BACK TO BLACK

Directing: C+
Acting: B+
Writing: C-
Cinematography: B-
Editing: C

Marisa Abela is clearly talented. She plays Amy Winehouse well enough that her performance is far and away the best part of the movie. She can even sing quite well. All of this means I’d really like to see her showcased in a better movie than Black to Black.

Also, there’s no escaping the shadow of the giant talent that Amy Winehouse herself was—Abela did Winehouse justice in an otherwise tedious biopic, but she’s got nothing on the real Winehouse.

Back in 2015, an excellent documentary feature was released, called Amy. I’m going to quote myself now, from my own review of that film:

She is shy, she is radiant, she has a charisma that can't be contained in spite of her apparent ignorance of it. She is the embodiment of nuance and vulnerability on the way to a tragic end, mirrored in the story arc resulting from the nearly perfect editing of this film.

Not one of these things applies to the 2024 narrative feature Back to Black, which feels a little like Winehouse’s family getting the last word in. Except, who is listening? This movie has barely made more then $3 million domestically. To be fair, the worldwide gross has reached $40 million, making it a rare English speaking film that made 93% of its groses internationally. Considering the budget was $30 million, that’s not the greatest profit margin.

It might have been, had there been good word of mouth, but no one is talking about this movie. Maybe because they are asleep. Marisa Abela has an undeniable onscreen charm, but with all due respect, saying she has a charisma that can’t be contained is not something that would ever have occurred to me. And she’d need that kind of charisma to elevate the deeply lackluster material, which seems to focus on the duller moments of Winehouse’s life, whitewash the enabling of her parents—and especially her father (Eddie Marsan)—and most baffling of all, de-emphasize the user of her actual music.

The music itself is clearly this story’s greatest asset. And we do get to hear several of her original songs, albeit often sung by Abela herself, which is the work of a competent singer rather than a superstar. But frankly, we don’t hear enough. Isn’t this supposed to be a music biopic? Instead we spend half the time on her rocky and drug-addled relationship with husband Blake Fielder-Civil (Jack O’Connell), and her adoration or her Nana (Lesley Manville).

Mind you, these are worthy elements of Amy Winehouse’s story, certain relevant. But Back to Black would have gotten a much-needed shot of energy if it focused less directly on these relationships and more on how she processed them through her music.

There’s also the casting of Winehouse’s father and Nana, where the two actors are so close in age it’s distracting: Leslie Manville, at 68, is perfectly plausible as 28-year-old Abela’s grandmother. But Eddie Marsan is all of twelve years younger than Manville, and is playing her son. He’s also plausible as Abela’s father, at age 56, but onscreen he just looks too close to Manville’s age. Weirdly, Manville looks younger than 68 and Marsan could believably be in his early sixties.

Manville is a consummate talent herself, and would be the second-best thing in this film, even if she’s not given any material really worthy of her. It’s always frustrating to see performers doing well in a lackluster movie. Well before it’s 122-minute run time was up, I was ready for it to be over. Maybe three or four scenes in a row I thought to myself, “Maybe this is the end.”

None of Back to Black is outright terrible, but one does want a movie to aim above mediocrity. At least an actively bad movie elicits a genuinely emotional response. Back to Black has its priorities out of order, and has nothing to recommend it—even its good performances are by people who have done better elsewhere. Take my word for it and just spend three bucks to rent the 2015 documentary Amy on VOD. You’ll have a far better time.

The best thing in Back to Black still doesn’t make it good.

Overall: C+

RENAISSANCE: A FILM BY BEYONCÉ

Directing: B+
Writing: B+
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B+
Music: A

There is so much to say about Reinassance: A Film by Beyoncé, not least of which is that subtitle: the film was written, produced and directed by Beyoncé herself. Could I possibly cover everything there is to say about it? My best hope is to cover a fraction of it—I’m just another gay White guy, after all. There are things Beyoncé means to other communities that I could not possibly relate to.

This much is clear: People. Love. Beyoncé. Renaissance is packed with audience clips featuring fans going apeshit, and my best guess would be that, to those people, this film is an outright masterpiece. When it comes to those kinds of fans, the star can do no wrong. The closest to that kind of idol I have ever had is Madonna—who even gets a shoutout here, during the performance of “Break My Soul” that samples Vogue, and literally folding “queen mother, Madonna, we love you!” into the lyrics—and not even I go apeshit at her concerts. (I do get excited in a way I don’t at other concerts.) I quickly run out of patience for excessive fan fawning, and have even left Madonna fan groups on Facebook because of ridiculous backlash to the slightest of criticisms.

