Oh MJ. How I loved thee. So before we begin this review, you must know that I was/am a major fan. Short of actually wanting to become Michael Jackson, I grew up slightly obsessed with the gloved one. This included performing personalised choreography to Billie Jean and coming fourth at a talent contest (that consisted of four contestants, but let’s face it, you’re never gonna win when there’s freckled, gap toothed, 10 year old playing a violin) and I even held an MJ party. I have pictures and witnesses who can testify. Don’t judge, you know it’s a genius idea.
Yet I did not cry when I saw him in concert back in the day, nor when he died, yet I almost cried when I watched this shameful debaucle of a so-called ‘film’. Cried from sheer boredom.
Yet I did not cry when I saw him in concert back in the day, nor when he died, yet I almost cried when I watched this shameful debaucle of a so-called ‘film’. Cried from sheer boredom.
Yes, he sings, yes he moves, yes he wears Spock-like shoulder pads and cartooned pants, but this film is basically what it says it is: recordings of someone rehearsing a concert. Someone rehearsing for two hours! As in no amazing effects, some random dancing and a whole bunch of people on stage in trackpants being watched by roadies and lighting supervisors.
This was obviously a ploy for the company responsible for the 50 concerts to get their millions back. And we all know that exploitation of the dead sells, just ask Elvis. And yes, I brought up Elvis on purpose to suggest fake deaths with hopes that MJ is also chilling in some rural South American township, raising llamas and smoking shisha with the local indigenous tribes. If you don’t believe me, read this.
I give it a sandwich rating of tuna and mayo on rye bread with a hint of tomato. Boring. You’re better off watching this instead. Pure subtly.
No comments:
Post a Comment