Mystify: Michael Hutchence (2019) - Movie Review

In terms of the archetypal rock star, the one that women want, men want to be, and everyone else starts learning their tastes quickly in response to, I can’t think of a better example of Australia’s own crop in that regard than one Michael Hutchence, AKA the lead singer of INXS. And in this tell-all documentary directed and co-edited by Richard Lowenstein, who put together the group’s best-remembered music videos, the narrative of Michael’s life is wrapped around that image.

Calling INXS one of the sexiest pop bands of all time isn’t exactly a stretch, and Lowenstein and co. know this. As such, while the depiction of Michael as an artist hits a lot of familiar notes for this type of production, ideas of love and lust remain firmly at its centre. He’s shown as a romantic, an artist with rather high-brow tastes, and an introvert who becomes an extrovert once on stage, but beyond the music, his story is told primarily through his romantic partners.

The depiction they give is one of a classic hedonist, someone who wanted to experience the world through his own senses and bring a similar joy to others. In regards to the senses, the film highlights Michael’s connection to the novel Perfume: The Story Of A Murderer, complete with footage of him at one of the film’s IRL locations and espousing on the book’s plot. This is furthered by the perspective of Kylie Minogue, who offers a seemingly shallow look at their relationship, putting it down as mostly being about pleasure for them both, but one that ends up bulking the story of the man’s life… and the tragedy that would end it.

Honestly, again beyond the musical aspect, the main thing that Michael Hutchence is remembered for over here? The urban legend that he died in the middle of a session of autoerotic asphyxiation. Yes, even after it was officially debunked, that titbit remained a staple for hack stand-up comics for quite a long while. But purely restating fact over fiction would’ve been one thing; actually hammering home what led Michael to his death is quite another, and this is where the film gets seriously affecting.

It’s once again a familiar tale of drug-fuelled excess (let’s leave the cheap jokes about that alone for now) and mental illness, one involving a twisted combination of a bad run-in with a taxi driver and those damn British paparazzi, but one where the moments between the start and end of the decline are brutally clear. As a result, what begins as a reasonable look at one of Australia’s biggest pop icons takes a dive into Michael’s own dive, where that same sensory experience that made his life was taken from him. Watching the second half of this feels like being on the edge of a cliff where, at any moment, someone is going to push you off of it, an incredibly visceral reaction that fits a film all about visceral reactions.

This is an insanely depressing watch, but also a rewarding one. While drawing parallels between Michael and other tragic artists is temptingly easy (Kurt Cobain had a thing for Perfume as well), the prevailing sense of doom that permeates the bulk of this feature feels wholly unique to itself. I’ve covered quite a few films on here involving the rise and fall of mainstream artists, both documentaries and scripted biopics, but I can’t remember any of them filling me with so much dread for a story I already know the ending of like this did.