Bo Burnham: Inside

Bo Burnham: Inside

This... is not for me anymore.

While watching it, I was reminded to, and because I don’t want to mention One More Time With Feeling again, The Mountain Goats concert film that Rian Johnson made years ago where everything felt so raw and intimate it never felt like you were watching just an act, but a guy trying his best to not make a bad move while delivering this entire new album with all these limitations.
Inside, despite having its shoulders around a similar concept, rarely feels like that.

Like David Byrne's recent concert film, it prides itself with some self compliments and platitudes (here through so much self deprecation it kind of loses its steam more than complements any loose critique he wants to make around the concept of COVID content and the paradox of this same special criticizing said content) and the design itself makes everything feel so over produced than it should be and any attempt at showing any sign of vulnerability incredibly shallow or incredible awkward by default.

If anything, it 1) proves that Burnham was better by leaving this part of himself behind, and 2) increases my personal fear of self-awareness and irony, the one where you can’t even comprehend when one joke starts and ends, and sincerity becomes another commodity.

If that was Bo’s intentions, then good job I guess: he made one of the most uncomfortable and horrifying films i’ve seen this year so far. A man just looking for his own misery to make himself and us laugh. And I can’t take it.

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