Michael

When a Film Becomes Memory, Music, and Something Personal

There are films you watch.

And then there are films that take you somewhere you didn’t expect to go.

Michael did that to me tonight.

I walked into a near-empty auditorium for a midnight preview—barely ten of us scattered across seats—and yet, from the very first beat of “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’”, I wasn’t in that theatre anymore.

I was a child again.

The First Time I Met Michael

My earliest memory of Michael Jackson isn’t from a concert or a cassette—it was from television. Someone else’s house. Early 1980s. The first time I ever saw MTV.

And there he was.

Thriller.

I didn’t have the language for what I was seeing, but I knew I was witnessing something… otherworldly. Something that didn’t belong to just music—it belonged to movement, to imagination, to rhythm that travelled straight into your bones.

As I grew up, his music grew with me—

Beat It,

Bad,

Smooth Criminal,

Billie Jean,

and so many more.

And then, in college, I began to understand the man behind the music.

We Are the World wasn’t just a song.

Heal the World wasn’t just melody.

Earth Song and

They Don’t Care About Us weren’t just performances.

They were statements.

He wasn’t just entertaining us—he was speaking to us.

The Film: A Performance Recreated, Almost Too Perfectly

Walking into Michael, I had one hope—that it would do justice to someone who didn’t just define pop culture, but reshaped it.

And surprisingly, it does.

Jaafar Jackson—his own nephew—steps into the role with a kind of precision that is almost unsettling. The voice, the pauses, the body language, the stillness before movement—it’s all there.

At moments, it doesn’t feel like imitation.

It feels like invocation.

The recreations of iconic performances—Thriller, Beat It, his early Grammy stage, the London performances of Bad—are electric. Even in a nearly empty theatre, the energy felt full. Charged.

And yet, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sadness.

How is a story like this… not filling seats?

How did we forget what global cultural history looks like when it stands right in front of it?

The Parts That Stayed With Me

There were moments I didn’t expect to be affected by.

One of them was the infamous Pepsi commercial accident—the burns, the pain, the shock. I had heard about it before, but the film brings you uncomfortably close to it. Close enough to feel the fragility behind the myth.

But what truly stayed with me was something far more personal.

His childhood.

His father.

The abuse.

There’s a moment where he asks others—lawyers, executives—to speak to his father on his behalf. And I understood that immediately.

Because I’ve lived that.

When you grow up with fear, with authority that crushes rather than guides, you don’t always find your voice directly. Sometimes, you borrow someone else’s.

Watching that wasn’t just watching Michael.

It was watching a version of myself I’ve known too well.

The Mother, The Apology… and What It Opened in Me

There is a scene where his mother says something I have never heard in my own life:

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

And in that moment, something shifted inside me.

Because I realised—that absence of apology leaves a mark.

A quiet, persistent fracture.

It made me confront something I still carry. Not anger alone, but the weight of something that was never acknowledged.

This is what powerful cinema does.

It doesn’t just tell a story.

It reveals your own.

The Man Behind the Myth

The film also leans heavily into Michael’s gentleness—his love for animals, his childlike wonder, the softness that existed alongside his genius. His closeness to Barrie’s Peter Pan and the idea of Neverland. Guess what I have tattooed on my left arm. Tinker bell and Peter Pan soaring through the sky in silhouette.

At times, it feels almost too kind. Almost protective. There’s a noticeable absence of anything that might complicate his image.

Is it whitewashing?

Perhaps.

But it also raises a question—what if this was him, at his core?

And if it was, then the world didn’t just lose an artist.

It lost something far rarer.

Direction, Rhythm, and Restraint

From a filmmaking perspective, Michael understands balance.

It doesn’t drown you in music, nor does it strip it away. It moves between performance and personal life with a rhythm that feels intentional. The edits are sharp, the pacing controlled, and the emotional beats are given just enough space to land.

And importantly—it knows when to stop.

The film ends with his London performances, with a quiet suggestion:

His story continues.

And I hope it does.

Because there is so much more left to explore.

Final Thoughts

I walked into the theatre expecting a biopic.

I walked out having revisited my childhood, my relationship with music, and parts of myself I usually sit with.

Michael isn’t perfect.

But it is sincere.

It is immersive.

And at times, deeply, unexpectedly personal.

And perhaps the saddest part of the night wasn’t anything in the film—

It was how few people were there to witness it.

Project Hail Mary

There are films you watch, and then there are films that meet you exactly where you are.

