Amy - A Documentary Review (Available to view on Netflix)
I never liked Amy Winehouse. Certainly I was aware of her vocal talents, but I found her lifestyle irritating in its self-destructiveness. I was sorry when she died, but it had seemed almost inevitable given her substance abuse, poor choice of relationships and general state of mind. And whilst these judgements might have foundation, I regret assessing her so dispassionately, along with countless commentators who derided her off-stage behaviour and antics. Viewing this documentary has shed a new and painful light on her life and untimely death. I think differently about her now.
The film was mesmerising, infuriating and, towards the end, almost unwatchable in its march towards her death. Her talent was unquestionable, both as a singer and songwriter. I hadn’t known she had penned so many of her songs. The ultimate irony is that one of her most famous and recognised songs, “Rehab”, was written after she refused to seek help for her alcohol and drug abuse, the result of which would take her life a few short years later.
The film consists entirely of amateur film footage, TV footage, audio clips and photos. Whilst the simple and silly home movies that she made with her school friends are not unusual, I found it extraordinary that Amy’s fledgling professional life had been documented from the very start of her career. She comes across as a dizzying mix of intelligent muso, femme fatale and innocent youth. A theme explored early on, is her view on fame and celebrity. As a teenager she rails against it and I truly believe she means every word. In those first interviews, she says she thinks it would drive her mad. Later she seems genuinely surprised and flabbergasted by all the attention. During her drug fuelled days she is either oblivious or aggressive towards reporters and photographers. Finally, and most poignantly, and within days of her death, she says she would trade it all just to be able to walk down the street unmolested by vulturous paparazzi. Watching the footage of news photographers swarming and invading her space is a truly shocking experience. Were they there to report on a great singer/songwriter and discuss her music? Or were they there to snap a broken and wasted waif of a girl and catalogue her descent into despair?
Her tragedy can be described as a perfect storm – too young, too talented, too vulnerable, too scarred by childhood experiences, too little impulse control intertwined with a group of people whose regard for her wellbeing was either insufficient or conflicted by the financial desire to see her make records and perform. The central heartbreak of her story is that no-one with any direct influence on her life either steps in to prevent risk taking behaviour or steps up when she needs assistance to deal with the serious health and mental health issues that plague her later life.
There seems little doubt that Amy was a challenging and contrary individual, even from a young age, but the pervading view that Amy was her own person and could and should be allowed to make her own decisions, even when it was palpably obvious that she was in no position to do so, was irresponsible at best, indefensible at worst. This approach saw Amy smoking marijuana at 14; drinking heavily; learning to eat and vomit to control her weight; engage in toxic relationships, most notably with her one time husband Blake Fielder-Civil who introduced her to crack cocaine and heroin and with whom the worst of her drug abuse occurred; refuse rehabilitation when it was arguably at its most treatable, controversially with the support of her father; and make poor decisions regarding her professional management. All of the three significant men in her life had other priorities, either to keep her working and in the public eye or to indulge in a hedonistic, wasted lifestyle. It is appalling to grasp that these priorities were catastrophically aligned: that Amy wasn’t just famous as a singer, she was famous and, more importantly, sold records, as a troubled artist. The absence of resolve to truly assist her is most evident when she is told that many people function quite normally as heroin addicts.
The footage of her final ‘performance’ in Serbia is the most harrowing. She had been unwell but her manager/promoter states that he gave her the choice to go and she agreed. But, when she wakes up in Belgrade, having been lifted onto a private jet in her sleep, she phones friends to say she wants to come home. She can’t, of course. She is announced to the audience and an unsteady, glassy eyed stick of a girl wobbles onto the stage. She teeters towards the microphone but veers off and, instead, starts hugging members of the band. Initially, and understandably, they look uncertain but as time goes on the panic sets in. When will she start? Will she start? If we give her a few more minutes, maybe she’ll come good. But she doesn’t. And, by now, the cheers of the audience have turned to boos and jeers. And no-one does anything!
Inexplicably, given all they know about Amy, they let her figuratively die on stage. No friendly arm guiding her to safety, to rest, to ask what’s wrong. It was gut wrenching and deeply disturbing. She was dead, within weeks.
But – Amy didn’t want to die and her death wasn’t suicide. She was told many times that her alcohol abuse and bulimia, in particular, could cause her heart to stop beating, as it eventually did. But she always wanted to live, to get clean, to live for her music. Will things be different for the next Amy? Will people step in more quickly and decisively, recognising that once substance abuse becomes entrenched, people can never get well on their own, as her father so disingenuously declared? One can only hope that the fascination with ‘troubled artists’ loses its appeal and this sad, sorry tale is never repeated.
THE END