Convergence Zone
In September 1985 my posse and I, along with several thousand similarly rabid teenaged girls, descended upon Oakland Stadium to witness the miracle that was Wham! We stood through a full opening set by Katrina and the Waves and another by the Pointer Sisters. I bought a T-shirt whose then-scandalous price I still haven't confessed to my mother. And we screamed our fool heads off for George Michael.
By Sheri Quirt | June 19, 2008
Convergence Zone
The film gets off to a pleasing start, cannily priming the audience with cheery nostalgia: prehistoric “Top of the Pops” footage and video clips that made all in attendance hoot with affection at how ridiculous they (we) had looked back then. A late-model Michael (VG+) fondly assesses Wham!’s (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wham) image as “consistently naff (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=naff),” yet grouses about how no one could get past the visuals to take his artistry seriously. His solution: Following his solo debut, the 1987 blockbuster "Faith," the singer abruptly retired from promotion of any kind and began specializing in the bombastic, self-indulgent wrist-slashers that have become his stock-in-trade. His catalog since is a collection of increasingly ponderous bummers redeemed by the occasional catchy dance track.
And thus we downshift into sobriety: Michael in black clothes and dark glasses sitting on a couch avoiding eye contact, a cursory rehash of his life’s highs and lows, and a few concert highlights. There isn’t much here to engage the non-fan nor reward the devotee; the film presupposes a degree of familiarity with the singer’s backstory, yet it doesn’t probe uncharted territory. After 93 minutes, the only new things I had learned were that he has an annoying nervous tic of rubbing his nose and that he patronizes Starbucks – telltale fat green straws poke out of venti cups in scene after scene. Michael is at his most genuine when the topic is Anselmo, his partner who died of AIDS in 1993; the singer can still barely speak of him, pausing repeatedly to fight back tears. His new love, a genial meathead from Texas, seems to make him happy, but he’s clearly second-marriage material.
By Sheri Quirt | June 5, 2006
