Do a dance, on the floor, in the round.
Photo: Matthew Murphy
A show isn’t a deposition; a musical isn’t a witness statement. A series of songs, strung together by a combination of managerial and commercial interests, isn’t an argument. But there’s something about MJ, the jukebox bio-musical about Michael Jackson, that definitely feels like it’s squirming under cross-examination. In the moments between its big production numbers, it deflects; it distracts; it ducks and takes the fifth. It opens its mouth and drops out blather so anodyne, so contorted and textureless and bloblike, it barely resembles speech. Only the music and movement in MJ work — the show’s Michael, Myles Frost, glides and hip-rocks…
