So, here we are. Four months after his sudden death, the concert series that would have been about to begin its second leg in London takes the form of a different kind of spectacle. This Is It, a documentary assemblage culled from a cache of 80 hours of rehearsal footage, showcases the numbers that were planned for the concert, and is interspersed with limited behind-the-scenes footage of dance auditions, arrangement sessions, and the occasional pep-talk. As a concert documentary, it's quite limited and overlong; as what tour and film director Kenny Ortega described, in his live introduction before the simultaneous world premiere last night, as "a last sacred documentation of our leader and our friend" it is on the money, and a mixed bag at that. Whether you decide to see the film as a fan or out of the grim but human desire to watch a dead man dance, you will likely be surprised by how quickly your sorrow (or morbid curiosity) falls away and you are simply as Jackson would have you: entertained.
I can't help but think that the Michael Jackson who, after re-watching the Motown Anniversary performance that sent him into celestial orbit twenty years later, was fixated solely on his disappointment (over completing four spins during the finale when he wanted five and holding his tippy-toe pose for one second when he'd planned on three) would be mortified to have an entire film made of his rehearsals. What's most surprising is what good form he is in; there's a complicated sadness to watching the kind of talent that can burn through an emaciated frame (Jackson starved himself down to what he referred to as his "dancing weight," which looks like teenaged-era Jackson without the muscle tone), an allegedly wicked schedule of drugs (including the anesthetic equivalent of having an eight-hour surgery every night), and a nose that he literally cut off to spite his face. He had not performed on stage since 1997; the last time I remember seeing him dance was during an incredibly depressing cameo in an 'N Sync number at the MTV awards in 2001, where he looked like an old man embarrassing himself, straining through his stupor to hit some of the old moves. I had to look away.
There's no looking away now, of course, and Ortega makes sure we see the choicest bits of what would have been an exciting if not totally original show. The only complaint one might have about a Jackson concert -- and many of them have been re-run ad nauseum on music channels, with snippets available on the net -- was his insistence on presenting the songs exactly as they were on the record (or in the video). Unlike a performer like Madonna, who re-invented her hits for every tour, Jackson wanted to give his fans precisely what they loved him for, and while it's impressive that you can't tell the difference between Jackson's voice live and recorded, it makes for a tightly constrained, almost prefabricated live concert experience. Although several new films, effects and costumes were in the works for This Is It, the staging and arrangements of most of the songs is very similar what it was in his last concert, 22 years ago, with much of the choreography coming straight from his videos.
The documentary moves through a series of those numbers under construction, with footage of Jackson from about five different run-throughs often cut together; one memorable split screen shows footage of Jackson from three different rehearsals of the same song, a dancer alone with his body and the beat moving with such magnetism and grace that he's got us seeing triple. Rarely singing in full voice and yet still capable of generating chills (particularly during "Human Nature" and a sweet duet on "I Just Can't Stop Loving You"), the focus is more powerfully on the dancing, with Jackson moving his dancers through marks, tweaking their steps and coming up with on-the-spot cues. The opener focuses on the excitement of several auditioning dancers, most of whom are reduced to tears simply by the idea of sharing a stage with Jackson. Their caliber -- and that of his musicians, notably a female Australian guitarist who shreds like no one I've ever seen -- is a testament to Jackson's ability, at that late date, to attract the best in the world. It's fun to watch him school his musical director on the difference between a "sizzle" and a "simmer," and it's fun to watch the dancers in a sort of ecstasy on the floor, watching Jackson perform "Billie Jean" on stage, then shrug off the applause with, "Well, at least we get the feel of it."
Throughout the rehearsals the voice of Ortega comes booming from the behind the monitors, coaxing and cajoling Jackson, who remains a distant and often fragile presence, even when dominating a discussion or performing intently for no one in particular. There's something uneasy about that voice, and the way Jackson looks vaguely into the darkness to address it; the inevitable viewer projection, perhaps, of months' worth of speculation about the pressure Jackson was under to deliver. There aren't a lot of smiles from the star, but then this is serious business, this is putting together a career-capping show in three months. This is also, as it turns out, goodbye, and it's something of a relief not to have that grin -- once dazzling and beatific, then an armored, waxen mask -- invoked as a parting shot. What remains is evidence of his skill as a performer, patience as a professional and -- equally apt -- the question mark in his eyes that no shades on earth could hide.