With Neverland reported to be on the block, we thought it would be timely to get a sneak peek inside the fabled place, thanks to Q Allan Brocka. Brocka, along with Glenn Gaylord, is directing Camp Michael Jackson, a WOW film following the diehard band of fans who have put their lives on hold to mount a vigil for the duration of Jackson’s trial in Santa Maria. Brocka’s account will also be featured in the June 7 issue of The Advocate on most newstands May 24, and online at Advocate.com.

Stranger In Neverland

When Michael Jackson was indicted, something in my gut told me he was probably guilty. Pity, because I liked that he was becoming so freaky over the years. As I’m a lifelong weirdo myself, it’s always nice to have a talented celebrity join the club. But a child molester? Not the kind of company I need in my club.

I left it at that and didn’t put much more thought into it.

When jury selection began, rebel documentary production company World of Wonder asked me and my directing partner to shoot a film about the fans who were moving to Santa Maria, California, to voice support for Jackson during the trial. Brilliant! Telling the stories of those most people dismiss as strange is my thing.

The fans I met ran the gamut. I tried to find a common statistic. Were they loners? Musicians? Liberals? Christians? They were a diverse bunch with little in common, not even a love for Jackson. Some supported him although they didn’t identify as particularly big fans.

They are at court by 6:30 AM to get a public seat. Those who don’t, cheer him on at his 8:30 arrival. Court adjourns at 2:30 PM and the fans cheer for him as he leaves, then many race to Neverland to greet him as he arrives home. Some hang out at the gates well into the evening, chatting, reading, or just sitting peacefully.

As I researched the case, I found it difficult to get facts free of editorial. Trusted news organizations peppered words like “weird” and “wacko” throughout their coverage. They took knocks at his looks, voice, and manner. Most jabs were related to the appearance of his race and gender – reminding me how far we have to go in acceptance not only of sexuality but of gender diversity.

The coverage made me reexamine my initial hunch. Why had I thought he was “probably guilty?” Honestly? Because I thought he was a closeted gay man. And then – snap! I had made the leap from closeted gay to pedophile all on my very own. One of the most fundamental lies used to perpetuate homophobia, and on some level, I fell for it.

I did eventually learn that the charges are such: a documentary aired that raised suspicions about Jackson’s relationship with a 12-year old cancer survivor. As the world reeled in shock from the film’s commentary, Jackson, who had not actually molested the boy, conspired to kidnap the boy and his family. As he held them captive at Neverland Ranch, he forced them to participate in a video intended to remove of any suspicion of molestation. It was during this attempt to clear his name of molestation – which, as per the prosecution, he had not committed – that he actually went ahead and molested the boy. Make sense? Not to me.

Ten years of raiding Jackson’s home have turned up nothing but two art books and a bunch of hetero porn. This trial could end proving nothing except that Michael Jackson is heterosexual. What if they’d found a Falcon video or even just a copy of The Advocate? It’s frightening to think that the discovery one of those items could seal someone’s conviction as a child molester. I’ve got lots of both.

Last year Jackson visited Washington DC to offer his help in leading a global effort to fight AIDS. Last month I filmed a young woman who approached Jackson’s SUV on his way home from court. She is battling cancer and afraid the accusation that Jackson had molested a 12-year-old cancer survivor might frighten Jackson from ever reaching out again. But Jackson held her hand tightly as she told him of her impending bone marrow transplant. His simple gesture meant the world to her. With his own family hanging in the balance, Jackson still takes the time to make a difference to someone. Every day.

After spending weeks outside Neverland filming the fans, Michael Jackson invited us all inside. There were about 70 of us, ranging in age from 10 to 80. I had to leave my camera behind.

The short drive in from the gates was beautiful, rolling green hills as far as the eye could see and every tree seemed to have a story. We parked in a large lot and signed agreements that we wouldn’t take photos or record anything before walking through the lavish inner gates. We walked right up to his porch, and Michael stepped out to greet us. He presented his children: Prince, Paris, and Prince II (aka Blanket). The kids waved, and the crowd screamed, “We love you!”

Michael then invited us into his house. Some of the fans had been to Neverland numerous times, but they’d never been into his home. I looked at the faces around me, many of them so familiar to me. Knowing their back stories, I could tell what this moment meant to them. I knew each was, right now, experiencing one of the highlights of their lives.

It was then I realized, so was I.

His home reminded me of a souvenir shop at Disneyland, everything had a fine shiny finish and many of the storybook-like displays were devoted to the history of his family. My first instinct was to reach out and touch everything, to ingrain the memory into my fingers, but I restrained myself.

Michael, his children, and his parents mingled with us, making a point to personally thank as many as possible. He smiled graciously as I passed him, and all I could think to say was, “Thank you for the music.” Later I kicked myself; I could’ve said anything, but I quoted ABBA to the King of Pop.

He opened the arcade where we played video games, ate candy, and drank soda. Some simply sat by the water fountain, taking it all in. Peaceful music and bedtime stories were piped in throughout the property via speakers that looked like rocks.

Since then, I’ve been unable to describe the experience without thinking I sound like a lunatic. The happiness was overwhelming. My eyes welled up. There was something almost spiritual about it. I felt kinder, more generous, a better person. I looked around at my documentary subjects, giddy with excitement, and finally saw what they had in common: Michael Jackson brought out the best in them.

My friends say I’m brainwashed, a wacko. I argue Jackson’s case every chance I get. But it wasn’t Neverland that changed me as much as the realization that homophobia and sexism play such large roles in the public’s perception that he’s “probably guilty.”

Whatever the eventual verdict, two things I know: One, Michael Jackson has committed so much of himself to helping others that thousands of people are better off because of him. Two, Michael Jackson is an American citizen. Just one of those things is enough to let him remain innocent until proven guilty. Give Michael Jackson his day in court.

– Q Allan Brocka

(Q Allan Brocka is also the director of the gay comedy Eating Out.)