On screen, in these snippets of footage from a dizzying array of source and contexts, Amália comes across as an exceedingly dark, self-assured songbird whose features hardened over the years, but whose voice never quite disgorged what seemed to be its overwhelming share of the sadness in the world. Those qualities made her a national treasure in her native country; according to The New York Times, her death last year at the age of 79 was followed by three days of national mourning.

If the voice in its prime is truly great, the film is pretty standard, the sort of carefully assembled overview that you expect to see on PBS. I understand that the film is a triumph of research and restoration, as the material assembled here must have been exquisitely difficult to locate, restore, and piece together. (The source material would have benefited from the kind of digital restoration that has become de rigeur for documentarians with more generous budgets.) Still, I was fairly non-plussed until her performance of "Barco Negro" came along and made me sit up straight and say "Wow." In that respect, The Art of Amália is a stunning success, introducing the woman's work to viewers who may never otherwise have known that she existed.

But de Almeida has made several films about Amália, and the interview footage here comes across as too adoring and accommodating. Amália was never pushed to discuss her personal life in much detail, as it was stipulated that this film would concentrate on her work, not her life. And thus she is allowed to boldly recall her many triumphs with little apparent guidance from the fellow behind the camera. But there are some affecting moments, as when she considers what seems to have been her abiding state of unhappiness, or recalls checking into a New York City hotel in the 1980s with the intention of ending her life but being saved by Fred Astaire films. The testimonials of other artists, such as Brazilian guitarist and songwriter Caetano Veloso or recent devotee David Byrne, go a long way toward demonstrating her influence -- that might have been an interesting thread to pursue further.

If anything, the portrayal we get here is too superficial, given her rich career and brooding persona. (Lucky for me, the publicist sent me a compilation CD for further exploration.) It's probable that you can't do a life like this justice in just 90 minutes; de Almeida made a five-hour documentary, Amália: A Strange Way of Life, for Portuguese and French television. Figuring you could spread it over a week's worth of viewing, and assuming it's as heavy on the tunes as this titillating sampler, that would surely be something to see.