I went to La Vie en Rose tonight, Edith Piaf's biopic, and for all its timeline-run-through-the-electric-fan hip-tude it was a pretty classic biopic, complete with a "No! Don't get on the plane!" moment (though the payoff on that was really well done). What I got from the movie was that Edith Piaf was incredibly talented, and an incredibly unpleasant pain in the neck to live with–kind of a French Judy Garland without the charming Dorothy stage. I kept thinking of Ross's pet monkey (from Friends, because I am such a highbrow).
It's a good film, really, and however much I didn't like Edith the actress who played her was amazing, flinging herself without a scrap of reserve into the character. Moments of horror were understated (see Auto Focus, or not if you're squeamish, for the full knee-deep-in-the-sewer-of-one-man's-life biopic experience) except for the creeping feeling that having a Piaf in your life would be like having an uncontrolled circular saw ripping intermittently through your house.
Once upon a time I wanted a glamorous life; now, reading this post, I realize I'm just an old fuddy-duddy. Alas.