And yet, when it comes to Renaissance, here’s the thing: I can find nothing, really, to criticize. It’s a fantastically immersive, documentary concert film, a fairly even mix of impeccably shot live performance footage and backstage and behind-the-scenes footage. If forced to criticize anything, it might be the run time, which comes in at just eleven minutes shy of three hours. It seems even concert films are not immune to the current trend of indulgent editors. Of course, I say this as a genuine fan of Beyoncé, someone with all of her albums, someone who loves her too—but, you know, just not that much. I don’t go apeshit over her.

It should be noted that I went to a 12pm screening on a Saturday. I was one of literally four people in the theater, and one of two people who came alone. Only the two guys who came together, and sat two seats away from me in my row, so much as sang along to a few of the songs. Given what I have heard about packed evening screenings that make quite a contrast to this experience, crowds so rowdy it might as well be at a literal concert, it’s clear that how great an experience this film is will depend a great deal on what you’re looking for, and the context in which you see it.

There are two major things that stayed with me after seeing Renaissance. The first is the audience, and who this film’s editors chose to focus on. It comes as no surprise that Beyoncé’s audiences are largely Black people, but also—holy shit, a lot of gay men. Such a majority of the men seen in the audience display some level of queer sensibility that I made a game of identifying what few men at least appeared to be cisgender and straight. (It’s not lost on me that this is ultimately a regressive exercise, especially in an age when the very concept of “gaydar” is deeply dated.) As you can imagine, there’s a lot of queer Black men.

And nowI have to bring it back to Madonna once again, because of the inevitable comparisons to her seminal 1991 concert documentary Madonna: Truth or Dare. There have of course been several other films inspiring comparison to Truth of Dare, but I’m not sure there as ever been a more apt comparison than with Renaissance. And Renaissance is executed as though it identified the flaws in Truth or Dare—creating a false narrative of the star being “mother” to her dancers; artistic choices that serve only to sensationalize—and dispensed with them.

As someone who is a huge fan of both Madonna and Beyoncé, I see these two artists’ status in the queer community as representative of different eras. Much as I love Madonna and still acknowledge the trail she blazed for others after her, most of her business decisions were ultimately self-serving, and it must be acknowledged how much queer and Black culture (and, in particular, Black queer culture) she appropriated. “Vogue” is the ultimate example of this, mainstreaming Black ballroom culture and ultimately whitewashing it. I suppose you could argue that Beyoncé makes ultimately self-serving decisions as well—I mean, shit, the woman is worth $540 million—but she also elevates other communities in a way few of her artistic forebears have. An entire behind-the-scenes sequence in Renaissance is dedicated to how many of her dancers on this tour are queer Ballroom dancers.

There is an organic flow to how the backstage footage is edited into the concert performance footage. Renaissance begins with a collage Beyoncé addressing whatever city she’s in, saying “I love you” to them, and then launching into the “I love you, I love you, I love you” of “Dangerously in Love”—a conceit that is both simple and clever. She makes the unusual, yet effective, choice of opening her set with a couple of ballads, and then shifts into higher-tempo tracks from the Renaissance album: “I’m That Girl,” “Cozy,” “Alien Superstar.” It’s actually several songs in before the shift from concert to documentary footage occurs, and it happens mid-performance at a concert where the sound suddenly cuts out. Suddenly we’re backstage, seeing everyone scramble, find a quick solution, and then launch right back into performance.

The documentary footage is used very sparingly during the first hour or so of the film, but at a measured pace, the behind-the-scenes stuff becomes more frequent. I can’t say that Renaissance reveals who Beyoncé “really is” any more than any of these kinds of films do, but we do get a glimpse of some of her frustrations, particularly when crew around her don’t give her the respect she deserves (this plays out very subtly, for the record, but it’s there). Beyoncé is well known to be fiercely protective of her personal life, and whatever she has revealed, from whatever informed the Lemonade era to anything she shares here, has been meticulously calculated and controlled.

The second major thing that stayed with me after seeing Renaissance is the spectacular costuming. I found myself thinking: I want a feature length documentary on just the costume designs for this tour. Eventually, we actually do get a segment on costume design, which touches on the Uncle Johnny who made the dress referenced in “Heated.” And here we get to some of the best editing in Renaissance, because in nearly every performance, shots will seamlessly cut between different performances of the same song, in either a totally different dress or outfit, or a variation of the same jumpsuit. The edits are so clean that it often looks as though her outfit magically changes mid-movement.

