Obama, among others, a
preposterous lineup that serves as something of a warm-up act for Mr.
Jackson himself, who initially appears among an excited throng to announce
the concert that never was. Happily, the moviemakers come down to earth
(or as much as might be expected with Mr. Jackson onboard) for the
subsequent rehearsals, which are regularly interspersed, or more rightly
padded, with interview snippets featuring musicians, singers,
choreographers and costume designers. Mr. Jackson’s family members are
conspicuous by their absence, his brothers, father and mother invoked in
name only.

The rehearsals draw heavily from Mr. Jackson’s older hits, notably from
the 1982 album “Thriller,” beginning with “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ ”
and moving through “Human Nature,” “Thriller,” “Beat It” and “Billie
Jean.” Some of these are accompanied by elaborate minimovies, some shot
with special effects, including 3-D. The wittiest — a black-and-white
Hollywood homage set to “Smooth Criminal” and probably inspired by the
“Girl Hunt” ballet in the 1953 Vincente Minnelli musical “The Band Wagon”
— features Mr. Jackson wearing a white pinstripe suit and interacting with
Rita Hayworth (she tosses him her black glove from “Gilda”) and Humphrey
Bogart (who, looking up from a kiss, throws him a scowl). As amusing as
this number is, it pales alongside those moments when Mr. Jackson drops
the pyrotechnics and just appears onstage alone.

Though shot in high definition, the visuals are generally soft, almost
smudged, without the sharp edges you expect with HD. The softening effect
most obviously benefits Mr. Jackson, who’s rarely seen in close-up and
instead usually appears head to toe, energetically dancing, strutting,
marching, moonwalking and sometimes understandably panting across the
stage. This distanced vantage robs the curious of a chance to scrutinize
that famous face, to unkindly survey the damage, but it also gives you the
space to admire his liquid moves as he slips and slides and glides. That’s
especially important because Mr. Jackson, who after all is in the midst of
complex rehearsals he’s helping coordinate, doesn’t often let loose
vocally because he’s conserving his voice (as he sometimes mentions) or
can no longer roam around the higher registers.

Mr. Ortega has described the material in “This Is It” (the title is shared
by the concert and the accompanying CD) as “honest, raw, unguarded, right
up until the day he died.” Well, as honest as a carefully packaged,
multiplatform pseudo-event like this one can be, anyway. Truthfully, it is
hard to imagine a supernova like Mr. Jackson, in particular one who grew
up so publicly and at times pathetically, sharing anything honest, much
less raw, on camera, either because he won’t or he can’t. In the end, all
you can expect from such manufactured lives — and perhaps all that we’re
really due — are glimmers of the figure left amid the fractured and
distorting funhouse mirrors. Every so often, with a shy smile, a few soft
words, a direction to the musicians, a thank-you, Mr. Jackson offers you
such a glimmer.

“This Is It” is rated PG (Parental guidance suggested). Yet another
baffling rating: the movie is squeaky clean, with Mr. Jackson repeatedly
professing his love for everyone and, you know, grabbing his crotch a few
times.

MICHAEL JACKSON’S THIS IS IT

Opened on Wednesday nationwide.

Directed by Kenny Ortega; concert production created by Michael Jackson
and Mr. Ortega; directors of photography, Tim Patterson and Sandrine
Orabona; edited by Don Brochu, Brandon Key, Mr. Patterson and Kevin Stitt;
music by Michael Bearden; choreography by Mr. Jackson and Travis Payne;
production designer, Michael Cotten; produced by Randy Phillips, Mr.
Ortega and Paul Gongaware; released by Columbia Pictures. Running time: 1
hour 51 minutes.

--
This article was ghostwritten by Alan Jones of Bizzaro World.