Bo Burnham: Inside

I came across this “documentary” through a glowing review on TikTok, where it was hailed as a masterpiece on isolation, creativity, and depression.

What I actually saw was a comedian who made George Harris (reference) look like the funniest man alive — inhabiting his symptom in a way that felt overly industrial: LED lights, an air-conditioned apartment, keyboards, editing gear, and a Netflix contract.

He constantly reminds us he’s “white,” privileged, and fully aware that we live in a capitalist realist world (Fisher, 2009), as if that self-awareness were some kind of antidote to a highly performative depression.

None of this would really matter if the songs were any good — a couple of them are solid, though his obsession with Instagram girls is… questionable — but they mostly sound like B-sides from more interesting neighbors, like Jonathan Richman or the great Don Lennon.

Put another way: Stephin Merritt doesn’t need this — he makes triple albums.