Wednesday, June 24, 2009
If the two previous rehearsals were seen as great successes, this one is spectacular.
Kenny Ortega calls Michael’s performance “bioluminescent.”
Randy Phillips calls it “fantastic.”
In Michael’s mind, he is merely doing what he has done his entire life: demonstrate his extraordinary professionalism. His work ethic is more than “the show must go on.” As an entertainer, he is not satisfied until he drains himself of every last bit of creative energy.
Before this week began, many doubted whether that entertainer would ever reemerge. But on Monday night, Michael dispelled those doubts. On Tuesday, the doubters were believers, and now, on Wednesday, the believers—the singers, dancers, promoters, managers, lighting directors, choreographers, wardrobe staff, crew hands—have become celebrants, openly cheering Michael’s every move.
Without being told what Michael has endured these past sixteen weeks since the announcement of the This Is It shows in London, those involved with the rehearsals have sensed his enormous struggle. They have seen him down and withdrawn; they have understood that his absence has resulted from a deep and enigmatic depression of spirit. And now that he has returned, now that the dark clouds have parted, these people bathe in the light of his victory. He has beat back the demons that have kept him from fully engaging in the work he was born to do. In Michael’s mind, that work transcends entertainment. He must reascend to the pop culture pulpit of preaching.
A cherry picker becomes his pulpit. As he steps on the hydraulic crane that rises off the stage and moves high over the arena, he sings his “Earth Song,” the heart of This Is It’s moral message. The song is sung before a back-screen sequence of lush nature imagery, building to a crescendo in the Amazon rain forest, where a small girl stands up to the onslaught of a massive bulldozer. For several long and thrilling minutes, Michael is literally above it all. Singing of the planet’s despair, he works through his own despair. His moans, cries, and laments force us to face our own culpability. His personal witness to environmental destruction is devastating. As the crane swings from one side of the arena to another—now higher, now lower—Michael preaches with fiery conviction. His questions reverberate in every corner of the empty hall. In an anguished voice he sings out the impassioned questions: What about man’s selfish neglect? What about the unexplained indifference of God? There are no answers, only questions followed by questions: What about dying children? What about death itself? And, over and over again, what about us? What is our part in this decaying process? And can we—can he—ever change?
If “Earth Song” is Michael’s most searing sociopolitical statement, “Billie Jean” is his most personal. His dancers, awed by the power of his performance, stand in front of the stage and wildly cheer him on as he breaks into the boldest and baddest of all his grooves. Watching him, we, like his dancers, get the feeling that he has forgotten this is a rehearsal. He is on another plateau altogether, a transcendent place once described by poet W. B. Yeats: “O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, / How can we know the dancer from the dance?” Michael becomes the living answer to that unanswerable question. He simply is. He is the song; he is the dance; he is the unsolved mystery that sits at the dark center of his story; he is, at the same time, both the story and the storyteller. His drama, his funk, his sexuality, his anger, his passion, all find form in this single song that he is performing at this very moment, in front of a handful of colleagues, most of them half his age, who look up to him like acolytes looking up to a dancing, singing saint.
For the duration of the long rehearsal, Michael continues to lose himself—or find himself—in every song and every dance. The singing and dancing become a single organic act, a perfect marriage of motion leading voice and voice leading motion. He approaches each category of composition with the empathy of a great actor: he plays the gothic “Thriller” with terrifying intensity; he plays the hounded superstar in “Dirty Diana” with frightening vulnerability. As the “Smooth Criminal,” he slouches with Astaire-like aloofness. As the provocateur in “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ , ” he prances with playful swagger. As the oppressed in “They Don’t Care About Us,” he marches with lethal defiance.
So, yes, there is reason for rejoicing. And even though, as is his customary practice, Michael is holding back to conserve his voice—he has a touch of laryngitis—for the actual performances, he still gives enough of himself to excite his colleagues and show them that they are part of something stupendous.
In going through the show, Michael is far from perfect. He leans heavily on Kenny Ortega to refamiliarize him with the intricate staging. But there is never a hint of hesitation or self-doubt about his ability to command this mammoth operation. He is thoughtful and precise about giving directions concerning cues, lighting, and pacing. He knows exactly what is needed to maximize the drama.
In his eyes, those around him recognize his drive and determination. They clearly see that when he hits the London stage, he will be off the wall. He will be dangerous. He will be bad. He will be making history. He will be the man in the mirror. He will be shedding his blood on the dance floor. He will be invincible. He will be every character—every emotion and every attitude—that he has ever assumed. He will become his art, and his art will be radiant.
It’s past midnight when Michael leaves the Staples Center, but before he does, he, his dancers and singers and musicians, and director Kenny Ortega form a circle in which Michael addresses the group.
“Everyone is doing a great job, and just continue to believe and have faith,” he says. “Give me your all—your endurance, your patience, your understanding… It’s an adventure, it’s a great adventure, and it’s nothing to be nervous about.
“They just want wonderful experiences. They want escapism. We want to take them to places they have never been before. We want to show them talent they have never seen before. So give your all.
“I love you all. We’re a family. Just know that we’re a family. We’re bringing love back into the world to remind the world that love is important… We’re all one. To care for the planet, we only have four years to get it right—or for us it’s irreversible damage we’ve done. So I have an important message to give.
“I thank you for your cooperation… Thank you… A big thank-you.”
With that, he follows his entourage outside the arena. Randy Phillips walks with him. At one point Michael turns to the AEG chief and says, “Thank you for getting me here. I got it now. I know I can do this. I’ll take it from here.”
He’ll be back tomorrow for another spirited rehearsal.
All he needs now is a good night’s rest.