Last week, when I saw the Amy Winehouse documentary, when I saw her life torn to shreds through the eye of a lens, I felt guilt.

That may be a strange feeling, me having played no part in her demise, having been only familiar with only a few of her songs pre-movie experience. But let me explain.

The movie is set up in a way in that you first see home videos of young Amy, singing Happy Birthday with her belly voice, carefree. You watch as she gradually gains fame, see her performing in jazz clubs, see her on talk shows, see her build momentum as an artist. See all her optimism, but also all her self doubt. Then, you watch her fall in love, have her heart broken, have all her pains displayed for the world to see. You watch her battle her drug habit, you watch the people she loves manipulating her, leaving her; you watch her win, lose, win, lose again. Until all her battles have been fought, and you watch her body as it is carried out of her mansion in a bag, lifeless.

The thing about this documentary is that it is invasive. Sure, okay, she’s dead. Sure, okay, someone, somewhere, signed some contract and all the clips featured are fine and legal. But you can even see, as the movie progresses, that the video clips of her life become a nuisance to her. She is no longer the happy teen singing Happy Birthday to the camera. The videos are no longer home videos. They are videos taken by the paparazzi, by people who are strangers to her. Even when using videos shot by her father and his crew, she expresses distress. She does not want them there. In all our attempts to get closer, as we try to catch a more intimate glimpse of her life, we somehow grow farther from her with each step.

Until finally, we realize. We are still invading her life. Here we are watching a documentary about her, thinking we are respecting her, understanding her, but in reality, the movie is an antithesis of itself.

Amy Winehouse went off the deep end because of how centered she was in the eye of the public. She was attacked, exploited, in a feeding frenzy in which we were the predators and she was the prey. And even after her death, we are still watching her, still judging her, still preying.