Every generation is defined by a genre of film that is inexplicably popular, and despite the rallying cries against them in terms of artistic relevance, audiences devour them en masse, primarily because they offer something that entertains and enthrals, which can be frustrating to those who can see through the illusion and can only fixate on the clear artistic shortcomings. Recently, we have seen an exponential growth in the number of biographical films about musical figures. They have existed for decades but were usually more bespoke works that carried some sense of artistic relevance. The more recent entries, with only a few exceptions, tend to be rapidly produced and contain very little substance – and the most recent victim of the tendency to make a film about any vaguely interesting musical figure is Amy Winehouse, whose life story is committed to film in Back to Black, which also serves to be the most recent directorial outing for the controversial Sam Taylor-Johnson, who is surprisingly adept at this genre, having made Nowhere Boy over a decade ago, which is one of the few entries into this genre that contains some artistic merit and doesn’t just rely on the same hackneyed conventions. The same cannot be said for Back to Black, which is a film defined primarily by its extraordinary laziness, telling the story of one of the most remarkable singers of the 21st century, and someone whose life was tragically cut short in one of the most heartbreaking events in recent musical history – and yet, despite the abundance of intriguing aspects of her life, we have to endure a bland, almost tasteless biographical drama that is neither inventive nor interesting, and seems to be on the verge of disrespect, being saved from being entirely atrocious only through the restraint Taylor-Johnson shows at sporadic moments. They’re sufficient in making the film more dull than atrocious, but not enough to elevate it beyond being a jumble of hackneyed ideas that feel mostly misguided, despite the incredible story it was telling.

By this point, it seems clear that every musician is going to be the subject of a film, with the more tragic or controversial their life, the more excited these opportunistic filmmakers will be to explore their lives, or at least commit to film the closest approximation of what they imagine their life to have been like, based on the most surface-level research that essentially entails reading the free biographies available on the internet and absolutely nothing else. There are a few films that break this pattern and produce something worthwhile – Back to Black is certainly not one of them, since it seems like it follows the same technique of being a series of musical performances, combining obscure deep cuts with their greatest hits, and then weaving a narrative in between, which is unfortunately a common method, since producers of these films have noticed audiences flock to these films not for the dramatization of the subjects’ lives, but rather to see new interpretations of their favourite songs by these artists. It’s lazy filmmaking, and Taylor-Johnson doesn’t do anything new or unique with this material. Much like the majority of these mass-produced musical biopics, Back to Black is deeply unnecessary, lacking any real artistic merit or nuance, and giving us very little insight into its subject. It genuinely believes that boasting the involvement (or at least approval) of Winehouse’s family will be enough for audiences to be convinced that it is authentic when in reality it does more harm to her legacy than it does good, particularly because it sometimes comes across as exploitative. If you were to make a checklist of all the most obvious traits of this genre, Back to Black would meet nearly every criterion, with the only salvation being that it has some semblance of respect for the memory of its subject, enough to at least prevent it from being entirely artistically impoverished, but still making it entirely unnecessary.

However, the biggest flaw that we can find in Back to Black is not that it is using Winehouse’s talents and legacy as a cheap way to entertain audiences (it may not be much, but there is some degree of reverence shown), but rather that this is a film that takes the completely wrong approach to her life. Some have defended the film by noting that it is a “fairytale” version of Winehouse’s life, a vaguely fictionalized account of her journey, and one that is primarily filtered through the lens of the relationship she had with Blake Fielder-Civil, whom this film seems to imply was the true love of her life, and the ultimate source of the broken heart that it claims killed her, a grotesque reduction of her struggles with addiction and mental health. The film goes wrong in many ways, but most notable is its tendency to be overly sentimental, to the point where it becomes quite difficult to sit through some parts of it, especially if you are someone who has some prior knowledge about Winehouse beyond her music (it doesn’t help that Amy, the wonderful and thorough documentary by Asif Kapadia, exists and tells a more complete story about her life and does so without needing to resort to cheap techniques or overwrought commentary that had no place in any part in the story of her life), since some of the characterization is hopelessly misguided, it borders on fantasy. Taking this singular talent who marched to the beat of her drum and turning her into a boy-crazy hopeless romantic is an awful misunderstanding of all the aspects that made Winehouse such a generational talent and an inspiring figure to anyone who looked to her as a figure of defiance and rebellion against a patriarchal system that sought to define her. Winehouse’s efforts to avoid categorization are entirely ignored after a while, and the decision to have it descend into an overly heavy-handed story of her simply wanting to be a wife and mother (which is true, but far from the only defining factor of her life) is dreadfully misguided and proves that the film focused on the wrong aspects, and approached her life in a way that feels like it isn’t giving her any agency as an individual.

