Posted: June 27, 2009
Now that the king is dead, we search through memories of his reign. Most will remember his videos, music and dancing. The lucky ones will have memories of seeing him performing or meeting him in person. My encounter with the King of Pop has all the suspense and drama of a thriller— the genre, not the song. There were people in uniforms real and fake, hysterical fans, new bride, even a car chase for good measure. All that set up in the beautiful historical downtown Budapest, Hungary, during the three days of hot summer in 1994.
Michael arrived to Hungarian capital to film the “History” video for his new album. He had his new bride in tow, Lisa Marie Presley, the daughter of another king. I was sent to Budapest to photograph Michael, with no access to his inner circle—not a great prospect for success. So I woke before dawn and set the camp in front of the luxurious Hotel Kempinski, annoyed to find throngs of fans have already taken the best spots. Somewhere through the morning someone pointed to one of the balconies with the curtains drawn shut over the window, and proclaimed it to be Michael’s room. Every move of the curtain, which for all I knew could have been caused by the maid, stirred the screaming crowd. Hands were thrust upward, some clutching cameras, others reaching toward the unreachable. Voices called Michael’s name, the chant started and continued in waves, dying down only to pick up again with the next move of the curtain.
I never found out if that was really the right balcony.
However, it wasn't long before a dark van with tinted windows backed into the hotel entrance. There was a huge commotion and Michael – in red shirt and the trademark black hat – ran from the hotel and dove into the back of the van. With the screech of tires, the vehicle raced off. By the time the reporter and I reached our car, the van was nowhere in sight. Strategically placed observers, however, paged us the route of the van and soon we were on its tail. We were by no means the only car following. Fans and media created an impressive convoy trailing the van. Strangely, after the initial burst of speed, the van drove almost leisurely, taking us on a tour of Budapest and away from the hotel. An hour or so later, the van stopped in a suburb causing a mad tangle of cars breaking around it, doors swinging open, people running, pushing, shoving each other, cameras ready, screams rising as the rear doors of the van opened.
And Michael came out.
And Michael came out.
Or rather, an oversized, fattened version of him. Only his face bore a resemblance to Michael Jackson. While we chased the look-alike, real Michael took his wife shopping undisturbed by the cameras, as we found out later.
The next day found me perched on the hill overlooking a square where an army of extras in uniform waited for the king to lead it through the filming of the scene. The king was there too, albeit in a white air-conditioned van to keep cool against the hot August sun. When finally the scene required his presence, a huge black bodyguard would open a big purple umbrella to shade his highness. All I could see through my insanely long tele-lens were the boots walking to the square and disappearing in the army of men. As they were marching away from me, I never got a clear look at Michael. Then the umbrella re-appeared to take him back to the van, covered from the sun and onlookers. And on it went in that manner for the rest of the afternoon.
Of course, I tried to get the spot closer to the scene, only to be told by the cops that Mr. Jackson booked the area for the whole day. No cameras were allowed in the perimeter. That’s how I ended up atop the hill with no real chance for a picture. What seemed to be a quick paparazzi-like job slowly turned into a nightmare.
The lucky break came that evening. After several hours long wait amongst the hundreds of fans, the accredited media was herded an area hospital’s yard where Jackson, holding Lisa Marie’s hand, whispered his statement to a man who repeated it aloud to us. Michael was watching his voice, we were told. I finally had my picture, although that wasn’t really a break, because everyone else had it too. And, I never got to hear Michael Jackson speak.
From someone whose life consisted of music, this silent whisper came as a surprise.
The next day found me perched on the hill overlooking a square where an army of extras in uniform waited for the king to lead it through the filming of the scene. The king was there too, albeit in a white air-conditioned van to keep cool against the hot August sun. When finally the scene required his presence, a huge black bodyguard would open a big purple umbrella to shade his highness. All I could see through my insanely long tele-lens were the boots walking to the square and disappearing in the army of men. As they were marching away from me, I never got a clear look at Michael. Then the umbrella re-appeared to take him back to the van, covered from the sun and onlookers. And on it went in that manner for the rest of the afternoon.
Of course, I tried to get the spot closer to the scene, only to be told by the cops that Mr. Jackson booked the area for the whole day. No cameras were allowed in the perimeter. That’s how I ended up atop the hill with no real chance for a picture. What seemed to be a quick paparazzi-like job slowly turned into a nightmare.
The lucky break came that evening. After several hours long wait amongst the hundreds of fans, the accredited media was herded an area hospital’s yard where Jackson, holding Lisa Marie’s hand, whispered his statement to a man who repeated it aloud to us. Michael was watching his voice, we were told. I finally had my picture, although that wasn’t really a break, because everyone else had it too. And, I never got to hear Michael Jackson speak.
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