I walked into Project Hail Mary carrying grief — missing Zack and Xena, already undone before the lights dimmed. And somehow, this film didn’t distract me from that emotional state; it held it, reframed it, and quietly gave it meaning.

Directed with clarity and emotional restraint by Phil Lord and Christopher Miller, and adapted from Andy Weir’s novel, the film balances hard science with deeply human vulnerability. The cinematography by Greig Fraser is expansive yet intimate — vast cosmic emptiness contrasted with the fragile interiority of one man’s fear, doubt, and eventual courage.

At its centre is Ryan Gosling, who delivers a performance filled with quiet tremors. There is something strikingly vulnerable about him here — a softness, an openness — that makes you believe every hesitation, every flicker of resistance. He feels less like a conventional hero and more like an ordinary man dragged into extraordinary responsibility. At times, I found myself thinking of him as a kind of Hollywood Ranbir Kapoor — not in style, but in that emotional accessibility.

The Story & Its Emotional Core

The premise is deceptively simple: a microorganism — Astrophage — is draining energy from the sun, threatening life on Earth. Governments assemble a desperate scientific mission. Three astronauts are sent across the stars towards Tau Ceti, humanity’s last hope.

But what elevates the story is not the science — though it is fascinating — but the moral weight placed on an unwilling participant. Gosling’s Ryland Grace is not a man eager to sacrifice himself. He is a biology teacher, a reluctant participant, someone who cannot instinctively subscribe to the idea of “the greater good”.

And that tension — between obligation and personal truth — runs quietly beneath everything.

The Visuals & Special Effects

The special effects are nothing short of breathtaking.

The Tau Ceti sequences, particularly when Astrophage is released onto the planet to observe its behaviour, are mesmerising. There is a sense of scientific wonder rendered with almost poetic beauty — light, texture, and motion working together to create something both alien and believable.

But the most astonishing achievement is Rocky.

Rocky — an alien who, at first glance, resembles nothing more than a living rock — becomes one of the most expressive characters in the film. Through voice modulation, rhythmic sound patterns, and physical gestures, he communicates emotion, humour, loyalty, and intelligence. The voice work and sound design behind Rocky are extraordinary; they transform the unfamiliar into something deeply intimate.

Rocky: The Heart of the Film

Rocky is not a side character. He is the soul of the film.

Their friendship — built without a shared language, without shared biology — becomes a testament to connection beyond form. Rocky speaks of a partner of 186 years, and in that detail lies something profound: a quiet reflection on love, companionship, and endurance that transcends human frameworks.

There is no need to impose labels on it. It simply is love — steady, enduring, and unquestioned.

(Spoiler Alert: Ending Discussed Below)

What stayed with me even after the film ended was how its thematic core differs subtly from Project Hail Mary itself. Andy Weir’s writing has always leaned heavily into science as process — the joy of problem-solving, of intellect battling extinction, much like in The Martian. The novel is rooted in logic, in method, in the slow satisfaction of answers earned through persistence. Even Rocky, in the book, is as much a collaborator as a companion — a scientific equal with whom Grace builds trust through shared curiosity rather than emotional dependence. The idea of survival is intellectual, almost procedural.

The film, however, shifts that axis gently but decisively. It is less interested in how we solve the universe and more in why we choose to. The science remains, but it takes a back seat to something more fragile — connection. Rocky here becomes more than a collaborator; he becomes an emotional anchor, almost a quiet rebuttal to the chaos and cruelty we associate with humanity. And that is where the film resonated deeply with me. Where the novel asks whether intelligence and cooperation can save us, the film dares to ask whether love — even if it is for just one being — is reason enough to try.

The film’s most powerful turn lies in its moral reversal.

We learn that Grace did not heroically volunteer — he was coerced. Forced into the mission for the sake of humanity. And when faced again with a choice — to return to Earth as its saviour or to turn back and save Rocky — he chooses Rocky.

Not the abstract idea of billions.

Not the “greater good”.

But a singular, tangible bond.

And in that moment, the film quietly dismantles a long-standing cinematic myth — that heroism must always be self-sacrifice for humanity at large.

Instead, it suggests something far more intimate: that love, loyalty, and connection — even with one being — are enough.

Rocky, in turn, saves him. Builds him a home. Gives him a life.

And that reciprocity — that mutual choosing — feels like the truest form of humanity the film offers.

