“One of the reasons why I wanted to make a documentary in the first place is I would finally be in control of the narrative,” muses rock star St. Vincent to the camera. Seems like a nice idea, only St. Vincent, real name Annie Clark, hasn’t reckoned with the neurotic envy of frenemy and documentary filmmaker Carrie Brownstein, whose constant neediness weighs down the project like a kettlebell tied to a toddler’s foot.

Part mockumentary, part twisted friendship story, part tour journal, and part meditation on fame, Bill Benz’s Nowhere Inn gets in a few clever digs on the weirdness of pop life before drifting away into self-absorption. Fans of the two indie stars will probably enjoy it though. 

As St. Vincent embarks on a sold-out (pre-pandemic) tour, who better to document the triumph than her best buddy, Carrie? As the wannabe director, Brownstein brings her angst-ridden yet doggedly self-assured persona from Portlandia to the party, a warning that matters will not go smoothly. Brownstein’s distracted because her father’s ill, and she’s frustrated with the backstage footage she’s getting. “Just be yourself,” she (typically) passive-aggressively urges St. Vincent, but Brownstein wants so much more—the rock star’s calm discipline off-stage doesn’t live up to the excitement of her stylish, tightly-wound concerts, so Brownstein goads her to act out for the camera. 

A few scenes where the star attempts a rowdy Lady Gaga imitation are very funny. So, in a cringeworthy way, are the awkward interactions where St. Vincent and Brownstein try and fail to write a song together. But a meta “sexy” bedroom encounter with Dakota Johnson falls flat, and a reality TV–style stunt that goes too far induces cringes that don’t feel like the fun kind. “Let’s protect that you’re normal and your life isn’t crazy or interesting enough to make a documentary about,” undermines Brownstein, and she may be right.

Some interesting ideas float through Nowhere Inn, but none are developed in more than a cursory way. Both Brownstein and the more guarded St. Vincent seem to dig deep into their schticks (although admirers of the pair may like that just fine). Fame, so eagerly sought by so many, arrives twinned with cooler-than-thou ennui.

But fame has its limits. A chauffeur insults St. Vincent by telling her he’s never heard of her. A security guard dismissively keeps her out of her own concert. And the film sends up a name-dropping lipstick lesbian who cack-handedly tries to ingratiate herself with St. Vincent and cadges free concert tickets for a companion, who conveniently says something stupid. Why, the film seems to sigh, oh, why must a star be surrounded by idiots?

Brownstein and St. Vincent are smart entertainers who have touched a chord with the public by being—and expressing—themselves. For a feature film, maybe they needed to hop off their safe (awkward) perch and soar in some fresher air.