by James Howard Kunstler, Kunstler:
If you want some insight into how deep the collective public psychosis in this land runs, check out Dan Reed’s four-hour documentary about the late Michael Jackson streaming on the HBO cable network. The film apparently provoked outrage when it premiered at the Sundance Festival recently, as if it were in bad taste to disclose the icon’s peccadillos in these days of Progressive intersectional triumph.
Mr. Jackson methodically assembled a harem of catamites as his show business fame exploded and he struggled with the personal horror of developing into a full-grown man. He solved that problem by restricting his social consort to little boys while surgically metamorphosing into a schematic approximation of a woman — interesting, since he repeatedly referred to women as “evil,” but then his greatest hit was the self-revealing song, Bad.
Everybody and his uncle’s-second-cousin in Hollywood at the time must have known what the deal was with him but they went along with the gag that he was the reincarnation of Peter Pan, just a harmless character out of Show Biz’s own catalog of manufactured mythology, something they could understand, a framing device to spin cotton candy out of the truth that Mr. Jackson was simply a child-molester.
The two men featured in the film, Wade Robson and James Sawchuck, now full-grown themselves, with children of their own, were recruited at age 5 and 7, with their families coming along for the ride, mesmerized by the sparkly trappings of Jacksondom and all the money and unreality that emanated from it. The two moms, Joy Robson and Stephanie Sawchuck, gave permission for their boys to travel unaccompanied with Jackson on tour, and to share Mr. Jackson’s bed, testimony to their amazing feckless credulity. Sometimes they stayed at the star’s 2700-acre Neverland Ranch. Joy Robson states that whole days would go by when she wouldn’t see her son there, or know what he was doing with Mr. Jackson, feeling so alone that she resorted to passing the time with Mr. Jackson’s pet chimpanzee. “We became good friends,” she said of the chimp. Meanwhile, Mr. Jackson had initiated her son into homosexual sex with him, apparently in every room at Neverland — and there were a lot of rooms in all those buildings.
There were several other boys lured into the star’s sexual service besides the two featured in the film, and the law eventually caught up with Mr. Jackson. Though the prosecution botched both of his trials, the evidence and testimony made public was so unappetizing that even Hollywood had to quietly dissociate from the damaged entertainer — emphasis on the quietly. The star did the rest, losing most of his fortune, and eventually his very life at age 50 via a drug overdose. Gore Vidal put it best, as when remarking on the death of his literary rival Truman Capote: “Good career move.”
The fathers of these two boys come off as ciphers in the documentary. They seemingly had nothing to say about the insane goings-on, an interesting preview of the current status of adult males in this land today: authority revoked. The career of Mr. Jackson was also a preview of what America is acting out these days: a life of no boundaries, where anything goes and nothing matters. The bottom line for him, as he told one of the mothers who demurred from allowing her kid to leave home and spend a year living with Mr. Jackson, was “I always get what I want.”
Michael Jackson’s stalwart fans have mounted a counter-attack against the film and its maker, Dan Reed. “They’re the Islamic State of fandom,” he said.
As The New York Times put it in its coverage of the lurid tale, “Jackson’s supporters don’t see it that way. Instead they identify as researchers and activists who view Jackson as a civil rights case.” I suppose the Southern Poverty Law Center will brand the film as a vehicle of “hate,” and take up their battle flag. Since every other threshold of sexual behavior and identity has been crossed by now, get ready for the official attempt to normalize pederasty.