Review: Michael Jackson's This is It... "for the fans"

What you notice about Michael Jackson’s swan song This is It is what isn’t on screen.

No deafening applause. No throngs of screaming fans. No give-and-take between artist and admirers typically included in concert movies.

Because This is It isn’t a typical concert movie, not in structure or purpose. It was never intended to reach theaters, this assemblage of video shot while Jackson rehearsed four months in Los Angeles for a 50-concert series in London that tragically never was.

Jackson isn’t able to enjoy what will happen worldwide with This is It, if Tuesday’s capacity crowd in Tampa is any indication; cheering and sighing at his quicksilver dance moves and shimmering voice, some loudly, impulsively expressing their love as if Jackson were there to hear it.

But you can sense Jackson anticipating that, witness him working perhaps too tirelessly for it, in a movie incomparable to any other since nothing like this happened before. Not with Elvis, not with Frank.

Unlike Presley at the end, Jackson wanted to prove himself again. Unlike Sinatra, he needed to. Neither of those legends had cameras crews trailing them until hours before dying. The late King of Pop did.

And now, This is It.

Director Kenny Ortega -- whom Jackson trusted with staging his comeback and survivors entrusted with this cine-memorial – orchestrated a minor miracle with This is It, culling footage from weeks of rehearsals into a surprisingly smooth, energetic idea of what a 21st century Michael Jackson concert would be.

It would be stunning, an explosion of pyro and visual effects framing one of the greatest performers ever, who at age 50 hadn’t appeared to lose a step or octave. Of course, part of the Jackson family’s deal with Sony in allowing This is It to be made was that nothing diminishing his image would be included. Jackson appears invincible, as all but the most cynical observers would prefer.

The fact that Ortega isn’t filming a concert but constructing one does create minor problems. Jackson’s volume occasionally trails off, as mixing board adjustments are made. Wardrobes changing several times during nearly each song betray how much patchwork editing Ortega needed to do.

Yet the latter problem also reveals how precise Jackson was, physically and tonally. No matter what he’s wearing, the sound and dance fury are practically the same in each take. Close your eyes and you’d believe he’s singing from start to finish. Keep them open and you’re dazzled by his footwork and deceptively frenetic gestures.

It takes a few minutes for This is It to get traction, after auditioning dancers offer emotional testimonies to their idol, and a news conference announcing the London engagement. Appropriate that Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ is Jackson’s opening number interrupted by Ortega’s choices. He doesn’t make that mistake often.

Jam is followed by They Don’t Care About Us and the movie’s most touching shot; Jackson’s serious expression in mellow blue lighting as Ortega calls for it to fade. Just before the darkness, a sweet, satisfied smile crosses Jackson’s face. He’s happy, and in that moment so are we.

Take your pick of Jackson highlights: his ethereal falsetto on Human Nature, The Way You Make Me Feel slowed to a groggy groove before erupting, Smooth Criminal embellished by the singer digitally co-starring with Humphrey Bogart and Rita Hayworth, one of several backdrop videos Ortega planned for the concerts.

Those video creations expand This is It just when the rehearsal regimen is growing stale. A graveyard filled with 3D zombies to supplement Thriller is a showstopper. Earth Song gets an eye-popping eco-fantasy with a lush forest decimated by fire and a bulldozer – that emerges onstage to threaten the King of Pop.

A few performances fall short of expectations but as Jackson reminds his team several times: “That’s what rehearsal is for.” Billie Jean is a perfunctory run-through with nary a moonwalk. A bouncy Jackson 5 medley ends strangely as the singer names family members to bless without sounding convincing. Several times, Jackson leans too much toward recreating music video choreography rather than dazzling anew.

But that's what Jackson thought was expected, even urging his music director to make the band sound like his records, giving people what they wanted, perfect as possible. Ortega begins This is It with the dedication " for the fans..." and makes you believe that would've been Jackson's dedication, too.

Any questions for Jamie Foxx and Rob Zombie? I know, they're easy to confuse

A postponement Monday of my interview with Halloween II director Rob Zombie leads to an interesting Wednesday. Today I'll get telephone calls from Zombie and Academy Award winning actor/comedian/musician Jamie Foxx, who'll be focusing on the latter talent Aug. 28 with his Blame It tour at Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center.

