"This Is It" is Spellbinding

When I think back to my days in college I realize that I and those of my age were incredibly fortunate to have had the shared cultural experiences that were evolutionary at the time: MTV, answering machines, the first consumer cell phones, . . . . and Michael Jackson. Off the Wall, Thriller, and Bad were his albums of our time; we knew every word of every song, watched his videos incessantly and wore out every cassette of his we had - only to be replaced within hours; God forbid we had moments without Michael. As life went on, I kept Micheal in my life through iTunes downloads, the frenzy replaced with respectable doses of nostalgia: remembering moments from a past filled with carefree gaiety, parties, and important milestones that dot a college career.

In spite of the odd twists and turns of his life, I still had enormous respect for his talent and my admiration for him did not diminish for a second. I did though, find pity in my heart for a man whose every move was dissected and criticized, whose heights of fame and money brought heartache and accusations, accusations that led to humiliating court battles and lawsuits that could never be proven. Beaten and dejected, he withdrew, and with what would have been the final straw for most, he showed the world he was not all they said he was: he was strong, he was resilient, a survivor, he was a Phoenix.

"This Is It" was going to be a 50-city tour; an ambitious undertaking considering the stakes; it was to be a resurrection of sorts. Back in the public eye and grueling rehearsals had Micheal the target of the media again: he was frail, he was too thin, he didn't look well, he had sleep issues, he had drug problems, etc. etc. Then the unthinkable happened: Micheal died. And he didn't just die - he died it seemed, from all the things they said about him. My sadness was tempered by disbelief and feelings of defeat. That all those things might have been true was a sad statement of his return; perhaps he really was too weak, the sad little boy in a man's body.

Still not quite registering his death, I went to "This Is It" yesterday at the IMAX Theatre. It was one of the most beautiful film's I have ever experienced: a testament to the intuitive genius talent of Micheal Jackson. A film about a man, not a sad little boy but a man, whose spirit, energy, and talent drove those around him to be better because of him. A man who was in full mental capacity, demanding of his intuition to the nth degree while gentle and generous with his crew, a man who showed strength, vigor and health through the demands of rehearsals. The realization of who Michael was just before his death was bittersweet: those things they said about him were not true, at least to the degree it has been portrayed making his passing more tragic.

The realization and full impact of his death hit me at the end of the film; I cried. I cried for him and his family, the vindication the film provides, and I cried for me, the sadness of knowing that someone who brought so much happiness, light, and memories into my life is gone, that the promise of what was to come will never be. I miss him.