“Back to Black” (2024) is the biopic about Amy Winehouse, the British singer-songwriter who tragically joined the 27 club. Marisa Abela plays the young legend just when Island Records started to court Winehouse to sign on to their label until she becomes sober after her divorce. Despite soulful performances, it is like watching a train wreck.
The key to any biographical drama musical movie is the music. “Bob Marley: One Love” had a severely uneven script, but the soundtrack features the titular reggae singer’s original vocals. “Whitney Houston: I Wanna Dance with Somebody” (2022) had a great actor who did not resemble the legend, but most of the original recordings or remixes appear in the movie. Abela sings Winehouse’s music so while she embodies the real-life figure in spirit, no one is Winehouse, and by making that creative choice, “Back to Black” loses the audience that would see the movie just to listen to the music and had no other cares. With all due respect to the entire cast, who deliver seamless performances, especially Abela, very few will be seeing this movie to support them. The only draw is Winehouse, and her story. As featured in the movie, there is not one song that I want to hear again, which means it failed.
“Back to Black” is a paint-by-the-numbers biopic. You can practically feel screenwriter Matt Greenhaigh check off a list of scenes and songs that must appear in the film. It was distressing to see a character do something then correctly predict what would follow: bulimia, fall for bad boy, relative’s cancer diagnosis, breakup, death, etc. I’m not even very familiar with Winehouse’s life story so for me to know what was coming, the movie was as a subtle as a brick to the face.
Since “Back to Black” is an estate authorized biopic, some people like Mitch Winehouse got off lightly and lovingly instead of being depicted as exploitive and dangerous. There is no veneer of objectivity, and the film paints him as an indulgent loving father who wanted her to admit that she needed help before intervening as opposed to a vulture who ignored the clear signs that his daughter was dying before his eyes. Also it centered the men in Winehouse’s life like her father and her husband. Winehouse has two friends, and if anyone can remember hearing the second friend’s name, i.e. the one who did not live with her, or heard her even say a line, I challenge you to remember those two details without consulting IMDb or some such resource. Her mother is inexplicably solving complex mathematical equations then largely disappears until the Grammy Awards scenes. The people whom Winehouse made music with barely have an off-stage storyline. They only exist to stand behind her, a woman who admired Black music and who (hopefully, probably) spent a lot of time with Black people, but they are wallpaper. It makes her seem like a poseur, and such a portrayal does not honor her memory. There are also a lot of characters who get referenced but are never shown: her brother, Mark Ronson.
It felt like Greenhaigh made a creative choice to distill the film according to Winehouse’s alleged stated priorities, her ambition to be a wife and mother, not her actual life, which means that the movie is a series of moody music videos with very thin narrative connective tissue. Unfortunately, it is also a long movie with little substantive material, so an unfair amount of pressure is placed on the cast’s shoulders to fill in the blanks with their performances. They rise to the challenge, but they should not have to.
Abela shows the descent of Winehouse from bright-eyed singer to strung out songstress, and she explores the emotional gradations with subtlety and nuance. I’m surprised that so many critics thought the film would not depict Winehouse’s substance use disorder in a sympathetic manner, but I did because of the family’s involvement, and the film met my expectations. It leaned hard on showing her as someone who would feel comfortable kiking with Nancy Reagan (“Class A drugs are for mugs”) then descends into using drugs and alcohol to cope with stage fright and a lack of emotional regulation skills. “Back to Black” seems to suggest that Winehouse got addicted to Blake and drugs to distract herself from facing the impending loss of a loved one, which explains why she is such an unapologetic “pick me.”
There was one substantial relationship between women, and it was between Winehouse and her paternal grandmother, Cynthia or “Nan,” whom Lesley Manville plays. Manville is terrific, but she does not have to do much. Fans of Manville’s performance in “Phantom Thread” (2017) will have to wait to see her play another woman who is not loveable. It was an unexpected pleasure to feel that Winehouse did have some functional family relationships.
Jack O’Connell is a great actor who disappears into his roles and never ends up in any films that become blockbuster hits. Sadly “Back to Black” is no different, but once his character, Blake, Winehouse’s husband, appears, he is the star, not Amy, and O’Connell chews every scene up. With his popped polo shirt collar, rolled up short sleeve shirt to better show off his tattooed biceps and tight pants, it is easy to see how Winehouse could fall for such a walking red flag (girlfriend, coke habit, couch surfer, diminisher of her fame).
Director Sam Taylor-Johnson works as hard as the actors to cover up the narrative flaws by making London its own character and made an unofficial ode to the music history of the city. Her use of color worked. When “Back to Black” begins, Winehouse’s room is stark white like a cell or an institution. She wakes up alone after sleeping with her boyfriend. After one night with Blake, her room is filled with different shades of pink, and Blake next to her in bed. In the final scene, her new house is suffused with natural white light as if she has turned a new page, but a reminder of her broken heart and Blake’s absence plunges her back into a pink room before she ascends a white staircase with her grandmother’s bird staring at the screen signifying that she was ascending to heaven and dying, finally a free songbird. It is a bit on the nose and trite, but points for trying. It is better than repeatedly seeing Winehouse stumbling or running in slo-mo through the same tunnel.
I wanted to enjoy “Back to Black,” but yearned to rewatch the documentary “Amy” (2015) instead. Despite great performances, it is still a slight, melodramatic biopic about a person who was more than her music and men even if she did not think so. It is impossible to project a lifetime, however short, on screen, but this flick leaves plenty of room for improvement. If you want a long music video and are not picky about the quality of the music, then definitely check it out.
