Film: Back to Black

A movie review of the not-quite-honest Amy Winehouse biopic, Back To Black.

Back To Black

Director: Sam Taylor-Johnson

Monumental Pictures / StudioCanal / Focus Features

People are out there saying this is not the film Amy Winehouse deserves, but hang on, the film she deserves is far crueller and tougher than this — and though she might have wanted that (the truth), a lot of her fans might not. Though that’s not to say they should be entirely happy with this either. It basically follows the modern-biopic set of hagiographic tropes: Don’t say anything (too) bad about the subject, get someone better looking in place, softer, gentler in spirit — and then copy some existing footage with slavish devotion so as to have a readymade clap-back when people come for the director or writer (or actors) with more knowledge.

No — we recreated this here performance, and that there speech, word for word, song for song, that just shows the depth of our research!

That move is the power play. It allows you to really move around moments within the truth’s actual timeline. In Bohemian Rhapsody a bunch of Queen fans just looked on as Live Aid was recreated with the same angles and all the songs — and instead of saying ‘Why?’— they let the director Trojan-horse a crucial plot device twist: He told us all that Freddie gave the performance of his life after being diagnosed and keeping it a secret to the rest of the band. But it didn’t happen that way.

Back To Black does something similar, flawlessly recreating one of Amy Winehouse’s award speeches, but leaving off the bit about her boyfriend, because it didn’t suit the narrative the filmmaker was constructing. Toning down the “drunk and messy” live gig performances, because again, it didn’t quite fit the flow of the film, but hey we still got to see a drunk and stumbling Amy so must be authentic init?

But I wanted to like Back To Black — and so I gave it my best. I tried to ignore the fast-and-loose-with-the-truth shit. I let them have it that it was Amy’s grandma that taught her about the power of the beehive hairdo (not true). I let them have it that the dad was nothing but a support. And a good guy. (Blurry-as-fuck really). I let them have all that. I let them largely ignore the genius that is Frank for the promise that this was the ‘inside story’ of the career-making sophomore album, Back To Black. (I’d argue reverently that it’s Frank that is career-making, Back To Black was money-making/audience-gathering). Anyway, I let them have that — until of course the film didn’t really do much beyond play the title song as some big statement of mood.

But I drew the absolute fucking line when bad boy Blake — the love of her life, and the guy that introduced her to harder drugs than we ever get to see in this nursery rhyme — is the one to introduce Amy Winehouse to girl group samples, The Shangri-Las. That was my fuck right off moment.

After that I watched the film with folded arms throughout. And a buttoned lip (I was with my folks, my wife, and my child — all of them enjoying it, or so it seemed).

But that was the start of the shame of it.

Then the performances started getting moved around, the sobriety timelines started shifting, and so much was made of the Blake/Amy on/off thing without ever really being properly reflected.

Which was particularly a shame since I thought the guy playing Blake (solid character actor, Jack O’Connell) was fucking excellent. A right piece. And the portrayal of Amy Winehouse (by Marisa Abela) was pretty great too. At times a real knockout effort. Much as been made of Abela being a newcomer, but I’ve seen her be terrific in supporting roles in Rogue Agent, Barbie (Teen Talk Barbie) and particularly as one of the leads in the fantastic TV show, Industry. So far, her range is through the roof. And if there’s any justice at the end of this, Back To Black will properly launch her.

But as for a serious portrait? Nah. It gets the look and feel and vibe almost right most of the time. The hip-hop and jazz and classic pop loving Amy in her bedroom writing her lyrics and dreaming. The streets of London. But where is Mark Ronson? Where are the other key characters? And where’s the fucking truth of it all.

Amy’s is a sad story. But for so much of this biopic we’ve guessed the ending (well, we know it) and we’re just waiting…waiting. There was more to say, and more ways to show the despair of it all. There was (even) more tragedy. But this film basically wants you think it all would have been sweet-as if Blake had just knocked her up and let her be a mum.

What a fucking giant let-down that attempted ‘reveal’ is.