Throughout her more than two-decade heyday, Janet Jackson was an astonishingly modern pop superstar – a risk taker with a distinctive voice, a vibrant sense of self-presentation, and an innate understanding of the magnitude of the labor required to create earth-shattering music. She was the embodiment of authority and authority, practically unparalleled in her time and carefully copied by later generations.
But in “Janet Jackson,” a four-hour documentary that premiered over two nights on Lifetime and A&E, the highs and lows of Jackson’s career are often presented as some sort of collateral asset or damage. Her brothers were famous at first; Jackson was the feisty younger sister who came next. When her brother Michael, then the most famous pop star in the world, was first charged with sexual impropriety, Jackson lost her chance at a lucrative Coca-Cola sponsorship. When a wardrobe malfunction derailed Jackson’s performance on the 2004 Super Bowl halftime show, it’s her career at stake, not her collaborator’s, rising star Justin Timberlake.
It’s a curious choice for the first official documentary about one of the most influential musicians of the last decades. But what makes it even more curious is that Jackson is the executive producer herself (along with her brother and manager Randy). It’s a bait and switch, using the lure of entry and intimacy — cameras tracked her for five years, we’re told — as a means of deflection.
“Janet Jackson” is a sanctioned documentary with the feel of a YouTube news clip aggregation. Jackson is interviewed extensively, but mostly delivers play-by-play, rarely color commentary. In some parts, especially when she’s shown talking to Randy, she’s the one asking questions, especially when the couple returns to the Gary family’s home, Ind. At nearly every emotional crossroads, the film drops a whooshing thump, an unconscious echo of the “Law & Order” chunk, and cuts to commercial. This choice makes emotionally charged moments melodramatic and melodramatic moments comic.
In between elisions, “Janet Jackson” is supported by some phenomenal archival footage, mostly shot by Jackson’s ex-husband René Elizondo Jr., who carried a camera throughout their time together – as romantic and professional partners – in view of a future omnibus. archive. We see Jackson in the studio with Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, in a tug-of-war of willpower as they flesh out the sound of “Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation 1814,” her second album with them and the career-making follow-up “Control.” ” During the recording for the 1995 single “Scream,” we see Jackson and Michael talking about lyrics, and Michael asks her to use the voice of her rock hit “Black Cat.” There are sleepy but telling footage of a meeting with Coca-Cola while Jackson is being offered that sponsorship, as well as scenes from the table from the 1993 movie Poetic Justice, in which Jackson starred alongside Tupac Shakur.
As for drama – there is no drama, this film emphasizes. Everything is fine. Joe Jackson, the family patriarch, is presented as a beacon of hard work and discipline, not abuse, without whom the children’s success would have been impossible. Jackson’s exes – James DeBarge, Elizondo, Jermaine Dupri – are largely forgiven for their improprieties. Her third husband, Wissam Al Mana (they broke up in 2017), is never mentioned, but the son they share, Eissa, is mentioned and shown briefly. As for the Super Bowl appearance that derailed her career, Jackson and Timberlake are good friends, she says.
Or maybe something else is going on. “She suffers in private all the time and none of you are involved,” said Wayne Scot Lucas, her regular stylist.
That also seems to be Benjamin Hirsch, the director of the film and the one who peppers Jackson with questions. In several segments, Hirsch uses the audio of his question to give a more complete picture of the incomplete answer he is receiving. His questions are gentle but direct, with only a hint of the awkwardness that comes with pushing a famous and famous private person in an uncomfortable direction. When he’s probing, Jackson often sits in the backseat of an SUV, chauffeured to a location designed to evoke a memory; the most vulnerable aspect of these scenes is physical closeness, a space-sharing closeness that is a proxy for actual feeling-sharing closeness.
When the spotlight is turned over to others, especially Jackson’s behind-the-scenes collaborators like Lucas and the dancer Tina Landon, tiny flickers of brightness appear. And greater appreciation for Jackson’s artistry comes from Jam and Lewis (who also act as the documentary’s music accompanists), and her former choreographer Paula Abdul. Plenty of other superstars are being rounded up – Whoopi Goldberg, Mariah Carey, Samuel L. Jackson, Barry Bonds (!), Missy Elliott – just to shower Jackson with platitudes, a colossal missed opportunity.
It’s rude to dwell on what isn’t covered here, but since official documentaries can lean towards the hagiographic, there’s dangerously little analysis or appreciation for Jackson’s music or videos, only claims of their greatness. The only exception is Questlove, who is arguing for her election to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Jackson’s life has spanned many traumas, but this film mostly remembers them in a light-hearted way and doesn’t advocate her triumphs strongly enough. Plus, the editing is choppy and the lighting is often gaudy—a tabloid-style production for an artist deserving of vanity treatment.
But the veil comes from within. Even during her pop peak, Jackson was often coy, and years of public scandal that plagued her even from afar have seemingly disinclined her to do much more than shrug and back off.
In that regard, the film is a success. And sometimes the restraint is made literal. When Jackson’s mother is asked about Michael’s death, she falters a bit, and someone off-camera, seemingly Jackson, asks her if the interrogation is too much for her. She says yes, and they move on. And when Jackson talks about her father’s death – “I got the opportunity to thank him, thank God” – that’s the rare moment when emotion takes over. But after a faint shudder, she puts up a wall: “Okay, Ben, that’s enough.” And yet.