Toss in tapping out a story on Chris Fuller, the St. Pete filmmaker whose lauded debut Loren Cass opens Aug. 28 at Beach Theatre, and this should be an interesting day.

But the schedule has me scrambling for questions to ask Foxx and Zombie, so I'm shouting "help" to you, dear readers.

What do you want to hear from the hirsute prince of darkness and and the lively prince of show biz? And don't say: "When are those two guys collaborating?"

Wonder about those people clamoring for Michael Jackson memorial tickets? Here's a free movie to inform you at SnagFilms.com, a don't-miss site for film fans

Tuesday's memorial service for Michael Jackson in Los Angeles is the hottest ticket ever, with nearly 17,000 seats at Staples Center offered and more than 1.6 million fans applying online. L.A. officials are urging everyone without tickets to stay away from the area but you know that won't happen.

What kind of people will spend hours, even days on vigil outside the arena without any chance of getting into the show? The same kind of Jackson fans who haunted the L.A. courthouse during the pop star's 2004-2005 trial for sexual misconduct with a minor, and the gates of Neverland where Jackson returned during adjournments.

We Are the Children is a 57-minute documentary crafted by Dianna Dilworth from hundreds of hours of interviews during the trial with uber-devoted Jacksonphiles, who aren't necessarily the social misfits and loony types that cynics would presume them to be. It's a perfect companion piece (maybe antidote) to the wall-to-wall TV coverage of Jackson's postmortem celebrity. Just click on this link to watch it.

Listen to these fans' stories of lifelong devotion, watch them coo over collections of MJ memorabilia, hear them defend a man who the masses convicted long before he was acquitted, and become fascinated with the effects of vicarious celebrity on ordinary folks. It's a interesting watch, worth the time and occasional commercials SnagFilms.com drops into the mix to pay the bills.

We Are the Children never was distributed to theaters, as some fine works aren't in a box office-driven industry. SnagFilms gives those nearly-forgotten movies an online home, free of charge to visitors, with a library of titles that I read about in industry publications but rarely have a chance to see.

Movies like Inside John Lennon, which is smartly being paired with the Jackson documentary under the banner "Taken Too Soon." You can also find the drop-out-of-society documentary Off the Grid: Life on the Mesa, which several readers asked about coming to Tampa Bay theaters and never did. Many of SnagFilms' offerings are political in nature and unabashedly biased in content, with something out there for folks on both sides of the fence.

You can also find socially conscious documentaries such as The Times of Harvey Milk, Morgan Spurlock's Super Size Me and Skid Row, in which Pras from the Fugees spends time with L.A. homeless community.Or you can revisit National Geographic-style docs on exploring Titanic, confronting sharks, asteroids and UFOs, or chasing tornadoes.

The price is right. The movies are better. Check it out.

The night David St. Hubbins admired Princess Di's tummy

Just surprised M'lady with news that she'll take the bus to work Friday. Small price to pay for meeting after 5 at the Hub -- not the exact Hub we visited on our first date, when I said I'd marry her, but that's another story.

The chauffeured drive is because I scored a couple of $12.50 balcony seats (plus service charge, and I think a down payment on the next stadium) to the Spinal Tap Unwigged & Unplugged show Friday at Mahaffey. (Tell Ticketmaster that "The Bone" sent you.)

Anyway, the balcony is as close as I'll let Princess Di get to Spinal Tap, especially David St. Hubbins, the guy who looks like Lenny. Long story but I'll be kind.

1992. Spinal Tap, wigged and plugged, is playing in Orlando. Some place across a wide parking lot from a Holiday Inn, and that's before they added the "Express." I score four front row seats for me, Di and Mr. and Mrs. T-Bone (no relation to the Ticketmaster discount code, but I digress).

Anyway, we're having a great time, better than most folks there because we know the joke. The back of the place is filled with teenagers who must've gotten cheap seats to what they thought would be a real heavy metal show. You can tell that they think Spinal Tap sucks, which is what the gag is about.