Winehouse was such a singular talent, and the aspect that made her stand out was the fact that there was simply no one else like her, something that was definitive of her entire public persona. From her uniquely soulful voice to her distinct fashion sense and personal style, she was a true original who some have tried to emulate, but no one could ever dare replicate, unlike the vapid pop stars to whom she was desperate to avoid even the vaguest comparison. Casting the part was always going to be a challenge, especially if they wanted to keep some semblance of accuracy – and the responsibility to bring her to life fell to Marisa Abela, a talented young actor who unfortunately had her breakout performance be in a film that is neither a good use of her as an actor, nor a particularly good tribute to the world-renowned figure she is playing. It is very clear to see when someone is cast solely because of a passing physical resemblance, and while Abela does look remarkably like Winehouse in a few shots (few directors have exploited a profile shot more than Taylor-Johnson, since the only time Abela truly looks like Winehouse is in certain angles), the essence simply isn’t there, which prevents the film from actually being a proper tribute. It also doesn’t help that, despite having a good singing voice, Abela doesn’t sound much like Winehouse, and she constantly strains her voice to imitate her iconic timbre, it starts to feel like it is bordering on tragedy. The alternative was to have Abela lipsync, either to Winehouse’s recordings or to new ones made by a soundalike, but this would have been just as cliched, meaning that the one aspect of the film, which was the music, is almost entirely dismantled by this very obvious flaw that becomes a much bigger problem than it ought to have been. Abela does her best, and Back to Black will at least be a chance for audiences to become acquainted with this very talented young actor, but nothing she does can change the fact that this film is a middling affair, and uses her more as a pawn, rather than giving her the space to prove her very clear gifts, a fate that would have befallen just about anyone cast in the role.

Back to Black is not the atrocity that some have made it out to be, but it still isn’t a film that is either necessary or even very good, which is an unfortunate but common occurrence that we have seen with this recent trend towards giving any vaguely popular musician a film dedicated on their lives. It isn’t even a matter of imagining how these films could have achieved better results, since the idea of retreading the life stories of popular musicians, whether tragic or triumphant (or both, in a few rare instances) doesn’t come across as being particularly innovative or unique, and instead feels like a waste of resources that could be spent on more original works, rather than just being dramatized versions of the lives of people that we admire, but not enough to endure these sometimes vulgar approximations of their life by people who rarely show any reverence for them. Taylor-Johnson does show that she admires Winehouse, and there are moments where her grit is on display, but they’re mostly invalidated by the cliche-riddled narrative that is never particularly original or compelling, and outside of some electrifying musical performances (which were the entire raison d’etre for this film and those like it to exist – no one is coming to these films to see depictions of the subjects’ tense domestic life or personal struggles, or at least it isn’t the main aspect of attraction), the film itself is quite bland and conventional in a way that is deeply boring and mostly uninspiring. Back to Black is not terrible, but it is a major disappointment – there aren’t many ways that it could have been improved, but at least showing more respect to Winehouse by not shoehorning her remarkable story into a cramped bundle of cliches seems counterintuitive to her entire existence, especially for a film that includes very clear references to her desire to not be formed into a particular “shape”, somehow going against her primordial request. There are many reasons to disregard this film, but the fact that it adds nothing of value, either to the pre-existing knowledge we have about Winehouse, or to a genre that is known for its immense laziness, is one of the fundamental reasons Back to Black is so uninspiring, and why it will likely fade into an ocean of similar films that lack artistic resonance, narrative complexity or directorial precision, and instead just exist to turn a profit through exploiting their subjects and their memory, a shameful but sadly popular practice that seems to be on the upswing for some inexplicable reason.