My defining memory of Michael Jackson — vulnerable, brilliant, otherworldly — is of watching him dance to the soundtrack of a movie.
My defining memory of Michael Jackson — vulnerable, brilliant, otherworldly — is of watching him dance to the soundtrack of a movie.
This was early in our friendship, around ten years ago in New York. I visited Michael in his hotel room and was amazed to find it decorated with Hollywood posters and eight-foot cutouts: Anakin Skywalker peeping out from the folds of Darth Maul’s cape, ET bicycling over the full moon.
I told him he should see The Matrix, because of the spoonbending sequence, and he immediately instructed his aides to book a whole cinema. The response was instant: ‘Yes Michael!’ Nobody around him ever said ‘No’ to him… and during the tragedy that unfolded over the next decade, I often reflected that what he needed above everything was someone to tell him ‘No’ once in a while.
We took Michael’s little boy to the Sony cinema, and sat side by side in the empty auditorium with boxes of popcorn and candy.
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in