When I pick a movie to see I also pick where to see it.
How could I watch and listen to and feel the story of Amy Winehouse in a house filled with peanuts and popcorn? I don’t even eat peanuts and popcorn, especially when there’s so much to digest — almost LIVE —writhing right at me! The Amy-Animal jumped out at me. She growled in my face and I heard that word, “Freudian.” Freud once said, “You know everything.”
“I can’t help but demonstrate my Freudian fate.”
She knew she was hooked on Daddy. All the drugs, all the booze in the world couldn’t hide that truth. She didn’t slip Dr. Freud, she wallowed in that money-grubbing weasel’s dirty Daddy-pit. But it wasn’t all Daddy’s fault, in fact, it wasn’t anybody’s fault. Amy used Daddy as much as he used her. She used him to get the best out of herself. That voice only she could sing, those words only she could write, perhaps would never have been…without…Daddy. It was Daddy she wanted to shoot into her veins, it was the Daddy-drug she craved, it was Daddy Dearest she married until death did her part. If only she could have kicked the habit of Daddy? Would she have been better off? Healthier? Healed? Clean? Vegan? Straighter? Fleshier? Maybe not. Maybe Amy was way beyond Daddy and Freud. Way beyond women, beyond herself, beyond men. Maybe she belonged to no one, to everyone, to everything, to all time, to Mythology. Maybe some of her recycled selves are hanging around rockin’ with her brothers and her sisters waiting to be reborn.