What is this adaptation of Elizabeth Wurtzel’s memoir saying to its audience? Not even five minutes in, you get Christina Ricci naked. Sure, there’s an artsy motive, but it feels like a concession: Let’s just get this out of the way, shall we? Actually, Ricci’s face is what draws the eye, modulating from tragically sullen to brightly inviting, shattering on a dime. The movie is about an intelligent young person getting wrecked by depression — recognizing her repulsive, inescapable self-consumption — and Lord knows Ricci is right for the part. If you’re willing to indulge its deliberate misery (no pressure; it will gladly indulge itself), you’re in for some gallant performances — not just Ricci but also the livewire Jessica Lange as Wurtzel’s mother, and a shrewdly unshowy turn, necessary for contrast, from Jason Biggs as her tolerant boyfriend.