KiKi Layne as an unsuccessful singer-songwriter

KiKi Layne in “Dandelion” by Nicole Riegel.

Courtesy of IFC Films

In the multitude of A star Is Born Films and their offspring, the struggles of an aspiring artist are the prelude to a melodrama of triumph and conflict that plays out in the relentless spotlight of the fame machine. Nicole Riegels dandelion turns this template on its head: in its peripheral milieu of shadows, the longing and the bursts of inspiration, the discouragement and the tireless hard work are not a prelude, but the main plot.

The story of a young singer-songwriter stuck in a loop until she takes an impulsive step, the film is sometimes bumpy but often quietly stirring, with strong chemistry between KiKi Layne in the title character and Thomas Doherty as the charismatic musician she meets as she escapes Cincinnati and her self-destructive rut.

This is the second part of a planned trilogy about women in Ohio, and like her debut film RoarRiegel has a sure sense of the working class in the Midwest. But as in that film, her dialogue tends to undermine the intended cinematic impact by articulating themes with a jarring insistence.

dandelion is at its strongest when the director lets the film’s visual language and music take over. Whether in deep close-ups, nighttime views of the Ohio River, or vistas of the South Dakota Badlands, Lauren Guiteras’ dynamic camerawork speaks volumes. And the songs that the two main characters compose and perform on screen, written by Bryce and Aaron Dessner of The National (whose music also inspired films such as jockey And C’mon C’mon), with contributions from Riegel and Layne, give parts of the drama an indie-opera spin, with the music conveying everything we need to know.

Layne (If Beale Street could talk) brings a captivating combination of youthful fickleness and old-soul alertness to her performance, conveying defeat, ecstasy and every half note in between. The first glimpse of her character, whose first name is Theresa and for whom Dandelion is more than a stage name, captures the earnest joy that drives the story: she strings and tunes her guitar. This connection between musician and instrument, songwriter and song, is the core of the film.

When Dandelion sells her beloved Gibson Les Paul Gold Top electric to finance the medical treatment of her ailing mother (Melanie Nicholls-King), the moment is all the more agonizing because it is played out in a restrained, matter-of-fact manner.

Dandelion is passionate about making music, but the thrill has worn off. Her three-night-a-week gig in a dreary hotel lounge barely brings in any money, and the inattentive drinkers have left her despondent and bitter, even as she dreams of finding the right audience for her introspective songs. When a friend suggests she enter a music showcase and contest at a famous motorcycle convention, she scoffs at the idea, convinced the audience isn’t the one she’s looking for. But after an over-the-top information dump disguised as an argument with her mother, she heads for Sturgis, South Dakota.

In their first hours there, a broken guitar string, cruel heckling and a dead car battery spell their doom. But hope and help come in the form of Casey (Doherty), a musician with a welcoming smile and a Scottish sing-song. He returns to the band he once belonged to (the real Brother Elsey, led by brothers Brady and Jack Stablein, who play versions of themselves) and is given a cautious welcome, as the animosity still simmers.

Doherty, who recently appeared in the Reboot of Gossip Girl and serves as a brand ambassador for Dior. Not only does he cut a fine figure, but he brings a compelling element of hidden pain to the role of Casey, whose phone rings at the most inopportune times and who throws around vague references to a job “in sales” and a divorcee. His gaze is hungry, sad and threatening to the audience, if not to the smitten Dandelion.

“I’m just a guy who used to be in a band,” Casey tells Dandelion, but he’s clearly excited to be drawn into their creative process. Their motorcycle rides through the stunning countryside lead to songwriting sessions – one unforgettable one on a windy lookout point – and lovemaking in the middle of nature.

As they work out lyrics, melody and harmony, they also find out who they are to each other, their accelerated intimacy not just physical. Their voices and guitars are in intoxicating sync, but Dandelion senses something is wrong and pours concerns into her songs. Brainstorming sessions become emotional duels and public performances become stalemates, charged with insecurity and Dandelion’s competitive spirit. Her creative integrity is Riegel’s primary concern.

Stumbles when it stops to have stilted conversations about ambition versus creativity or verbal outbursts that are as neat and orderly as emphatically poetic exchanges, dandelion finds its groove, appropriately, through singing. Beyond the contrivances and awkward passages in Riegel’s script, a coherent and urgent sensibility emerges.

If the director trusts what is on screen enough to let it speak for itself, dandelion is full of convincing friction. It shows in the disarray of the protagonist’s Cincinnati home and, to a lesser extent, Casey’s RV. All great work by production designer Maren H. Jensen, who creates a strong sense of life that is captured mid-sentence.

There’s nothing complacent about Layne’s sensitive characterization of Dandelion’s acceptance of her vulnerability and desire. In a dramatic sequence, edited with impressive vitality by Milena Z. Petrovic, the songwriter turns flashes of memory – the gifts and the betrayals alike – into fuel for her art. Fame may or may not be Dandelion’s reward, but seeing her again with her electric guitar or one like it is like the unraveling of something hard-won, a kind of musical gold that is nothing short of intoxicating.