i don't think that they did help kill her.
she knew alot of them by name and sometimes they would get a bit rough with her but most of time she took it in her stride.
we have to remember that she worked for a picture/news agency when she was 18 - so she new 'the game'. so when she got big - she would help the paps out and give them their shots.
Yes, she knew "the game", she knew how things worked, and I remember her saying in interviews that she didn't care, because what they wrote was based on things she'd said or done, and that she knew she was "easy fodder" (those are her words) because of the "stupid things" (her words again) she said or did...
But at some point it became too much, and, like Jayne wrote, she got a court injunction to keep the paparazzi photographers away (I remember reading an article, from The Guardian I think, about that).
Edit: here is the article :
http://www.guardian....parazzi-privacy.
And I can't help remembering this, also from The Guardian (very long but interesting article about the paparazzi in London in general, by Decca Aitkenhead, who got "embedded" with some paparazzi):
The same curiously courteous dance is observed each time Winehouse gets out; she pretends the photographers are not there, and they observe a polite distance of several yards. But, pulling away from the clinic, we almost lose her, because other cars are blocking us in. "Now please," Hammond pleads under his breath, "just go back to Bow." But instead, as we're nearing Oxford Circus, the passenger door opens and Winehouse slips out on to the pavement, swallowed instantly into the pedestrian tide. "Where the fuck's she going?" Hammond panics. Without even thinking, I jump out and follow her on foot.
Winehouse is startlingly tiny - just a child's body in flattened pink ballet pumps, glancing into shop windows. As we head down Regent Street, I call Hammond and whisper our coordinates. We're turning right into Maddox Street, I murmur. Now she's gone into a tanning shop. No, hang on, she's come out again - and now we're on Carnaby Street.
There seem to be camera crews all over Carnaby Street, and I'm afraid one will spot her and ruin the exclusive. Passersby turn, mouthing her name, and the soft ripple of "Amy Winehouse" follows her path like an echo. Occasionally, someone shouts, "Amy, we love you!" and twice she turns and points an enigmatic, one-finger diva salute. She has a deep seriousness that is both intent and vacant; at once oblivious to being watched, and self-conscious.
She darts into a shop. I stop and catch my breath. And then, all of a sudden, a great wave of revulsion crashes over me. I'm stalking Amy Winehouse. What am I doing? This is weird. And what if she sees me? It's so cold that I've worn a furry Russian hat. She saw me earlier in the newsagent's, so she's bound to recognise my stupid big hat. I am mortified, and desperate for Hammond to get here so that I can hide. I could stop and turn around - only by now I really like him and don't want to let him down.
And then it dawns that what I'm experiencing is precisely the same emotional spectrum every pap describes: predatory adrenaline rush, horrified shame, professional dissociation.
She ducks into a plaza and I follow helplessly. Hammond has abandoned his car and is following on foot. She goes into a boutique and I loiter outside, feeling ridiculous. Heads are turning, and I don't want people to notice I'm following her.
At last Hammond arrives, and follows her into the store. When they re-emerge, they seem to exchange a few words; a stranger could take the pair for friends. She disappears into another shop, and Hammond joins me. What did she say? He looks thrown, and slightly embarrassed. "She said, 'Where's my driver? I've lost my driver.'" So now Hammond is on the phone to Deano, who's still following the Mercedes, and Deano's trying to get the driver's attention, so he can put him on the phone to talk to Winehouse, to help her find him. But, of course, the driver is ignoring Deano, because he doesn't realise the paparazzo is trying to help. At a loss, I go into the shop, and when Winehouse turns around her pale, white face is streaked with tears.
And in that second, she becomes a real person. This isn't hide and seek, she should probably be in hospital. I don't know it now, but the following weekend Winehouse will be photographed stumbling semi-naked through the early hours in her underwear, dazed and incoherent, not playing a game but disintegrating before the photographers' eyes.
I want to tell her, I'm just doing my job. "I'm not following you, Amy!" I start to say - I'm from the Guardian, you see, and I'm following the paparazzi, and they're following you, and so now it looks like I'm following you, but actually I'm just doing my job. I open my mouth to say it - but then I stop. This is what all the paps say: I'm just doing my job.
Full article:
http://www.guardian....shing.celebritySo, yes, there are no words strong enough to say how much I HATE that kind of press, yes the paps and tabloids clearly didn't make her life easy... Yes, it must have been a living hell, and it certainly didn't help her sorting her problems out... And they got profit out of it, it's sickening... And about the video of her passed out on a public staircase, well, I'm not a legal expert, but I always thought that "failure to render assistance to a person in danger" wasn't far away...
..., Since we weren't in her head, we'll never know how much the tabloids contributed to her downfall. But, unfortunately, we do know that they were far from being her only issue... and that she had big big ones to deal with...
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