Final Thoughts

If I’m being critical, the script isn’t always tight. There are stretches where pacing wavers, and certain transitions feel less precise than they could be. But somehow, it doesn’t matter.

Because the film lands where it needs to.

Emotionally, it resonates.

And perhaps that is why it stayed with me.

Walking in, I felt a kind of exhaustion with humanity — with its violence, its cruelty, its endless justifications. And strangely, the film doesn’t argue against that feeling. It doesn’t glorify humanity blindly.

Instead, it finds redemption in something smaller.

More honest.

One bond. One choice. One act of love.

And for me, that is enough.

Wuthering Heights

There is a difference between intensity and depth. The 2026 adaptation of Wuthering Heights mistakes one for the other — and in doing so, does not merely reinterpret Emily Brontë but systematically simplifies her.

Directed by Emerald Fennell, with a screenplay adapted by Fennell herself, the film presents itself as daring and contemporary. What it delivers instead is a narrowing: a deliberate exchange of metaphysical passion for corporeal spectacle.

As someone who reveres Brontë’s novel, I left the cinema not stirred, not haunted, but cheated.

Brontë’s book is architecturally complex. Its nested narration — principally through Nelly Dean — creates moral distance, ambiguity, and irony. In the film, Nelly (played with gravitas, though undermined by the script) is reframed as a near-villain, a manipulator rather than the morally ambiguous mediator of class and conscience she is on the page. By collapsing her narrative function into something sinister, the adaptation dismantles the interpretive tension that gives the novel its sophistication.

Most unforgivable, however, is the complete removal of the second generation. Young Catherine, Hareton, and Linton are not decorative additions in Brontë’s structure; they are resolution. The novel is cyclical: violence breeds violence until tenderness interrupts inheritance. Hareton’s transformation from brutalised child to educated, loving man is the moral hinge of the text. By excising this arc, the film amputates redemption. What remains is unrelieved obsession — two destructive figures locked in themselves.

Margot Robbie’s Catherine Earnshaw is rendered impulsive and overtly sexualised, rather than the fiercely divided woman torn between class ambition and metaphysical attachment. Jacob Elordi’s Heathcliff broods handsomely, but without the volcanic stillness and inherited trauma that define him in the novel. Hindley Earnshaw’s absence strips Heathcliff’s vengeance of context; rage becomes aesthetic rather than psychological.

The treatment of Catherine’s motherhood further distorts the novel’s design. In Brontë, her daughter survives; renewal is possible. The film’s decision to have Catherine lose her child pushes the narrative into gratuitous nihilism, dismantling the brutal yet balanced symmetry of destruction and repair.

The sexual explicitness is perhaps the most glaring misreading. In the novel, Catherine and Heathcliff’s love is metaphysical — “I am Heathcliff.” It is identity, not carnality. Their relationship is defined by repression and spiritual fusion. Here, consummation is foregrounded. Erotic tableaux — including a baffling BDSM-tinged encounter involving Joseph — substitute shock for depth. The aesthetic often feels indebted to decadent modern erotica rather than nineteenth-century Gothic intensity. In Brontë, desire is powerful because it is contained. Here it is displayed — and diminished.

Isabella Linton’s portrayal compounds the confusion. In the novel, her suffering is delusion turned horror — romantic fantasy collapsing into brutality. In the film, her torment at Heathcliff’s hands is stylised to the point of ambiguity, unsettling not because it is violent, but because it seems unmoored from moral critique.

Visually, the insistent palette of blacks, whites, and aggressive reds proclaims symbolism rather than allowing it to accumulate organically. The moors in Brontë breathe; they are psychic landscapes. Here they feel curated — aesthetic rather than elemental. Stylisation is not inherently flawed, but when style replaces psychological layering, the result is aesthetic noise.

Only fleetingly — in the childhood confession of love, Catherine smiling as Heathcliff sleeps — does the adaptation approach Brontë’s emotional truth. In that moment, innocence and inevitability coexist. It reminds us of the tragedy’s origin. And of what has been lost.

This is not an interpretation; it is a truncation.

By removing the second generation, altering Catherine’s fate, villainising Nelly, erasing Hindley, and substituting erotic spectacle for metaphysical passion, Emerald Fennell’s adaptation loses more than half the novel’s complexity.

Brontë wrote about obsession, inheritance, cruelty, repression, and the fragile possibility of grace.

This film offers sex without structure, shock without substance — a Gothic symphony reduced to a single, discordant note.

It does not dare too much.

It understands too little.