I have no interest in Perez Hilton’s ongoing apology/self-justification tour, and although Hill absolutely confronts him about some of the “nasty” posts he wrote about Murphy, when Hilton says things like “2009, in many ways, was a very gross time,” nobody turns the statement back on him. A makeup artist on a movie Murphy left after two days, who admits that Monjack was so controlling that she didn’t even have a chance to work directly with the actress, declares that “she was a disaster in her heart and she was a disaster emotionally and physically.” Sorry, but once you get that close to the bottom of the source barrel, you probably lacked the material to make a documentary about Brittany Murphy.Ĭomparably distanced analysis, generally with no introspection, comes from a few reporters at the very publications that sensationalized Murphy’s romances and critiqued her public appearances. Because this is undoubtedly true, and because several interviewees refer to the way Monjack essentially put Murphy in isolation, this might be why Hill is forced to let people like Monjack’s personal trainer provide unsubstantiated descriptions of Murphy’s mental state. A former manager offers a rare beat of introspection, talking about all the coping mechanisms and support systems that child stars often miss out on. The documentary isn’t much better at getting to know Murphy the person. At worst, they give the impression, intended or otherwise, that Murphy was less an actress and more a passive figure living out a cinematic autobiography. At best, these are flimsy “art imitates life or vice versa” parallels. It doesn’t help that Hill over-relies on a cheap device in which she uses clips from Murphy’s movies to illustrate points related to her life, like a scene from Abandoned, a horrid direct-to-video thriller featuring Dean Cain, in which Murphy’s character learns that her husband isn’t what he presented himself to be. That sets a tone for a documentary that’s a lip-service affirmation of Murphy’s specialness and not an exploration of it. Murphy’s directors are far better represented, and contributions from Amy Heckerling, Shawn Levy, Gary Fleder and Alex Merkin, who helmed one of her last projects, are easily the documentary’s highlight.Ĭommentary from outside Hollywood is close to nonexistent, limited largely to one seemingly random scribe who makes the “provocative” assessment that Clueless is a classic and she’ll fight anybody who says it isn’t, as if Clueless were some obscure, lost-to-the-ages curio and not a fairly certified comedy classic. Kathy Najimy, who voiced King of the Hill characters with Murphy and appeared with her in something called Zack and Reba, is asked to do entirely too much of the heavy lifting, particularly given that the documentary contains zero footage from either of those projects. Perhaps sensing the type of documentary being made here, very few of Murphy’s co-stars are present as talking heads. When placed in otherwise standard genre offerings (see: Don’t Say a Word or several studio rom-coms), Murphy’s unmistakable spark came through. When placed within a deep ensemble (see: Girl, Interrupted), Murphy rose to the level of even her most decorated co-stars. When granted great material (see: Clueless), Murphy brought unparalleled natural exuberance. The exact same sadness, of course, could be generated by five minutes of YouTube clips. The most frustrating thing about this documentary - and you may have gathered that I found many things about this documentary frustrating - is that it unquestionably generates the requisite sadness about what we lost when Murphy died. It’s cinematic clickbait designed to generate journalistic clickbait - “10 Shocking Revelations From New Brittany Murphy Documentary!” - rather than anything compassionate or journalistic. Split into two hourlong segments as a reflection of its lack of cohesion more than anything else, the doc is maybe 20 percent a reminder of Murphy’s transcendent talent, 30 percent a dead-ended investigation into the mystery of her death, and 50 percent an unenlightening examination of Murphy’s late husband, Simon Monjack, the least distinctive con artist ever born. What Happened, Brittany Murphy? uses the visual language of schlock television - the gauzy reenactments, jittery editing and heightened score - to produce … two hours of schlock television, more Hard Copy or Inside Edition than an interrogation of the aesthetics and ideology that let those outlets thrive. Discovery's Max Details 2024 European Rollout Plans
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