‘Michael’ review: Michael Jackson biopic is painfully bad

This is it?

How flabbergasting to see “Michael,” the new biopic about Michael Jackson, the best-selling solo artist of all time, crash and burn into such a cheap and embarrassing bore.

Say what you will about Michael Jackson — and God knows there is plenty to say — he was not boring. And he had style.

Not terrible “Michael,” though. I ask the generally capable director Antoine Fuqua: Antoine, are you OK? Antoine, are you OK? Are you OK, Antoine?

Yes, “Michael,” with a screenplay by a team of lawyers, sorry, by John Logan, is formulaic. Most musician life stories onscreen are, and some, like “Elvis,” are still fantastic when shackled by those familiar constraints.   

And, obviously, this is a gift-wrapped present to Jackson (and his oh-so-well-intentioned estate) that not only depicts the accused child molester as a squeaky clean hero, but sanctifies him. 

How to slap a halo on someone so scandalous? Have the movie abruptly stop during 1988’s “Bad” tour, years before any sexual abuse allegations were lodged against him. “Michael” presents Jackson as totally flawless. A god from Gary. 

Here’s Jackson donating money to child burn victims. 

“I need to do more for them,” he says. Yikes.

Here he is in a toy store signing autographs for another group of kids. Yikes. 

In almost every moment of “Michael,” the King of Pop, played with panache and detail by his nephew Jaafar Jackson, is flashing a megawatt grin when he’s not staring longingly at his copy of “Peter Pan.” This Michael is perfect.

That we’re getting a paint-by-numbers hagiography following his humble origins in 1960s Indiana all the way to his peak of global superstardom is assumed before the film starts.

What I did not expect of the movie about arguably the greatest entertainer of all time, however, was that it would be so devoid of, um, entertainment. 

“That’s what people want,” says Michael to producer Quincy Jones in the recording studio. “Pure escapism.”

Right. So, where’s that?

Beats me. When “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” evolves Michael from a golden-voiced littlest member of the Jackson 5 to an adult icon in 1979, you feel nothing.

The goosebumps we anticipate during the famous 1983 Motown 25 performance of “Billie Jean” and the filming of the “Thriller” music video never pop up because they’re shot in such a pedestrian, buzz-killing manner. 

At that staid concert, the camera pans hypnotically back and forth like a yard sprinkler as extras have fake-looking paroxysms in the crowd. We’re not engaged at all and we never get a real sense of how massive Jackson was because “Michael” is so limited in scope and lacking in flair.

The Queen biopic “Bohemian Rhapsody” had plenty of issues, but the electricity of the recreation of the Live Aid concert was not one of them. While “Michael” shares the same producer as the Freddie Mercury flick — and a nearly identical performance from Mike Myers as a jokey music exec — it boasts none of the nostalgic thrills.

Since “Michael” isn’t burdened with how weird, creepy and sad Jackson’s life became, shouldn’t there be an abundance of fun and flash? How about some emotional household drama?

Michael’s oppressive father and Jackson 5 manager Joe Jackson is a mere meanie here as played by Colman Domingo, but not monstrous or truly threatening, even when he belts his kids. He’s more of a cranky Archie Bunker. 

That doesn’t add much juice to the main thread, which is Michael gaining the courage to leave Joe and the Jackson 5 behind with the help of lawyer John Branca (Miles Teller made to look like Jim Belushi). It’s hard for viewers to rally around a contract — the rift needed to be more about family ties.

Throughout, we learn jack squat about Tito, Jermaine, Jackie, Marlon and Randy, except that they refuse to play a game of Twister with their brother. So, the King of Pop instead enlists Bubbles the chimp. That’s right — there is a scene in which Michael Jackson and Bubbles the chimp play Twister underscored by “Blame It On The Boogie.” 

LaToya is mentioned a couple times, while Janet has been wiped from this version of history. In every sense, this is “Attorneys Present: The Michael Jackson Story.”

The few dramas that could have created a compelling narrative and beefed up Michael’s character are carelessly glossed over, as though any setbacks would make this Zeus look too human.

Michael’s fire injury during a 1983 Pepsi commercial shoot that burned his face and neck, and his diagnosis with Vitiligo, the disease that caused his skin to become pasty white, are rushed. It’s much more important, apparently, that we see him kiss a llama.

What’s unfortunate is that 29-year-old Jaafar is genuinely quite good, especially when it comes to dancing. He can moonwalk with the best of them and has an unteachable spark. So does Juliano Krue Valdi as “I’ll Be There”-singing Young Michael.

But the movie is too poorly directed and absymally written for anyone to escape unscathed. 

And, wouldn’t you know, it’s only Part One!

“Michael” ends, hilariously, with its own version of “James Bond will return.” “His story continues,” a message reads. 

Yeah, sure. It is completely moronic to think that the same people who could not even include the word “Janet” would make a sequel without most of Jackson’s biggest hits; that shows him having sleepovers with eight year olds, dangling a nine-month-old baby out a hotel window and being administered propofol nightly to treat insomnia. 

No matter what it says, they don’t really wanna be startin’ somethin’.