It’s a horrible irony that Amy, Asif Kapadia’s extraordinary film about the life and death of Amy Winehouse, begins with a jerky bit of home video.

In it, a 14-year-old Winehouse – all teeth and zits and look-at-me, don’t-look-at-me adolescent silliness – sings “Happy Birthday” down the lens, like an Enfield Marilyn Monroe.

It was on the same superficial level that “Rehab” became a favourite at every house party and every wedding disco for a time.

It was, everyone agreed, a great song to dance to, but, in Amy, that song is pegged as the fatal turning point.

I saw Amy this week and was surprised by how devastating it was.

I was a Winehouse fan – how could anyone who heard that velvety, soulful foghorn of a voice not be?

Now, not four years on from her death, there’s a film.

A sensitive, beautifully made film, but it still feels too soon.

What it must have been like to live in the middle of its noisy, aggressive dazzle is hard to grasp.

It’s striking to see just how quickly Winehouse unravelled.

The last hour is lit up by the flashbulbs that eventually followed Winehouse wherever she went – the corner shop or the Grammys.