Thriller

As a child, Michael Jackson scared me. On the night his 15-minute epic music video premiered, I ran into the bathroom, too frightened to see his nails turn into claws or whiskers come out of his skin as sweet-voiced Michael Jackson transformed into a werewolf before the lovely eyes of Ola Ray.

And those yellow eyes with the black slit chilled me to the core.

Yet, as scared as I was, I couldn't stay away. I wanted to see Michael sing and dance, work that magic that only he could do.

In the 1980s, Michael Jackson was the man. He could do no wrong. He was supernaturally gifted, his feet blessed by God to move in ways no mere mortal could. His voice, velvety in its soaring falsetto, floated easily over pop melodies, assured in its force, measured in its power.

His music videos were main events, families gathering around the television set to see what this wunderkind would come up with next to thrill us and take us on that Disney-like musical journey.

And believe it or not, no one, no one, was ashamed to do the moonwalk. Hell, we struggled to make our feet glide as smoothly as his. We wanted to be Michael, both Jackson and Jordan, though I stopped at getting a jheri curl (ain't no hair of mine gonna drip).

And now Thriller, his mega-selling album, a classic that remains relevant today, is 25 years old. Michael Jackson will turn 50 this year, and a lot has changed.

Usher, Chris Brown and Justin Timberlake, clearly inspired by MJ, have taken the mantle of pop entertainers, combining song and dance into one irressistable package.

And the man himself? I am still scared of him, but for different reasons. He hasn't transformed into a werewolf but merely a caricature of youth refusing to mature. His narrow nose, his straightened hair, and his lightened skin have long erased the handsome young man we used to know. Allegations of child molestation and just plain bizarre behavior distract and disgust us so much that memories of MJ's greatness fade.

I hardly believe Thriller is 25 years old. Such a lifetime ago it seems, when we believed in the magic of entertainment, that we saw Michael Jackson as some supernatural entity.

We didn't see, though, that he was only human. Not God, not a freak, but pain in flesh, flawed beyond what we could even imagine, hidden for far too long behind our own hopes and dreams all encased inside one man.

For me, Thriller still thrills, fills me with the innocence of childhood, a time when adult concerns seemed far away and I could fear in the confines of my home the evil monsters out to get me. And that magic was possible.

Atonement: Hated It

I walked into Atonement with high expectations, fed by Oscar buzz and a friend's recommendation.

I left disappointed. The tale told here is sad and tragic, and Joe Wright, the director, milks the pathos for all it is worth. The cast is filled with bright actors such as James McAvoy and Keira Knightly and newcomer Saoirse Ronan who give pitch-perfect performances.

The problem lies in the story, or more accurately, in how the story is told. Going back and forth in time, we learn about the unrequited love of Cecillia and Robbie, whose lives are forever damaged by the lie told by Cecillia's sister, Briony.

It is a lie that lands Robbie in prison and then in the middle of World War II while Cecillia works as a nurse treating injured soldiers. Over several years, we see the two come teasingly close to living happily ever after before being torn apart by circumstances beyond their control.

And at the center of their unhappiness is Briony, a prickly little girl whose narcissistic quest for attention leads her to ruin two people's lives. The rest of her life is spent trying to seek some kind of penance.

But I never quite muster any kind of sympathy for Briony or her guilt. Not once does she ever come forward to tell the truth. The pain of other people are mere canvases for her to tell the stories she never got to write fully as a child.

And though James McAvoy and Keira Knightly pour themselves into their roles with an incredible fervor, the weight of their tragedy lives never grasped me. The non-linear narrative wasn't as effective as Joe Wright thought it could be in painting a portrait of painful consequences stemming from one awful lie.

In fact, it was distracting, keeping one at a distance instead of drawing one into the interior lives of these characters.

And Briony, when we encounter her at the end as a dying novelist still trying to salve her guilt, comes across not sad but pathetic, a coward who couldn't be bothered with the bravery to tell the truth.

I certainly may be wrong in my conclusion, and if I am, there is much to atone for. But I just didn't get it.