Why can’t we let famous women be creative geniuses instead of tragedies?

I think we love celebrity deaths. Increasingly so, because we’re sick bastards salivating over the prospect of a fresh, disturbing story; greedy for the next adrenaline rush. 

It’s one of those deep, dark truths that no one wants to say out loud. I’ll say it, though. I think people love celebrity deaths. It’s another side effect of the world’s social media addiction. Chasing the buzz of breaking news and sharing as fast as our fingers allow. 

I think people love celebrity deaths. It’s another side effect of the world’s social media addiction.

As headlines go, celebrity deaths are big, and perhaps the only source of news that remains a genuine bombshell. Think of the wider context: every day brings a new exposé; politics is entertainment; war is wallpaper, and we’re desensitised to most else.

Above: "We love celebrity deaths... because we’re sick bastards salivating over the prospect of a fresh, disturbing story."

Human beings are captivated by the way people die because we’ll never experience it until we do; for the first and final time. True crime is the most popular genre of TV shows on Netflix in the UK, with 44.3% of its audience watching. But, when it comes to famous people, the ante is upped. We’re not satisfied with knowing someone has died, that their loved ones are devastated; we need to know exactly how it happened. We need to know where they were in the days leading to their death. We need their last words, what they were wearing and the position they were found in. Don’t we?

It’s a social media shitshow when celebrities die; everyone scrambling to say we knew them, posting quotes, trying to go viral. Death is fodder. 

"We're interested in death because it comes to us all," says psychologist, Dr. Simon Moore in an article for Grazia. "But there's also some grim, perverse satisfaction from knowing that a celebrity, with all this wealth and fame, could go the same way we all do. In terms of wanting to know all the sordid details - it's a vindication for us. We think, 'well I never wanted to be a celebrity anyway, look, they die of an overdose. I'm happy in my safe little boring office in Slough'. It's all about you. The worse your life is, the more jealous you're likely to be.” 

When studied forensically, one might suggest a combination of shock, gossip and the potential for macabre detail sets our neurons on fire. The impact of gossip on the brain has been studied by proper neuroscientists. When we hear gossip our oxytocin levels increase, and it helps us bond in social groups. Dr. Moore also states there’s a certain kudos for those who share the information of a death first, and who has the most detail. It’s a social media shitshow when celebrities die; everyone scrambling to say we knew them, posting quotes, trying to go viral. Death is fodder. 

Above: "We're interested in death because it comes to us all," says psychologist, Dr. Simon Moore. 

I remember when Amy Winehouse died. I remember because it was only 13 years ago. I remember it just as well as I remember the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympics, which happened a year later. I remember it vividly, as many people do, because it’s in my recent fucking memory. Which is why I’m baffled that an Amy Winehouse biopic - Back to Black - was released a couple of months ago, telling a story we all know, because most of us alive today literally saw it happen, in the news, every day. 

I watched the film this week (out of morbid curiosity, because I’m just as awful as everybody else) and it was fucking terrible. A truly depressing movie, which would be a stain on the memory of one of the most profound artists of the 21st century if it wasn’t so obvious the film will be forgotten almost instantly.

Across two hours of GSCE filmmaking all we got was a walking tragedy. No insights, no analysis, no depth, just smudged eye makeup and a crack pipe. Because tragedy sells.

It has a clunky script, clumsy expositions and ok performances, but that’s not why I hated it. Back to Black, directed by Sam Taylor-Johnson, showed Winehouse as a tantrum-throwing, often vile, reckless child, while everybody else in her life - including her father and former partner Blake Fielder-Civil - were the relative good guys. It painted Amy as a little girl in the cliched sense; immature and petulant. Her complicated disease was just bad behaviour, like the tabloids said.

Amy Winehouse was a genius, no question. She wrote her own songs, and her songs were works of art. She turned pain into something beautiful. Yet, across two hours of GSCE filmmaking (no offence to year 11 students), all we got was a walking tragedy. No insights, no analysis, no depth, just smudged eye makeup and a crack pipe. Because tragedy sells.

Above: Back to Black is "a truly depressing movie, which would be a stain on the memory of one of the most profound artists of the 21st century if it wasn’t so obvious the film will be forgotten almost instantly".

But then, tragedy has always sold. June 22nd was the anniversary of Judy Garland’s death and, on that day, the New Yorker released a long article entitled Judy Garland’s Hollywood Unravelling. Normally we celebrate people on the anniversary of their death. Not in this case. The article focuses on her weight, her pill addiction and her third husband. 

Judy Garland was a talent. A presence. A profoundly uncommon human being. Yet, mention her name in conversation and you’ll get: “Oh it was so sad. So sad. On drugs from the age of 14.” 

Do yourself a favour and spend the afternoon with Judy on YouTube. Embark, first, upon The Trolley Song [from 1944 film, Meet Me in St Louis] for some frantic, hopeful romance. Then skip over to the orgasmically jazzy Get Happy [performed in 1950's Summer Stock]. Wrap yourself in the deep velvet vocals of A Star is Born [from the eponymous 1954 film] before succumbing to the blissful, unbridled beauty of Somewhere Over The Rainbow [The Wizard of Oz, 1939], a song so extraordinarily magical it’s hard to believe it actually exists.  

Any friend of Dorothy is a friend of mine. Judy Garland was a talent. A presence. A profoundly uncommon human being responsible for one of the most memorable performances of all time. Yet, mention her name in conversation and you’ll get: “Oh it was so sad. So sad. On drugs from the age of 14.” 

