MJ dramatizes King of Pop's preparations for his 1992 tour

For those too young to remember, it's difficult to imagine how omnipresent Michael Jackson was at the height of his career. Walk into a convenience store, and you'd hear "Billie Jean" playing. "Rock With You" would be playing at the roller skating rink. Close the copy of TIME you'd been reading--yes, he was on the cover--and turn on the TV: there he was, a dancing zombie in the "Thriller" video. Only The Beatles sold more records, and it took four of them to do it. 

Despite his fame, or because of it, Jackson remained something of an enigma, an object of speculation, allegation and rumor until his death at 50 years old. MJ, the jukebox musical based on preparations for his 1992 tour, onstage at Devos Performance Hall through July 14, attempts to peel back the layers to show us the man behind the icon. But the icon ends up stealing the show.

It begins unceremoniously: no music, no curtail pull, just a rehearsal area. People, mainly dancers, wander in. They chat, stretch. Occasionally, someone official-looking announces the time: five minutes 'til Michael. Three minutes til Michael. Until, finally, there he is: Michael Jackson, the King of Pop. Roman Banks fully inhabits Jackson's seemingly contradictory combination of gentle humilty and steely ambition. He takes his backup dancers through "Beat It," and we're reminded, if we needed a reminder, how Jackson was a generational talent, both as singer and, especially, dancer.

The story moves back and forth in time. Rob (Devin Bowles), the stressed tour manager we've just begun to know, becomes Joe Jackson, Michael's exacting, abusive father. Years pass by in minutes; we see the rise of the Jackson Five from young hopefuls to hugely successful act. Throughout, Jackson is a hulking, menacing presence, driven to cruelty by his fear for his children, and by his own failed dreams. 

As well-cast as Banks is--and he's very well-cast; he nails every step, every note--Bowles nearly steals the show. A second-act moment I won't spoil had me gasping aloud. Suffice it to say that he's so magnetic it's a wonder every piece of metal didn't fly to him.

As Jackson discusses his plans for the tour, it's clear he wants to avoid exercises in nostalgia (as Satchel Paige once said, "Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you"). But the musical, inevitably, is suffused with nostalgia. How could it not be? "ABC," "Man In The Mirror," "Black or White": these are songs in heavy rotation in the soundtrack of our lives. My niece, Hadley, is thirteen; Jackson died before she was born, in other words. But she knew more songs than she'd thought (and, incidentally, absolutely loved the show).

Then again, what's wrong with nostalgia? The audience thrilled when Jackson donned the sparkling glove, knowing it was time for "Billie Jean." And Jackson himself was nostalgic for the great dancers of the past; the show's careful to demonstrate the joy he took in their work, and the way the lessons he learned from them can be seen in his own. 

Really, nostalgia is the best thing on offer here. The book tries to peel back the layers, but its blade is blunted by a tendency toward cliché and a reluctance to directly address the worst of the allegations made about the singer. What we're left with isn't a person but a supremely driven, astoundingly talented icon. For all that it gestures toward doing so, MJ never quite turns its gaze on the man in the mirror.