Geronimo1967
Apr 10, 2024
Truth, if it were needed, that Lesley Manville can turn her hand to anything, but otherwise this is a rather unremarkable biopic of a woman whose character, I must confess, I didn't actually like very much. She is the nan of Amy (Marisa Abela) and the two have a special bond. Amy lives with her mum who is divorced from her dad Mitch (Eddie Marsan). He fancies himself as a bit of a crooner and she is steeped in jazz, determined to write her own songs and make a success of herself - on her own terms. Enter Nick (Sam Buchanan) who works for music mogul Simon Fuller and she is, after an initial bit of hostility, signed up and on her way. The remainder of the chronology is all pretty straightforward as Sam Taylor-Johnson decides to focus on an entirely speculative look at how her personal life developed. Amy's increasingly strained relationship with her friends and her father, her grandmother's terminal illness and her "toxic co-dependent" relationship with the charismatic Blake (Jack O'Connell). There's no doubting that many of her songs are great - even if the role of Mark Ronson in any of that is largely ignored, and hats off to Abela for putting her own slant on them. She does her own singing and though she does rather over-egg it, she does imbue a sense of the sheer force of personality this woman had. O'Connell, too, does well enough - especially with his Shangri-La dance in the pub when they meet, but somehow the whole narrative is just too bitty and episodic. The presentation of her character is way too shallow and frankly she is portrayed as a bit of an obnoxious brat. Her increasing exposure to the hounding paparazzi is well illustrated and that growing sense of exasperation obvious, but again we jump around too much as we seem to be rushing to a conclusion we know all about. At two hours it is too long in many ways and too short in others. The dialogue offers us little insight into just who she was and by the end, I felt sad for her but can't say I really cared about any of them. The aggression of the photographers seems to receive a disproportionate share of the blame for her predicament whilst rather discounting her own series of bad choices fuelled by her own immaturity and by the public's obsessions with watching what it builds up come crashing down. They couldn't sell their photos if we didn't want to buy them. A memorable musical legacy left behind by one who, along with so many other ground-breaking but flawed musical geniuses, might just have been better left for our ears.
