My timing in seeing films sometimes causes wonder in me. Watching the painfully self-destructive, fatal behavior of an addict on the screen rips at my heart. Seeing the vacant stare that hides the apparent hurt and pain behind those eyes brings such sadness. These are the things that rang out to me in watching Amy, the new documentary about the brief life of Amy Winehouse. These are the things that didn’t sucker-punch me, because watching an addict never is a surprise, and their devastation doesn’t arise from nowhere. But these are the things that, watching them, picked at the scabs of hurt for everyone who has ever endured watching someone you love spiral downward.
Unfortunately, I missed the first half hour or so of the film (but I have AC now, so I’m not complaining), so I missed the back story. But my movie companion, who made it to the theater on time, filled me in on some of that childhood and parental absenteeism that paved some of the road. Not that an absentee, emotionally distant father or overbearing mother creates an addict, and not that all addicts have struggled in their youths. But that sheds some faint light on where Winehouse started.
The rest of the film, portrayed mostly with some performance footage and still pictures and voice-overs from friends and family members, takes the viewer through the time when Winehouse recorded Back to Black through her death—and that revolving door in her life of drugs and alcohol. Amy was painfully shy and reserved, and she hid behind the drugs and the alcohol and the highs to get through those insecurities. A friend shared with me that such is true for many performance artists; they fear the spotlight, but the relish in their art. Using substances to alter their emotional state provides a curtain and a veil behind which they can still perform. But the consequences of doing so are too often too costly. Sure, for us, we were given Winehouse’s amazing talent and voice. For her, she was given death.
My movie companion and I discussed the film afterward. We both were particularly bothered by the incessant nature of the paparazzi in trying to capture photos of Winehouse. And no doubt, that helped lead to her end. But what is there to do? Consumers are voyeurs, so a market is created. As long as people crave to see those sides of artists, such will continue. I wish I knew a way to temper that, but I don’t.
We also talked about society’s reaction to Winehouse’s reputation and drug use. The film showed clips of the late night comedians making jokes. Those are hard to watch after she’s died. The cruelty of taking someone’s abysmal state and poking fun stings my soul. But I also don’t think ignoring her behavior while still glamorizing her music is the right thing to do. I don’t know the answer.
The film did not shed much new light on Winehouse or addiction or anything else. It wasn’t ground-breaking. But it did leave me with questions. And questions are always a good thing, as they keep us looking at things from different angles and perspectives. For that, especially, it’s worth seeing.