We are complicated. We are the best of people and, moments later, the worst. Can we ever calculate our full moral totality? Can we ever draw up a satisfying ledger balance of ourselves -- or anyone else?
And what if that “anyone else” happens to be the most eccentric, compelling pop figure of our time?
I speak of The Gloved One. The Man in the Mirror. Prince Moonwalk. The ethereal figure with the ski-jump nose, the Fletcher Christian hair, the painted-on shades, the Sgt. Pepper jacket -- and ownership of the Beatles catalog to match.
Yes, Michael Jackson, now officially bookended: Born Aug 29, 1958. Died June 25, 2009.
“This is the final curtain call,” says the late pop star, at the beginning of “This Is It,” a making-of movie and a taking-leave movie all rolled into one. It’s March 2009. And he’s announcing the forthcoming “This Is It” tour, starting at London's O2 Arena.
As we watch this hagiographic record of his rehearsals leading up to that tour, we note -- we can’t help ourselves -- that he has already made $90 million in posthumous royalties and assorted rights, according to a Forbes list. That list places Jackson third on the all-time dead celebrities’ money-making list. He’s third to Yves Saint Laurent and Rodgers & Hammerstein. But he’s ahead of fourth-placed Elvis.
And we also reflect on the dissonance that underscored his life. Even Jackson’s staunchest fans surely admit their revered Michael was never far from controversy. His life was a disconcerting blend of major and minor chords. For every thrilling, percussively stirring single, and for every exciting gyration of his fluid body, there was a groan-inducing negative detail to endure.
There was Nice Michael: The snub-nosed kid at the head of the Jackson 5 (“When I had you to myself…”). The lithe genius who gave us “Thriller” -- only the most successful album of all time. The sensational performer who electrified everyone at the 25th anniversary of Motown. The co-writer of “We Are the World.”
The charity donations. The kids he visited in hospital. All that great music. All that great dancing.
But then there was Tabloid Michael, a mixture of fact and fabrication. What was true? After a while, we accepted the worst allegations because it all seemed to fit. The allegations of sexual abuse of teenagers ended with no charges (for the first case in 1993) and acquittal (for the second one in 2005). The alleged abuse from his father.
His changing face -- bleached or suffering from vitiligo? The hyperbaric oxygen chamber designed to slow his aging. He denied it on "Oprah" in 1993, as well as bleaching his skin. He also denied buying the bones of the Elephant Man. But we all saw him dangling the baby over the hotel railing four stories up.
We say goodbye to both Michaels, now. We take all that weird but mostly sad baggage. And we dump it. We don’t think about the cardiac arrest, the reports of propofol, lorazepam and midazolam (he went from creating chemistry to becoming it), and charges of homicide.
