In 2015, director Asif Kapadia let us in on the life and legacy of the genius, tragic existence that was Amy Winehouse with the documentary Amy. Using archival footage spanning 14 years and over 100 interviews with those that knew her best, it truly gave us an insight into the singers’ meteoric rise and brutal downfall. It was Amy “in her own words.”
This respectful mentality is what director Sam Taylor-Johnson thinks she’s adhering to with Back to Black, a seemingly well-intentioned, but insultingly formulaic, passionless biopic that ironically lacks any of the authenticity its subject continually harps on about possessing.
Considering Taylor-Johnson has a musical biopic under her belt (the John Lennon focused Nowhere Boy) and that Fifty Shades of Grey, for all its faults, is a great looking picture, it’s shocking how amateurish Back to Black appears, not to mention her reunion with Nowhere Boy scribe Matt Greenhalgh hasn’t made way for a script of wealth or worth.
The Amy Winehouse presented here is 18 when the film commences, and thanks to dialogue that sees her speak in only exposition, we learn that drama school wasn’t the right fit, she’s a fan of all things mid-20th century when it comes to musical styles and aesthetics, and she’s a great singer. She also has a lovely bond with her nan, Cynthia (Lesley Manville, coming out of this relatively unscathed), who used to be a singer in the 60s and had a penchant for a beehive hairdo (we all know this will be an important “plot point”), and her dad, Mitch (a wasted Eddie Marsan).
Marisa Abela has the unenviable task of embodying Amy, and under both Taylor-Johnson’s direction and Greenhalgh’s pen she’s a walking disaster of a performance. I truly believe it was never the intention of anyone involved – least of all Abela – to disrespect Amy in any form, but never once do you feel as if you’re watching a real person. It’s a caricature. A drag performance.
There’s also a certain lack of the underdog narrative that the real Amy seemed to continually personify. The singer suffered from bulimia as a teen, which played into her skeletal frame in her 20s – this image often what was peddled to fuel the general mass’s skewed view of who Amy was – which was only exacerbated by her drug and alcohol dependency. In Back to Black, we hear all about Amy’s bulimia struggles, but not once do we ever witness it, and Abela’s appearance remains largely unaltered across its taxing 122 minutes.
Abela is also far too gorgeous an actress to properly convey Amy’s defiance against the music industry system. That’s not a slight on Amy’s appearance at all. The singer was unconventionally sexy, and had to fight to prove she was, but it’s a tough sell for us to believe Abela’s version of Amy would ever have to prove her aesthetic was a tough selling point; “I ain’t no Spice Girl”, she rebelliously tells a record executive (this line not nearly hitting as strongly as I assume Greenhalgh intended) early on in the film, despite the fact that she looks as if she could easily sit alongside the pop quintet.
Amy’s career is also quite mishandled throughout the film too. The many montages Taylor-Johnson likes to pepper us with barely lets us sit with the recording and release of her debut album, 2003’s “Frank”. We hear it earned her accolades, yet the record company were disappointed with its initial UK chart peak of #13. We know she wasn’t just handed the album, but Back to Black doesn’t exactly suggest much of a struggle.
It goes without saying that there’s little that Back to Black gets right. And whilst it’s difficult to not compare it to the documentary – which paints daddy Mitch in a much harsher light than what this film chooses to – even if you’re viewing this on its own accord, it would be difficult to not be frustrated with Taylor-Johnson’s lack of spine. She has stated that this film was designed to be a love letter to Amy and that she didn’t want to demonise Blake Fielder-Civil (Jack O’Connell), her eventual husband and apparent enabler. It’s all very well and good to not necessarily showcase Blake’s culpability in Winehouse’s addiction and paint him as the dreamy type of guy that Amy saw, but as portrayed by O’Connell – who, like Abela, is far too conventionally attractive for the role – he’s nearly a damn saint. Yes, he does harder drugs, but there’s never the “bad boy” energy he allegedly possessed, and the volatile brawls the two have (which were apparently a common occurrence throughout their union) never seem born from anything organic.
So, does Back to Black get anything right? Well, it’s certainly not lines like “I’m not a feminist, I like boys too much”, but, to Abela’s credit, the recreations of some of Amy’s famed performances momentarily inject the film with some fire; “Rehab”, in particular, is quite a faithful doing of her broadcast performance prior to her infamous Grammy win. They linger far too long – not every song has to be performed in their entirety – and the choice to have Abela use her own vocals may irk purists, but with so much of the film omitting realism, perhaps it’s in the Winehouse estate’s best interest that Amy’s vocals be left alone.
With so much to say about the exploitive nature of her label, her father and her husband regarding her drug abuse, and that the entertainment industry in general feeds off creatives and offers little protection, it’s a shame Back to Black scratches little surface area and holds no accountability for those involved in Amy’s life that are still alive. Again, I know the makers of the film have made this as a way to celebrate Amy, but seemingly rewriting her character and bathing her story in melodrama doesn’t speak to a love or respect of her.
It’s all too easy to quote Ms Winehouse herself, but when asked if they should make this movie, all involved should have said “No, no, no.”
ONE AND A HALF STARS (OUT OF FIVE)
Back to Black is now screening in Australian theatres.
