There was a persuasive article in yesterday’s Times by Richard Morrison, the paper’s chief culture write, under the heading, “It’s despicable that the Michael Jackson biopic has turned him into a saint”.
“Michael, the $155 million biopic of the pop star Michael Jackson,” writes Morrison, “has passed $1 billion in box-office takings and is close to becoming the year’s most popular film.”
Morrison’s tone is measured. He says no more than that Jackson “had relationships with children that were certainly inappropriate and probably abusive”.
“It’s hypocrisy,” he continues. “We apply different standards to paedophiles or quasi-paedophiles deemed geniuses. The argument is: ‘Yes, he had a dodgy private life that may have included abusing children, but look at the masterpieces he produced!’ I could fill several editions of the Times with examples of composers, writers, visual artists and performers who are fêted despite revelations about their inappropriate behaviour with children, while less talented men (Jimmy Savile, Gary Glitter and so on) have rightly had their reputations permanently trashed.”
Morrison goes on to focus on major cultural figures from the past, including Paul Gauguin, who “was a sex tourist before the term was invented, deserting his wife and five children in Europe to live in Polynesia, where he had three child brides (one aged 13, two 14), giving them syphilis in the process. They also served as models for his paintings, which hang in the world’s most famous art galleries (including the National Gallery and Courtauld in London).”
OK, Jackson wasn’t as bad as Savile, though he was almost certainly as bad as, say, Rolf Harris – but at least Harris recorded some decent songs, which is more than can be said of Jackson.
You can’t fault “Sun Arise” or "Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport”.
