MISS AMERICANA. Like a Taylor Swift concert at Warsaw’s National Stadium

The documentary about Taylor Swift is like her country-inspired album, Red. It’s unconventional, flexible, and capable of captivating the viewer—especially fans—inviting them to delve into the “bittersweet” essence of the singer. This story demonstrates that behind every small (and large) success lies bitter struggles, and the stage is the only place where the artist can escape the chaos—or, perhaps, bend the truth right in front of the audience.

It’s paradoxical that at her most exposed moments, observed by thousands of fans from far-flung places, Taylor seems to find solace. Stadium voyeurism becomes her key to breathing freely, as nothing elevates her like the emotional recognition of her hard work. This is what the film is about: overcoming obstacles. It tells the story of a girl, then a woman, who, through relentless effort, confronted a destructive music industry. The filmmakers portray a girl slashed by envious words like machetes. Wounded, she forges ahead, retaliating with doubled strength. All of this is wrapped in a purely subjective, shiny package. The entire piece sparkles, but in this crystalline, mirrored reflection, we don’t see ourselves. It’s her story, not ours. A fairy tale of sorts, but with the eerie intensity of a haunting thriller. We can’t connect it to our own lives or immerse ourselves fully—it’s a different world, a different perception, a different mindset. All that’s left is to observe. We didn’t need to hear her before to grasp what the artist is trying to convey. It’s her struggle, her life, her worries. But why wouldn’t we support Taylor in her difficult moments when, every couple of years, she gifts us unforgettable, danceable anthems? After all, Miss Americana isn’t a flawlessly played concert.

It’s said that after the unsuccessful album Reputation, Taylor Swift returned to the spotlight with an appealing, sentimental offering: Lover, her latest release in 2019. In Miss Americana, as she calls herself in one of her songs, Swift tries to come to terms with her emotional and media-laden past. The documentary—a ninety-minute cinematic experience—chronicles the most significant highs and lows of her career. While creating, singing, and recording her newest album, Swift reflects on key moments that shaped her not only as an artist but as a fearless figure in the music world, unafraid to venture into new territories and use her voice for noble causes. This journey could have been a wonderful, almost sterile experience in its simplicity—honest, filled with impeccable emotions without deceitful undertones. For the most part, it is. Yet, regrettably, there are moments when this thorough sincerity falters.

Occasionally, Swift and her team skillfully orchestrate their performance, playing chords they know by heart, with motives rooted in questionable ethics. The documentary contains scenes tinged with subtle emotional manipulation—like barely strummed strings on an acoustic guitar, almost imperceptible (and, in this case, invisible). Swift cries when she wants to cry, when the script says she should. The viewer, meanwhile, is moved when the creators demand it. Only the latter emotions are entirely authentic. However, they don’t always occur, as a seasoned viewer, much like an audiophile, will quickly detect the dissonances, leaving them with a sardonic smile. We watch such emotionally scheming documentaries with ruthless irony. Of course, these described techniques function as cinematic embellishments; if we agree to this type of treatment, the rest of the experience becomes a slightly pretentious but nevertheless enjoyable journey.

Here, we closely observe Taylor’s cynicism and charisma. She emerges as a brilliant, perceptive observer of the reality that assaults her. Over the years, she has come to understand her past more deeply and views her musical future with greater detachment. Through her recollections, she revisits events that (to this day) left slow-healing wounds. With a touch of sentimentality, she reflects on her beginnings, her loves—big and small—and her family’s foundation, which she remains closely tied to. The consistent narrative feels like a straightforward, thoughtful reckoning with her life, though there’s no singular main thread. Words and images interweave with current events, and previously unseen footage should intrigue more curious viewers. It’s smooth, polished, and expansive—reflecting how Swift portrays her self-portrait. Perhaps that’s why the overall compositional structure held my attention until the very end of the story.

This torrent of words, this self-aware monologue, resembles a concert held in a poorly designed venue with terrible acoustics. Think: Warsaw’s National Stadium. On one hand, we’re thrilled to experience our favorite music live. Yet the sound blends into an indistinct mush, the songs feel false, even destructive, and we can only guess the main themes of flagship tracks after two minutes. That’s Miss Americana. Its deceit and omnipresent grandiosity tarnish the glimpses of genuinely valuable material.