Robbie Williams was not a vanity project. It was not just an ego party. It was mostly an anatomy of mental disintegration and, I think, his own catharsis. Williams is in many ways an anti-Beckham.

While it’s no David Bowie’s Cracked Actor, it delivers on broken boyband member: a devastating meditation on fame and its side effects.

The result is a totally unvarnished meta meditation on his journey. And from the euphoria of instant stardom to all of the adversity, hits and misses that came after, it becomes much more of a personal document than just another celebrity documentary.

Robbie Williams combines titillation and pity as effectively as its namesake does braggadocio and vulnerability.

Williams is articulate and thoughtful. But the format has an anaesthetised quality. The endless shots of Williams pacing around his house, or his face bathed in the glow of a laptop screen, are deadening. It plays out like an extended therapy session. Still, it’s an insight into the many downsides of fame.

It’s an ultimately joyless tale. Williams has said he hopes the viewing experience is as traumatic as the filming was for him – and I certainly didn’t come out of the other side of the four episodes feeling very hopeful.

Robbie Williams is more evidence that celebrity is an affliction and an addiction, which in turn leaves the series feeling like an opportunity to rubberneck at disaster. At the same time, Williams is so hard to empathise with. It turns out it’s surprisingly tricky to emotionally connect with someone when all you see is them – as this myopic documentary has proven to its own detriment.