“Michael” and the Tension of Lacking Tension
It is not hard to make a musical biopic that pleases audiences and draws a profit. Michael is no exception.

A white-trash mom is visited by three ghosts intent on showing her a path to a brighter future.
It is not hard to make a musical biopic that pleases audiences and draws a profit. Michael is no exception.
Him is visually stunning—all concrete cathedrals and bone-rattling impact shots that look like a nightmare highlight reel. Marlon Wayans is magnetic as this legendary quarterback who's basically selling salvation with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. But the story keeps running in circles: more tests, more cryptic pep talks, more ritualistic drills. The sports-as-religion metaphor beats you over the head when subtlety would've been more effective. The middle drags, and that finale chooses spectacle over substance. It's undeniably stylish, but left me cold. Also worth noting: despite the Monkeypaw connection, this isn't actually a Jordan Peele film—he didn't write or direct.
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