Essentially a glorified sizzle reel stringing together interviews and TV performances any serious fan is likely to have already seen, the documentary does little to deepen our understanding of Michael or his music.
While the pop singer, as you would expect, doesn't dig too deeply into the more scandalous aspects of his life, the documentary isn't simply self-serving, either.
The film wanted for grit, and for context. Where we needed Johnny Marr, we got only James Corden. Where we could have done with a Simon Reynolds-style figure, we had to make do with a nodding Mark Ronson.
It skirted around George's chronic drugs problems, and made no mention of the circumstances surrounding his death. But it also neglected to mention that he was an endlessly generous man, who gave away millions without asking for recognition.
The documentary's heavy emphasis on the early-to-mid '90s has the marked feel of someone taking stock of their memories and curating their desired legacy. Which, of course, is the prerogative of an authorized, posthumous, hour-and-a-half documentary.
