More Than Smeared Eyeliner: Amy

This review originally appeared on SFist.com.

While most of the world seemed to view the death of Amy Winehouse as unsurprising and an inevitable end, I was shocked. I thought she'd end up the equivalent of Keith Richards, or Courtney Love: rock stars who live the lifestyle to the extreme, but who never made into the 27 Club. But after seeing the documentary Amy, I now know there was no hope of that; she was doomed.

If you're a fan of documentaries, the film is worth seeing — even if you aren't a fan of Winehouse's music — because it's a remarkable piece of curation: No new footage was shot for the film, and all new interviews are only heard as voiceover. Instead, it consists entirely of archival video and film, shot by her family and friends, as well as stuff shot for TV and, most disturbingly of all, paparazzi footage; she was hounded by them until her death.

And it's this image of her that prevailed, until now. Thanks to this film, we get to see the Amy that, at age 14, could belt out a version of "Happy Birthday" worthy of the jazz singers she idolized; the Amy that was a burgeoining musician — still just in her teens — promoting her first album, and answering questions about fame with answers like "I don't think I'm gonna be at all famous. I don't think I could handle it. I'd probably go mad."

It's also great seeing the subtle look of disgust she gives when asked what it's like to be shot by photographer Terry Richardson, and not hiding her complete boredom at an interviewer's droning on about Dido's lyrics. Seeing these moments of personality that are so different from the images of her walking through the streets of London in bloody ballet slippers and smeared eyeliner turns her downfall into something heartbreaking, and not something to be joked about — as was the case so often towards the end of her life.

The film doesn't shy away from presenting those who surrounded her after she hit it big as the shitty support system they were. An opportunist father; a dirt bag junkie husband; managers who really didn't know what the hell they were doing. She was only 22 when Back to Black was released, and clearly not prepared for the fame it would bring her. If only she had lived long enough to learn how to live through it.

Self/less

This review originally appeared on SFist.com.

Imagine being able to live forever in the body of Ryan Reynolds. Welcome to the (sort of) plot of Self/less. Ben Kingsley plays a dying New York billionaire with a ridiculous accent and an insanely tacky, gold-plated apartment worthy of Donald Trump (and ha, it actual IS Donald Trump's apartment, as revealed in the credits). When he's told about a procedure called "shedding," he forks over the money to have his consciousness transferred into the lab-grown body of a virile young man. This involves MRI-type machines and no actual brain transplantation, so is, in other words, completely preposterous.

When he wakes up in his new body, he has all the memories of his former self (although he doesn't have the ridiculous New York accent, which, huh?), but must start a new life, as giving up his old life is part of the deal. And the transition isn't entirely smooth, since without daily drugs, he starts to have weird seizures that come with memories that seem to belong to someone else.

Ah ha! There's the rub. "Lab-grown" body indeed! The majority of the movie features Reynolds searching for the truth behind his new body while being chased by the shady org that facilitated it all. There are some interesting philosophical discussions to be had about the potential for immortality, how the brain facilitates consciousness, and the ultimate opportunities of the haves and the have-nots. But this movie isn't really concerned with any of that that. It's more interested in car chases and gun battles. Your enjoyment depends on your preference for the former or the latter in your entertainment.