Nowhere Inn

And Letters Of Recommendation

As I mentioned in previous days, music biopics and music documentaries usually fall into certain tropes that are unavoidable, particularly given the involvement of the topic in question. It’s an approach that has resulted in expected challenges from every angle. Audiences have generally tired of music biopics even though they’ll occasionally sample one as comfort food. And documentaries often flatten a life to allow for the input of as many talking heads as possible, diluting a sense of who these people are. And then you have runaway situations like that coming Michael Jackson movie, which was made with the predictably controlling collaboration of the Jackson estate, but without regard for the legal agreements involving those who had previously taken the late artist to court. It’s a mess, really.

So why not a rock and roll movie that does its own thing, regardless of logic, but convinces you we’re still somehow tethered to reality? Early on in “Nowhere Inn”, the multi-hyphenate St. Vincent argues over her level of fame in a way that places her above the average person, but below an actual pop star. It’s the film’s mission statement at large: fans will appreciate that this is St. Vincent in crazy-make-’em’up shape, and non-fans will absolutely not know any better.

This is, roughly, a making-of a documentary (as opposed to a making-of documentary). Here, St. Vincent has enlisted her good friend, fellow rock goddess Carrie Brownstein of Sleater-Kinney, to put together an account of the bob-haired guitar legend on tour, seemingly an all-access look behind the curtain, This seems to be a reality where we’re talking about Brownstein as a fellow rocker, and not necessarily Brownstein the accomplished comedienne who somehow matched wits with Fred Armisen over a couple of seasons of “Portlandia”. Brownstein has a smaller role in this film, but I’m sorry – having “Portlandia” and Sleater-Kinney on your resume is just outrageous. We’re not gonna talk about this much, but Carrie Brownstein has certainly Done Some Things.

Initially, the truths that emerge from the backstage footage is basic – there’s a clear delineation between St. Vincent and her real-life (?) alter ego Annie Clark. Frustrated by this dichotomy, Brownstein tries to talk Clark into embracing her show business side for the sake of livening up the material. This gives a license to St. Vincent to lose perspective totally, engaging Brownstein on an Outburst Hellride. Eventually it leads Brownstein to documenting St. Vincent rolling around in bed, in her panties, with Dakota Johnson. I was in prison for over eight years. I did not mind this plot development.

Speaking of that, a huge part of the St. Vincent story (“story”) is how she has been open about her work being influenced by the imprisonment of her own father. Richard Clark received a twelve year sentence for white collar crimes, and it’s been difficult for St. Vincent to address in the press. If she were an uber-celebrity, she could say, “I’m not going to address that” and surely everyone would find a new topic and angle, lest they lose media access to her. But at her level of success, she needs the added attention. She’s alternately been open and coy about her father, preferring her music to speak for her. He saw release in 2019, just in time for an album, “Daddy’s Home”, that irreverently addressed the elephant in the room.

The movie takes things in a darker and more curious direction. Firstly, St. Vincent is depicted within the documentary as coming from a fabulous farm lifestyle, fashion-forward actors mimicking a life herding animals far away from Hollywood trappings. This builds towards the decision for St. Vincent to visit her father in prison, less of a meaningful gesture and more of a documentary concession St. Vincent cannot make. Or is it Annie Clark?

Surreally, the edges begin to blur as the movie’s reality becomes opaque and distant. The film’s actual director, Bill Benz, gets a lot of mileage out of the more abstract images he captures through a constant switching of film stock. “Nowhere Inn” stays playful instead of belligerently difficult, and St. Vincent’s stardom shines through every frame. The performance sequences captured throughout the movie remind people that, despite the layers of artifice that allows the movie to play with the format, this is still a gargantuan and stunning rock star, and she’s spent a couple of decades crafting genuine bangers. Recognize.

It’s unfortunate to know of the negative slant of media coverage surrounding Richard Clark, as if St. Vincent was somehow sullied by association. This is an ugly mindset, one that I’m certain is the majority view. When the public only has an abstract notion of someone in prison, their attitude is not that the person needs assistance, not that the person is hurting. Rather, they are in some sort of negative zone, and they are experiencing treatment that is deserved. They are lonely and alone. Any and all support, from your rock star daughter or your distant parents or just a buddy, pulls you from the precipice.

There was a nasty series of stories a couple of years back regarding the monstrous actions of actor Danny Masterson. He was convicted of rape on two separate counts, a contentious finding even after a delay caused by the protections of the slimy Church of Scientology. It doesn’t seem controversial to suggest Danny Masterson was a scumbag. He’s doing thirty years to life, and it’s going to be a difficult thirty. I hope he makes it out alive and is able to lead a productive life in his old age. Personally I don’t respect a rapist, but I sincerely doubt any productive rehabilitation will occur behind those walls.

There was something of a scandal that erupted when the media became aware of the many letters of recommendation Masterson’s judge received on his behalf, particularly from notable, well-known celebrities. Even as a malicious sexual predator, Masterson had support as he was to face the judge. You may not like it, and I don’t really like it, but that’s the way it should be. The judge should have received any and all letters of recommendation about Danny Masterson, and they should have been compassionately weighed against the horror of his own crimes. That’s why we have judges.

I took a plea deal, and spent months begging friends to write letters to the judge. I pleaded with everyone. From jail, I wrote many letters and made many phone calls over several months, guiding people on how to write to my judge. The purpose of this is not to ask for freedom, it’s to ask for leniency. Basically, a non-factor in my face – I signed a deal for a mandatory minimum, but the prosecution was trying to petition for more time. And while it would be in violation of the plea, the judge could have legally given me a life sentence. In my eyes, I needed written recommendations so I could avoid an entire life behind bars.

Months passed as I asked and asked and asked. And three weeks before sentencing, I checked in with my lawyer, and he told me exactly how many people had actually sent in letters. The number was low. Very low. Damningly low. Many of my closest acquaintances hadn’t bothered. SHE hadn’t bothered. I was crushed. I have a good friend, and great friend, and he took it upon himself to solicit last minute recommendations from these people. I recall his excellent summation, which was that no one was writing a letter to nominate me for Pope. In the end, because of my friend, my judge complimented the color and attitude of the collected letters he eventually received. I was sentenced to the mandatory minimum of 120 months. I encourage you, whomever you are, if you know someone going to prison, understand that it is them versus the justice system. Write them a letter of recommendation. Even if you hate them, if you think their crime is unforgivable, if you in no way condone their actions, write them a letter of recommendation. Do not let someone get swallowed by the prison industrial complex without adding a word, because it’s the same as leaving them to die.

Join us on Monday for a week of FEMALE AUTEURS!