Above: Judy Garland, despite her success and her own admission that she "had an awfully nice life", is often pitied for the life she lived. 

There’s a Judy Garland interview from 1967, a couple of years before she died. In discussion with a clearly starstruck Barbara Walters, Judy sits cuddling her two children, Lorna and Joey, and excitedly talks about her other child Liza’s recent wedding. They get onto the subject of happiness.

“I’ve had – maybe it will distress a lot of people – but I’ve had an awfully nice life. I really have,” says Judy, laughing. 

“I think that will surprise a lot of people!” exclaims Walters. “Who kind of like to think of you as a…” 

Judy interrupts. “...a tragedy.” 

The history of entertainment is paved with the gravestones of tragic girls the media hyped until they were bored, and then knocked ‘em down for a morbid peep show. 

I must’ve watched the interview 20 times over the years, and it always makes me so sad. Not because I’m reflecting on Judy’s life, but because she didn’t want to be remembered as a tragedy, she wanted to be known for her exquisite voice and lightening feet. It makes me sad that Judy Garland wasn’t allowed the narrative she asked for. In the 2019 film Judy she was portrayed as broke and desperate; an awards season vehicle for an actress doing a convincing impression of a pill popping nightmare. 

Because tragedy sells. It always has. The history of entertainment is paved with the gravestones of tragic girls the media hyped until they were bored, and then knocked ‘em down for a morbid peep show. 

Above: Famous women such as, from left, Sinead O’Connor, Marilyn Monroe and Brittany Murphy, often have their lives referred to as a tragic rather than genius, especially once they have died. 

We’re much more comfortable calling a woman a tragedy, than calling her a genius, especially after she’s gone. Sylvia Plath, Marilyn Monroe, Whitney Houston, Sinead O’Connor, Carrie Fisher, Brittany Murphy, Karen Carpenter, Mama Cass and Billie Holiday, are each defined by their endings. We judge them in retrospect not by how society (and the media) treated them, but by their lowest points, as if all other humans are perfect and completely incapable of ups and downs. 

We judge them based on the worst they did (which was always inevitably to themselves) rather than their wins, and the spark that captivated the world in the first place. In fact, many of them are likely to have heard 'bimbo', 'ditzy', 'vacuous', 'emotional', 'unhinged' and 'hysterical' throughout their careers. Anything but 'genius'. 

Where Amy Winehouse received a rushed, half-arsed character assassination, Elvis got Baz fucking Luhrmann. A theatrical technicolour bonanza!

Intrigued by the curse of the tragic superstar, I followed Back to Black with a viewing of Elvis. Elvis Presley also had a drug problem. He abused uppers and downers for the duration of his career, making him aggressive and unpredictable. He started dating wife Priscilla when she was a child, aged 14, and cheated prolifically. In her memoir, Priscilla described extensive psychological and physical abuse during their 15 year relationship. So, of course, I was expecting a sad, sad, tragic film. 

But, where Amy Winehouse received a rushed, half-arsed character assassination, Elvis got Baz fucking Luhrmann. A theatrical, technicolour bonanza! In the movie, Elvis is shown as a cheeky, dreamy, musical genius with a gift from God. His trauma a mere sidenote, a tiny chapter in an otherwise thoroughly fulfilling and successful life. At the film’s end, he receives a standing ovation. Typical. 

Above: While Amy Winehouse's biopic received a "rushed, half-arsed character assassination", Elvis Presley got "a theatrical, technicolour bonanza".

Creative men are geniuses, and we forgive them anything. In the book Monsters: What Do We Do with Great Art by Bad People? author Claire Dederer explores the lists of men who were forgiven for heinous crimes and behaviours because of their ‘genius’. Woody Allen and Roman Palanaski and Picasso and Hemingway and Richard Wagner and so on.

She writes: “The performance of masculinity, and its conflation with genius, has not been a great thing for women, who are simultaneously the genius’s victims and forever excluded from the club. We allow the genius to give in to his impulses, he is said to have emotions. The genius has absolute licence. The genius gets to do what he wants.” 

Caroline Flack was hounded to her death following an arrest for common assault. No act of assault should be overlooked, but do you have any idea how many men we’ve forgiven for assaulting women?

Oh, how we laughed with Johnny Depp and his megapints of wine, and continue to sing with criminal Chris Brown. Caroline Flack was hounded to her death following an arrest for common assault, hitting her boyfriend on the head with his phone, and that is how she’ll be remembered. No act of assault should be overlooked, but do you have any idea how many men we’ve forgiven for assaulting women? John Lennon, Sean Penn, Mel Gibson, Ozzy Osbourne, Sean Connery, Charlie Sheen, Tommy Lee, Mickey Rourke, Gary Oldman, Bill Murray… I could carry on. But it’s ok, because they had demons. We’ll remember them fondly. Christ, Hollywood was more sympathetic to Ted Bundy than they are to most women. 

I’d understand the fascination with the demise of female talent if we made the films to prevent it happening again. But it keeps happening. Jameela Jamil called it. In an Instagram post from a few years ago, she said “They dehumanise/demonise/hyperbolise as the run-up to the ‘downfall’ that they create to sell papers because our society loves to see a woman disgraced. The system is: build her up, over-congratulate her, over expose her ‘til people are sick of her face, take her out of context, start the rumour mill and destroy… then on to the next.”