The great costuming extends to the dancers and musicians, perhaps most memorably the trumpeter Crystal Torres, who was very pregnant during much of the tour. She is often seen in the background, elaborately costumed in a way that proudly frames and accentuates her bare, pregnant belly. And this is, perhaps, the magic of Beyoncé: she commands authority, won’t take no for an answer when she knows she doesn’t have to, and also elevates and supports the people who work with her. Or so it would seem from this movie, anyway—and the effectiveness of the film is all I am judging here.

Overall, I had a great time at Renaissance: A Film, even if I found it to be even poorer a substitute for a real, live concert than I expected. I could easily feel differently about that had I seen it in a full house of fans, or if I had managed to attend an actual concert but had to sit in nosebleed seats. Emotional distance aside, there is no physical difference between audience and performance in Renaissance, which is probably the best thing to recommend it. As is typical with films like this, if you are a casual fan, there’s no need for you to go out of your way, necessarily. But if you love Beyoncé the way the fans shown in this film do, then you will have a spectacular experience.

The costumes alone are worth the price of admission.

STOP MAKING SENSE 40th Anniversary Rerelease

Directing: A-
Writing: A-
Cinematography: B+
Editing: B+
Music: A

Several times while watching Stop Making Semse, the now-classic, cult favorite Talking Heads concert film, I almost thought I was looking at Cillian Murphy. David Byrne, the lead singer of the Talking Heads—which have not released an album of original music as a band in 35 years—was 32 years old at the time of this concert’s filming, in December 1983. (Hence the “40th anniversary” moniker, I guess, even though the film was originally released in October 1984). Cillian Murphy is 47 now. He’d better get on it if he’s ever going to star in a biopic. I’d be there in a flash, anyway.

I have a curious personal history with this band. In spite of collecting the entire discography of many singers and bands from the seventies and eighties, I have never owned any album by the Talking Heads. And yet, as a lover of film, I have genuinely loved both concert films with David Byrne as lead performer. David Byrne’s American Utopia was my 8th-favorite movie of 2020. Having now seen Stop Making Sense in a theater, I think I am just slightly partial to American Utopia, which is, as a recording of a Broadway performance, is much more of a choreographed stage production.

They do make great companion pieces, I think. In 2020, I marveled at David Byrne as an exceptional live vocalist, particularly at the age of 67. Turns out, this was nothing new. To say Byrne is an odd man is an understatement, but his stage presence is undeniable, and his unique singing style still manages to blend perfectly well with backup singer harmonies.

There must be something to the quality of The Talking Heads’s back catalogue, as well as their power over an audience, considering how much I love watching them perform, in spite of having only cursory familiarity with the material. I know the tunes to “Psycho Killer” and “Burning Down the House” and “Once In a Lifetime,” of course, but Stop Making Sense is full of songs I am unaware of having heard anywhere else, and still I am just as into the next one as I am the last.

The presentation of Stop Making Sense is a simple conceit, but a very effective one. It opens with Byrne alone, performing “Psycho Killer” with nothing but a boom box and an acoustic guitar. For the next song, “Heaven,” he sings only with Talking Heads bassist Tina Weymouth. And so it goes with the following songs, each with a new instrument added: drums by Chris Frantz; guitar (and later keyboards) by Jerry Harrison; and an expanding number of supporting instrumentalists. Stagehands either carry or roll out their equipment ahead of time, while Byrne continues performing in front of them.

Even at the age of 32, Byrne’s energy and stamina are stunning. Like all the band members, he sweats a good amount, but never shows any signs of tiring, particularly when it comes to his vocals. He sounds incredible from start to finish.

So: is it “the best concert film of all time,” as considered by many critics? Who am I to argue? Granted, this strikes me as wildly objective. If the Talking Heads’s music doesn’t speak to you, would you still align with this perspective? Granted, this film is also known for some technical innovations, as in its digital audio techniques. I suppose that means this could be called “the Citizen Kane of concert films.” Does that make it the best? Well, it’s excellent, anyway.

If nothing else, it certainly holds up, incredibly well. I find myself wondering what it might be like to watch in a house theater full of fans. I watched this at a 4:20 p.m. screening, with one single other person in the theater. I was super into the music, moving a bit to it, in my sleep. The young woman two seats down from me was not so much as tapping her foot.

I’m glad I got to see it in a theater. There’s no question that, nearly empty theater notwithstanding, it was a far more absorbing experience than it would have been watching at home. I had a blast.

You don’t have to be a Talking Heads fan, but it helps.

Overall: A-