Michael Jackson's Peter Pan obsession - Times Online
Michael Jackson's Peter Pan obsession
When the theatre director was asked to meet the king of pop, he suspected a hoax. But the singer was seeking help to become the boy he had always wanted to be
(Alan Greth)
Then, dressed in red velvet trousers and a red shirt, his face unexpectedly pale and with a hint of cosmetics on his lips, there he was. The king of pop was shaking my hand, thanking me profoundly for “sparing time” to see him, attentive to my every need, as coffee and delicacies arrived in a whirl of white pyjamas. Something about the way he walked — a high instep, or a slight flat-footedness, something less lithe than I had been expecting — prompted my last vestige of misgiving, a suspicion that I was with a brilliant impersonator of the world’s single most famous man.
He sat a few feet away from me and as our conversation got rather stutteringly under way, I found myself noticing what seemed to be faint discolourations of skin grafting on his face, the brilliance of his eyes, which at reflective moments seemed to well up with sadness, and the soft girlishness of his voice, especially in laughter. I didn’t really know who to “be”, as the unreality of this encounter gave way to the rational conclusion that it was actually happening: I was watching me at the same time as being me. Should I be an awestruck fan, or somebody from the music business who could share a bit of his vocabulary, or a wise elder bringing cool assessment from a different discipline?
I suppose I tried all three, as we talked about the new album, Bad, the rigours of being on tour, the rehearsal regime for his breakthrough choreography and the opportunity for the creation of something completely original.
In response to his questions, I told him things about Cats and Starlight Express, shows I had directed with the intention of finding more environmental, inclusive ways of presenting music theatre. In return, Michael told me how he yearned to be able to do something more spectacular, such as flying over the audience. “Oh, I know just how to do that, no problem,” I said banteringly. “I had people flying over the audience when I did Peter Pan.”
Something seismic had happened. He reacted as if an electric current had just passed through him. He sat up to the edge of his chair, clutching the arms with splayed hands, one of which was gloved. “You did Peter Pan?” he whispered.
“Yeah, in London,” I said.
He leapt up. “You directed Peter Pan?” The high-pitched voice went higher as he walked up and down in front of me, repeating: “Oh my God. Peter Pan! I don’t believe it.”
I described our production, in which all the children’s parts had been played by adult actors. He bounded across the room, his eyes full of tears, he knelt down in front of me, his hands on my knees, and he said: “Could I play Peter, is it too late? Will you let me play Peter? All I ever want to do is to play Peter Pan.”
From that point on I was his new best friend. White-clad figures hovered in doorways, worried that the yells, squawks and squeals of unbridled delight might be the sounds of their lord and master being beaten up by his unknown visitor. He knew every incident in the Peter Pan story, he recited lines from the text and he became immensely vulnerable and childlike as the delight transformed him to some earlier moment in his life.
The unexpectedness of this convulsion, in which I had suddenly become the possible enabler of his greatest yearning, prevented me from reflecting on what it meant or what condition it revealed; but I think I realised something about his life as a child star and his eccentric discomfort with being grown up was being shown and this revelation was very private and very rare.
The meeting finished after two hours, but not before he had made me “promise” to go to his concert the following night. I was scheduled to be in the garage below the hotel at 5.30 in the evening. I arrived through a similar cordon of security and then discovered to my disbelief that I was being ushered into a Dormobile vehicle with black glass windows, containing a driver, two security men and . . . Michael Jackson.
I travelled with him to the stadium and had the unprecedented and unrepeatable experience of being invisible in the dark interior, as totally visible hordes of fans screamed adoration and reached out to touch the glass as we passed. I was taken backstage with him briefly, before following an escort to my place beside the sound operator at a massive desk in the best position in the entire auditorium.
I was under strict instructions. During the journey there, Michael had said in a number of different ways that I was to tell him everything I didn’t like about the staging and what he was doing. When I responded that I was sure there would be nothing I didn’t like, he became urgent and insistent: “No, you must tell me . . . I need somebody to tell me . . . think of how it could be different . . . think of how I could fly.”
He was, of course, astonishing — incomparable as a dancer, with the music seeming to come not just from his mouth but from his entire supercharged body. I allowed myself to note that the show was very unstructured, that there was insufficient contrast and that a hint of a narrative might allow more of his fascination as “a character” to emerge.
After the thunderous finale, I was ushered backstage again and into the vehicle, soon after to be joined by an utterly drained, almost lifeless Michael and a short, sturdy, middle-aged man with a greying ponytail, Mr DiLeo. I tried to tell Michael how miraculous he had just been, but all he would say was: “I want to know what you really think. Not now. Tell me tomorrow.”
Back at the hotel, his manager confirmed there could be no more talk until Michael had slept for 12 hours. I was instructed to show up at the hotel room the following day at noon. By then I had worked out a proposal that would indeed have a hint of narrative, structured round the song Man in the Mirror, allowing him to become two versions of the same person, one a full-on, sexual animal as in Bad, the other a more sensitive, tender, innocent creature of imagination, one who, at the show’s climax, would fly up and away.
When Michael came in again at exactly the appointed hour, he was with Mr DiLeo. This made things twice as difficult, for although Michael remained rapt and enthusiastic, almost too impressionably saying, “Oh, I love that” and “That’s wonderful”, his manager was altogether more businesslike, asking for detail in questions such as, “Exactly how would you do it?”
I had the distinct impression that Michael saw us as two children in the presence of an adult and was urging me to ignore this parental control. He raced on to future plans. He urged me to return to England via Los Angeles, so we could meet and talk more. He insisted he could switch his rehearsal plans to New York to coincide with my next obligation, which was rehearsing a Broadway musical. I was given telephone numbers to make contact in Los Angeles and New York.
Michael agreed to pose for a photograph with my little daughter if I fetched her from my room. That photograph is the only real evidence I have that any of this is true. However many times I called, I never got through to Michael again and I couldn’t entirely rid myself of the idea that people in the organisation were under instruction, very politely, to keep me away.
But here’s the point. I wasn’t the least surprised to hear that Michael Jackson had made a huge children’s playground at a ranch that he had called Neverland, the name of the home of his beloved Peter Pan. When the accusations of sexual molestation of children appeared, I believed then, as I believe now, that they were untrue. Call me naive, but I am convinced he was being Peter Pan.
Peter presides over a group of Lost Boys, children who look to his leadership but who he needs as much as they need him. The Lost Boys live in the same big room as Peter and they all sleep in the same big bed. Inviting boys to Neverland, staying in the same room, all sleeping in the same huge bed . . . these are the activities that were at the centre of the abuse allegations. But Peter is almost androgynous, he is sexless, he is adored by Wendy but has no concept of the love she wants from him.
J M Barrie, the creator of Peter Pan, was himself suspected of child abuse. Peter’s desperate yearning for permanent childhood, the fear of growing up and compromising with an adult world was, to a large extent, Barrie’s autobiographical experience, fascinated as he was with other people’s children while living in a seemingly unconsummated marriage
As for Jackson? He was, possibly, the Wacko Jacko of the tabloids, but what I witnessed of his obsession with Peter Pan was different, unfakeable and real. It was not really about a part he wanted to play. It was about the person he wanted to be.
© Trevor Nunn 2009