So, the band is playing to the few of us who got tickets early, up front. Di and Mrs. T-Bone are rocking these bare midriff blouses (not 6-packs but maybe Red Bull 4-packs). We're all dancing to Big Bottom or something and St. Hubbins -- the wanker -- points at the ladies during a Nigel Tufnel solo and says:

"I do believe those are the best tummies we've seen on tour!"

My first thought is: "Hey, these guys have been on the road for three months. That's a pretty cool compliment." My next thought is: "How dare you, sir." Which must sound like: "She's yours" to St. Hubbins behind the monitors. Cooler heads prevail.

Di and Mrs. T-Bone bring up that moment to Michael McKean backstage after the show. (Yes,T-Bone and I are there. We're not stupid.) McKean laughs, thanks them for the inspiration and kisses them on their cheeks. Just one each. We're not stupid.

Christopher Guest, looking nothing like Tufnel without the wig (or plug, I guess), doesn't spend much time in the mingle after showering. He makes a few pleasant greetings and heads toward the loading dock door where a few dozen fans had waited an hour or so to see their mock idols, and apparently gave up.

Di and I take a few steps behind Guest, curious to get a closer look as he exits. The door swings open. Nobody there. Even from behind, we can tell he feels relieved.  We watch a guy who just made an arena rock as someone else walk across that wide, empty parking lot, unbothered by anyone on his way to the Holiday Inn.

Is Susan Boyle the next Mr. Tanner?

Seeing the photo today of the previously dowdy singing sensation Susan Boyle after her not-so-extreme makeover -- and especially the needless fascination on her looks to begin with -- took me back to one of the finest musical storytellers of my generation, the late Harry Chapin.

Always had a soft spot for him, first for his songs (Taxi, WOLD, etc.) then the coincidence of sharing his birthday (Dec. 7). I remember coming home one day in 1981 and my first wife greeted me with the news that Chapin had been killed in an auto accident. I remember slumping against the door frame, and tears that didn't end as I replayed his albums in fan grief.

Chapin's song Mr. Tanner popped into my head when I saw the new Boyle, certainly her next step toward concerts and recordings. Like Boyle, Mr. Tanner was from a small town and "music was his life, it was not his livelihood." Both get their breaks but Mr. Tanner's story doesn't end well. I hope the same doesn't happen to Boyle.

This video may not be the hippest thing on tampabay.com today (or any day, for that matter) but it's something to think about, as Boyle slowly transforms into what people want her to be, which may not be as pleasant as what she was.

Jimmy Buffett vs. REO Speedwagon? No contest!

But we're making it one. Stuck in the '80s ("mired" is more like it) guy Steve Spears came up with a great idea for next Thursday's Weekend section: a battle royale among the dozen or so musical acts coming to Tampa Bay soon in a whirlwind of concerts.

First prize: Being named THE concert to see. Second prize: Set of steak knives. Third prize: You're fired. (Thanks, Glengarry Glen Ross.)

Of course, Spears thinks he can rig the fight by taking REO Speedwagon (who rocked in the '70s before synth-selling out) and choosing to square off against my guy -- the mango maestro, the tropical Toscanini, the one and only because nobody else could be so damn cool, Jimmy Buffett. (At least he didn't get his name from a truck.)

Isn't that just like an '80s guy; bringing a knife to a gunfight.

Anyway, I'm putting out a call on the Coconut Telegraph to all Parrot Heads, asking for their best reasons why Jimmy (friends call him that, and we're all his friends) is the only concert anyone should be concerned about seeing. Apart from the home-state advantage, that is.

I listen to Radio Margaritaville (XM-55 or Sirius-31) every day for my Jimmy fix. Sent a note to program director Steve Huntington asking the station to spread the word among Parrot Heads worldwide about the Jimmy vs. REO throwdown. Hoping that millions will visit this blog and leave some thoughts, just to let Spears know the magnitude of the whoopa$$ keg he just tapped.

Check out his argument by clicking here. Don't let me down, sun-drenched ladies and gents.