I caught a little movie on the tube Monday night--grainy black-and-white title shots promising gritty realism--with names that would wake up even the most somnambulistic movie fan: Quincy Jones and Martin Scorsese (no less)--with tracking shots of the hero returning to his squalid ghetto dump, being greeted by surly winos and gun-toting, crippled junkies ("Jackson's 'Bad' Video Not So Good," by Terry Atkinson, Sept. 2).
And who is our hero? Why, none other than that 29-year-old-but-still-in-high-school monument to cosmetic surgery, Michael Jackson.
My 6-year-old daughter asked me, "Daddy, is that a boy or a girl?" She had me there. I was stumped.
Anyway, Michael's shady (but very clean-cut) companions take him to a subway tunnel so that he can prove his home-boy badness by mugging pensioners. Michael demurs, and thus incurs the wrath of his cronies who then angrily close in on him. We switch to color, and Michael, magically joined by about 25 transvestite carnival employees, switches to leathers.
Looking tough as tapioca, he sings endless unintelligible phrases ending with the word bad, and they all do interminable aerobic body-isolation movements that are supposed to pass for dancing, and when done simultaneously, voila! Choreography!