Whitney Houston's life is similarly grateful and super-difficult to portray.
A unique voice, a fantastic career – and a tragic fate.
The singer was found dead in a hotel room in Los Angeles in 2012 at the age of 48.
That is probably why
no fewer than two documentaries about her premiered in recent years: "Whitney: Can I be me" (2017) and "Whitney" (2018).
Both have aimed to put the singer in a political and popular cultural context, to show that her popular hits should not be dismissed as just hits but important to a black audience.
That her life could have been so much more if the political landscape had allowed her to be herself.
But both documentaries also attracted lawsuits, indictments and accusations of defamation.
Houston's family believed that claims of drug addiction, bisexuality, and sexual abuse of a family member were either false fabrications or just offensive and unnecessarily denigrating.
With this in the bag
, it is perhaps easy to understand that director Kasi Lemmons chose to either smooth over or just completely ignore the snarky parts.
Admittedly, it's a good choice, we've seen the tragic side of Houston too many times now.
Slurred speech, glassy eyes and so on.
But of course what remains is
a more conventional biopic according to the usual formula: the tough first years, here in the form of the music via the church choir, and the mother's zealous teasing of her daughter.
Since the glory days: the successes and glimpses of warmth and love, here in the form of best friend, assistant and girlfriend Robyn Crawford (Nafessa Williams), as well as the fine record executive Clive Davis (Stanely Tucci).
Then the villain enters the picture, abusive, controlling and abusive husband Bobby Brown, which is the beginning of the case.
But that's where the film ends, right before the shenanigans.
Here, to the limit of respectability, but no further.
To the film's advantage, it can be said
that because they chose to handle her tragedy this way (drugs are mentioned in passing, sexual exploitation is not mentioned at all), the focus instead becomes on Houston's (Naomi Ackie) fantastic voice, and her music.
Recreated scenes, such as when Houston sings the national anthem at the 1991 Super Bowl and manages to make it political, by emphasizing the message of freedom with a unique beat, it's hard not to shudder.
But all this happens at the expense of depth
, as so often in biopics.
How much did it affect her not being allowed to live out her bisexuality?
How was her self-image affected by the accusations of being a "sell-out" and "not black enough"?
Did the drugs become a way to deal with the growing gap between the public image as a pop princess and the tougher r'n'b self she saw herself as?
These questions cannot be answered.
On the other hand, one is reminded of what a tragedy it is when yet another genius perishes from external and internal pressure, without anyone seeing.
And what a great singer the world lost in 2012.