Which kind of mess is this? This single question, well-known by Amy Winehouse fans everywhere, is provoked by Sam Taylor-Johnson’s “Back to Black.” The character we see, played by Marisa Abela, hails from Camden, and she was famously “just one of the girls.” Down to earth, charming, funny, and a jaw-droppingly talented performer with an unbelievably soulful voice whenever she opened her mouth.
Though indeed, those who remember Amy will also remember the demons that haunted her in the form of addiction, the media never left her alone following her death at age 27 due to alcohol poisoning in the summer of 2011.
“Back to Black” depicts the years between Frank’s breakthrough success in 2003 and the titular album’s explosion three years later in 2006. However, don’t expect to learn about Amy the person or even Amy the musician. What Matt Greenhalgh’s script for Taylor Johnson’s film cares about is “Amy,” The substance abuser.’ In other words, it is nothing short of awful as a biopic.
There is an assumption about any biographical film centered around a musician: it should revolve around their music career. While there are plenty of performances throughout “Back to Black” showcasing some of Amy’s most famous songs, they seem almost exclusively used as simple soundtrack and pity fodder rather than essential structure.
It feels like they’re thrown in haphazardly just so we remember that she was a performer too and not just another emotional wreck they want us to believe she was. Next to none of its runtime is given over to actually showing us how either album got made; instead, we get fractional context into her artistry, minor bullet points like a single guitar in the bed song writing wash, or cheeky Mark Ronson namedrop
Amy’s legacy is misunderstood by “Back to Black”. It fails to acknowledge any of the reasons why she and her music were so loved. Very little of her actual career is touched on in the film. Instead, it plays like a montage of toxic romance, drug use, and impromptu tattoos. The singular clip we’re given of the making of Back to Black is a moment of her tearfully recording the titular track, declaring “he’s killed me,” hard cutting to a leap in time where Amy is in the deepest throes of substance abuse.
Not even her addiction, a misguided though central focus, gets a thoughtful narrative; it’s just something that happens off-screen because we know it happens anyway. Many onstage moments serve to show issues with sobriety or the mournful longing she feels for her on-and-off boyfriend and eventual husband, Blake (Jack O’Connell).
Abela gives a valiant effort in her performance, loosely capturing Winehouse’s onstage mannerisms and idiosyncratic dancing. But gesture is not essence, and there’s always distracting artifice to this depiction: Winehouse’s charisma and charm were almost as famous as her voice, yet Abela’s hollow copy and exaggerated accent put her out of depth in attempting to replicate them.
If the film’s navel-gazing take on defining Amy by drug use wasn’t criminal enough, however, then its treatment of these struggles and their eventual outcome as matters not even remotely within anyone’s control should be downright illegal and bound to end her from the beginning. Every reach for a beer or glass of wine is dramatized like a smug nod at what we know is coming.
From top (and middle) of this movie too many times over again already do about much more than merely setting up expected punchlines does script make clear that Amy was philandering snarky silver tongue who criminally interfered with love lives others while fated victim to her own heart all along; Blake presented as casualty to irrepressible storm of Amy’s out-of-control nature (which according simple biography he never should have been) but dad still powerless well-meaning even though we’re never given any reason believe so.
These guys aren’t fully at fault either, but leaving out their enabling and exacerbation of Amy’s vulnerabilities is just plain wrong in terms of respecting history’s dignity for all involved here. The film does nothing more than portray Winehouse as a naïve mess who happened to write some good songs, and while she may have been that person too IRL, it doesn’t make for compelling cinema; it begs the question: Why was this film made?
When we think back on how media treated Amy with our 2024 eyes, looking at pop culture’s past through a lens post-Britney enlightenment, where exploitation disgusts us, hopes rise inside that next time around we won’t let her down. If only death could bring honor where life failed to do justice. Unfortunately, such an expectation sets the viewer up for failure from the get-go.
As Taylor-Johnson directs scenes, shaking head, oppressive pap tailing every move they fail again themselves by doing nothing different than what those same sensationalists would have done anyway, this being said though it’s hard not feel like there’s something wrong when films about tortured souls end up feeling so lifeless like this one did.
Taylor-Johnson’s predatory and voyeuristic eye always fails to exploit Amy’s addiction without empathy or care. It only presents the music as a result of supposed love for pain and wrong choices, making the hero seem pathetic.
“Back to Black” turns its subject into a martyr, reducing Amy Winehouse’s life and music to a series of binges and failures at getting over heartbreak. It forcibly removes every shred of her agency or humanity, positioning her as nothing but a tragic figure with one iconic album. While it is impossible to tell Amy’s story without discussing addiction, treating it like her whole life while crowding out personhood and leaving out the other building blocks of her legacy amounts to an affront against storytelling.
This movie is painful for all the wrong reasons for those who love her; anyone left behind by their true love for themselves must be devastated by this portrayal. “Back to Black” starts with the same conversation that finishes it, where she says, “I want people to remember me as a singer.
I want people to remember me for my voice.” However, besides remembering some darker parts in between these moments, the film hardly recalls anything else about her, which posthumously comes across as more like too bad than anything else likely to disturb many people walking away from the theatre.
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