Hmmm … do I mention the time my dad caught me dancing to a Whitney Houston song alone (not with somebody/somebody who loves me)? Let’s just leave it at that. Few tragedies hit quite as hard as the downfall of Whitney; in a way, her story is no different than that of Amy Winehouse or Elvis Presley or dozens of other talents who succumbed to substance abuse. However, in another way, this story is made all the more tragic by the players involved – her daughter Bobbi Kristina, her drug abusing brothers, her ties to other celebrities, the face of purity Whitney often wore, or the face of immaturity in her husband, Bobby Brown. Whitney Houston didn’t come from nowhere; she was born to be a star, an icon, a drug abuser, and a premature corpse; her life story was written before she turned puberty.
Whitney Houston was born into minor music royalty: her mother Cissy Houston had a professional career almost entirely in the 20-feet-from-stardom realm, but Cissy’s first cousins, Dee Dee Warwick and Dionne Warwick both had successful solo careers. You know, Dionne, for someone with a ton of psychic friends, you’d think you would have seen this coming. Li’l Whitney loved to sing, was (obviously) good at it, and her mother knew exactly how her train her daughter – when mom was around, at least. And there begins the crux of the problem – darn it, I get so emotional when thinking about her clown car of enablers. Start with her bothers: Michael Houston and Gary Garland-Houston. Both seem like nice guys, yet served as ushers to Whitney’s abuse issues. Gary was a professional basketball player in the NBA, something that’s very difficult to do; then he got tossed out of the NBA for violating the league drug policy, something that is not as difficult to do. You better believe Gary knew how to get drugs in any city where there might be a Whitney concert.
One side note: this film is the cheapest R you’ll ever find. Slight language and implied drug abuse is all you’ll get for 120 minutes of film; there is not a single image here that couldn’t be shared with a three-year-old.
With Cissy on the road all the time, younger versions of the siblings were often left with relatives, at least one of whom sexually abused the children. “Which one?” You ask. How will I know? There’s a sad irony in seeing the great lengths Cissy traveled to protect Whitney (select churches, select schools) only to find the worst elements were with her all along. Oh, and her dad is a classic piece of … work. I don’t know exactly how you get to this point in your life, but it is very fair to say that if you ever find yourself suing your own child for money, your parenting skills suck.
Then the film wishes to skirt the fam stuff and lay Whitney’s problems on the doorstep of her longtime friend, Robyn Crawford. What the Hell is it with Robins? Robin Givens destroyed Mike Tyson; Robyn Crawford destroyed Whitney Houston, Robin Williams destroyed comedy; don’t even get me started on Batman. Perhaps “destroyed” is too strong a word; I think, however, it’s fair to say Whitney Houston did not have a single good influence among her greatest love of all.
There are three major problems with this documentary: one is it lets her people off way too easy; they all get a say, and few truly own it. Bobby Brown flat out refused to talk about drugs, saying they weren’t relevant. Pal, you have nothing, nothing, nothing. The second
issue is the documentary goes too far to protect Whitney as if she played no role in her own downfall. Yes, it’s hard to beat a drug problem; it’s harder still if you never really try. Ok, I don’t want to blame the victim; obviously, that was going to be an issue even if she had iron will power. However, none of that accounts for how unkind she was to fellow artists, nor how crappy a mother she turned out to be, which brings up the third issue: Bobbi Kristina. Hey, she’s born, look at our family, we’re happy. Yay! And there Whitney is in concert singing about how much she loves her toddler … to the crowd, not the child, of course. Gosh, that’s a little self-serving. One sad anecdote about child care from an aunt and Bobbi Kristina disappears from the picture 45 minutes before the close. Huh. Say, where was the kid when you had attempts one through seventeen at rehab, Whitney?
Whitney is thorough and understanding of context; every moment of her megastardom rise is accompanied by a montage of relevant popular culture snapshots. This part works. You also can’t go wrong inserting a Whitney song every other turn; the woman had one of the greatest voices in music history. The research is also fairly solid if incomplete; I felt like Whitney knew the answers to my questions, but was shy when it came around to spilling information. So as a serious piece of art or journalism, the film comes off as love letter, but if you need to reminisce and celebrate the treasure that was Whitney Houston, then I-I-I-I will always love you.
♪She’s been a superstar some time
But she fell hard from her climb
You see, she hasn’t been the same
And everyone is to blame
Her ugly fall from grace
Was easy enough for us to trace
Here’s what the coroner learned
Is that she practiced constantly
So here it is
And can someone answer
Where do broken stars go?
Can they find drug rehab
Away from the blackened souls
Of the dealers who don’t care
And if some diva falls through
Can she never come to
I look and despise
Circumstance that led her there, sadly♫
Rated R, 120 Minutes
Director: Kevin Macdonald
Writer: Someone with a fairly sick sense of humor
Genre: Love letters
Type of being most likely to enjoy this film: Whitney fans
Type of being least likely to enjoy this film: Bobby Brown
♪ Parody Inspired by “Where Do Broken Hearts Go?”
