The Resurrection of Michael Jackson

Truth, lies, and myth

When Michael Jackson was taken to court for alleged child molestation in 2005, the prosecution launched their case with what they thought was an unbeatable opening gambit: rolling the entire “Living with Michael Jackson” documentary, in which British journalist Martin Bashir had gained unprecedented access to the superstar’s inner sanctum. Over nearly two hours, Bashir holds on for the bizarre theme park ride that is life with Michael Jackson—buying out a flea market, touring the world, dodging throngs of fans and paparazzi, handling (or mishandling) three small children whose mothers apparently bore them for the sole purpose of being adopted by Jackson. Jackson is coy about these unsavory paternity arrangements, just like he’s coy about how many plastic surgeries he’s had. Just two nose jobs, he insists, but of course Bashir knows this is a crock, and of course Jackson knows that he knows. They are practicing a slow dance, the world’s most famous man and the tabloid journalist circling him like the world’s most patient shark.

Amazingly, the whole thing had been Jackson’s idea. His record sales were declining, and ever since his first messy scandal in 1993, he’d never shaken off the swirling suspicion about his open secret obsession with young boys. But if he flung wide the gates of Neverland, the sprawling California ranch he had converted into his own private Disneyworld, he reasoned that it would show the world how magical and innocent it all was. He especially wanted the journalist to meet a boy he had helped, an “underprivileged” young cancer survivor named Gavin Arvizo.

As the starstruck Gavin earnestly praises Jackson, something feels off about the whole tableau. The boy rests his head on the man’s shoulder, the camera lingering on their intertwined fingers as Bashir starts asking uncomfortable pointed questions. Has Gavin ever shared a bed with Jackson? Well, not quite. They say Jackson gave up the bed and slept on the floor. But couldn’t Gavin have stayed in one of the place’s numerous spare rooms, or spare houses? Yes…but all kids who visit Neverland “want to stay with me.” Midway through the awkward scene, you can watch Jackson’s eyes and see the moment when he realizes he’s made a misstep in this dance.

A year later, all hell broke loose when young Gavin accused the star of “lewd acts,” as well as plying the boy with alcohol and pornography. A decade earlier, Jackson had hushed up the family of his most dangerous young accuser, Jordan Chandler, to the tune of $20 million. But he wouldn’t be able to spend this problem away. The Arvizos would have their day in court.

And yet, as the jury watched the scene from the Bashir documentary where Jackson teaches the journalist how to moonwalk, the entire courtroom started to bob their heads to the beat of “Billie Jean.” Even senior deputy DA Ron Zonen couldn’t help tapping along. He hardly realized what he was doing until the chief DA leaned over and hissed in his ear, “Would you stop moving your foot?”

It was then that journalist Diane Dimond began to worry. For ten years, she had prided herself on being a thorn in Jackson’s side, undeterred by threats veiled or overt. Now she had a front row seat to what could be the crashing end of the whole saga. The End of Michael Jackson. Or…perhaps not. Perhaps they would spend week after week hearing evidence and counter-evidence, examination and cross-examination, only for the man sitting statue-still in the middle of it all to get up and moonwalk away.

Five long months later, when the verdict came down, “Not guilty,” the fans outside started screaming. A young preschool teacher, who had quit her job to make a pilgrimage to the trial and won a drawing to be inside the courtroom, collapsed in a dead faint. A weeping woman released a pair of doves. Asked for comment, Jackson’s imposing ace lawyer Tom Mesereau said with conviction, “The man’s innocent. He always was.”

For young Gavin Arvizo and his family, the message was clear: If you come at the King, you’d best not miss.

There were no cameras allowed inside the courtroom, which meant that people’s impressions of the trial were filtered through print. But a new Netflix docuseries, The Verdict, has recreated it through witness testimonies, court sketches, and archival footage. The series arrives as if on cue to play gritty true crime counterweight to the gauzy biopic Michael, which is currently soaring towards a global record-breaking 1 billion at the box office.

Taken together, film and series encapsulate the perpetual Rorschach test that is Michael Jackson’s public image. Clearly, his fans aren’t going anywhere. Indeed, their ranks are swelling with new members too young to remember the 80s, or even the 90s. But so, too, are the ranks of Jackson’s alleged abuse victims, as yet another family has come forward just this year with four siblings’ distinct, lurid accounts of violation. Try as everyone might, neither narrative seems able to drive the other out of the public square.

Did he or didn’t he? Now, as then, it depends on who you ask.