took notice whenever Michael Jackson danced.“The gay side of the dance floor would stop,” Cohen says, “and the hetero side would stop.”
At Studio 54, Michael wore red pants and a lot of colorful leather, and when he danced, five movie friends gathered around him in a circle. “He danced more like a tap dancer, like a jazz dancer—he’d get down really low and snap his fingers,” Cleveland recalls. “That’s the only time he seemed rowdy to me, when he was dancing.” Jackson didn’t stay out late—he had to be on set early in the morning—and he resolutely didn’t respond to Cleveland’s hot friend or the other impossibly sexy disco chicks who paid attention to him. During lunch on The Wiz set, Lumet, the director, told an oblivious Michael that women around him were“like ricocheting bullets all over the place.”
On the set, Michael took extremely seriously his choreography sessions with Louis Johnson, who’d been a pioneering African-American ballet dancer over years of punishing Hollywood racism. In the film, Michael’s most impressive steps are with Diana Ross, as he clumsily learns to walk after being imprisoned by crows on his scarecrow pole. In giant clown shoes, he stumbles, rolls on the ground, and knocks out his knees.“He had seen Charlie Chaplin. He was a great fan of FredAstaire and Gene Kelly,” says Johnson, who is in his early eighties, by phone from his New York home. “So I let him use it. . . . He asked me, ‘Could I do this?’—and then enhanced it.” But Michael also improvised his own simple steps, sometimes just“feelings,” as supermodel extra Cleveland recalls, and taught them to the choreographers and dancers on the spot. When he snapped, he threw out his left hand like a windmill, leading the dancers as a soft-spoken drill sergeant: “Did you get that?”
Jackson’s Scarecrow costume was hot and cumbersome, with a huge curly wig, a hat and vest stuffed with scraps of newspaper, not to mention a painted-on nose. Tony Walton, the film’s production and costume designer, didn’t know Michael was tormented by his brothers’ constant teasing—they called him “Ugly” and “Big Nose.”“He was thrilled to have his nose covered,” Walton says. His costume, stuffed with newspaper and bits of trash bags, was more cumbersome, but Jackson made it work. “He would be suffering in the heat, trying to stand still and keep it calm,” Cleveland says.
Quincy Jones was always present. (In the film, Jones appears dressed in gold, playing a giant piano in Times Square.) He, too, began to pay attention to Jackson. He frequently approached Tom Bähler, on hand as choir director, and told the veteran songwriter he’d never seen anything like Michael Jackson. Bähler agreed:“He’s our generation’s Fred Astaire—but better.” The two found themselves talking frequently about MJ—how he danced, how he sang, how his discipline didn’t come across as drudgery. When they were laying down vocals for thesoundtrack at A&R Recording Studios in New York, Ross showed up to do her part on “Ease On Down.” As she was singing, Jackson sat quietly in the corner, waiting his turn. She finished, and Jones turned to Jackson:“Okay, Michael, let’s just see what you’re thinking.” Jones and engineer Bruce Swedien played back Ross’s vocal. When it came time for the Scarecrow part, Michael stepped to the microphone and began to sing, not the bright-sounding Michael Jackson of “I Want You Back”but the eighteen-year-old MJ whose voice had evolved into something as smooth and powerful as the Concorde. Cohen, the producer, noticed Jones gaping.“He looked at Michael the way a jaguar looks at a goat,” Cohen says. “It was like, ‘I want him. ’ ”
Jones made his move on the set. At one point, he took Michael aside to explain a Scarecrow bit in the script—that the Greek philosopher’s name is pronounced “ Sock -ra-tees” and not “Sow- cray -tees.” As
At Studio 54, Michael wore red pants and a lot of colorful leather, and when he danced, five movie friends gathered around him in a circle. “He danced more like a tap dancer, like a jazz dancer—he’d get down really low and snap his fingers,” Cleveland recalls. “That’s the only time he seemed rowdy to me, when he was dancing.” Jackson didn’t stay out late—he had to be on set early in the morning—and he resolutely didn’t respond to Cleveland’s hot friend or the other impossibly sexy disco chicks who paid attention to him. During lunch on The Wiz set, Lumet, the director, told an oblivious Michael that women around him were“like ricocheting bullets all over the place.”
On the set, Michael took extremely seriously his choreography sessions with Louis Johnson, who’d been a pioneering African-American ballet dancer over years of punishing Hollywood racism. In the film, Michael’s most impressive steps are with Diana Ross, as he clumsily learns to walk after being imprisoned by crows on his scarecrow pole. In giant clown shoes, he stumbles, rolls on the ground, and knocks out his knees.“He had seen Charlie Chaplin. He was a great fan of FredAstaire and Gene Kelly,” says Johnson, who is in his early eighties, by phone from his New York home. “So I let him use it. . . . He asked me, ‘Could I do this?’—and then enhanced it.” But Michael also improvised his own simple steps, sometimes just“feelings,” as supermodel extra Cleveland recalls, and taught them to the choreographers and dancers on the spot. When he snapped, he threw out his left hand like a windmill, leading the dancers as a soft-spoken drill sergeant: “Did you get that?”
Jackson’s Scarecrow costume was hot and cumbersome, with a huge curly wig, a hat and vest stuffed with scraps of newspaper, not to mention a painted-on nose. Tony Walton, the film’s production and costume designer, didn’t know Michael was tormented by his brothers’ constant teasing—they called him “Ugly” and “Big Nose.”“He was thrilled to have his nose covered,” Walton says. His costume, stuffed with newspaper and bits of trash bags, was more cumbersome, but Jackson made it work. “He would be suffering in the heat, trying to stand still and keep it calm,” Cleveland says.
Quincy Jones was always present. (In the film, Jones appears dressed in gold, playing a giant piano in Times Square.) He, too, began to pay attention to Jackson. He frequently approached Tom Bähler, on hand as choir director, and told the veteran songwriter he’d never seen anything like Michael Jackson. Bähler agreed:“He’s our generation’s Fred Astaire—but better.” The two found themselves talking frequently about MJ—how he danced, how he sang, how his discipline didn’t come across as drudgery. When they were laying down vocals for thesoundtrack at A&R Recording Studios in New York, Ross showed up to do her part on “Ease On Down.” As she was singing, Jackson sat quietly in the corner, waiting his turn. She finished, and Jones turned to Jackson:“Okay, Michael, let’s just see what you’re thinking.” Jones and engineer Bruce Swedien played back Ross’s vocal. When it came time for the Scarecrow part, Michael stepped to the microphone and began to sing, not the bright-sounding Michael Jackson of “I Want You Back”but the eighteen-year-old MJ whose voice had evolved into something as smooth and powerful as the Concorde. Cohen, the producer, noticed Jones gaping.“He looked at Michael the way a jaguar looks at a goat,” Cohen says. “It was like, ‘I want him. ’ ”
Jones made his move on the set. At one point, he took Michael aside to explain a Scarecrow bit in the script—that the Greek philosopher’s name is pronounced “ Sock -ra-tees” and not “Sow- cray -tees.” As
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