Peggy Guggenheim is one of the go-to “interesting” people of 20th-century art. There are four biographies of this “black sheep” of the Guggenheim dynasty, plus memoirs and I-knew-her-too books and a continuous stream of enthusiastic articles. Meanwhile, the go-to “interesting” story of 20th-century art—the one you can sell cinema tickets with—is the avant-garde, from Dada to Picasso to Pollock.

But modernism is an old goat in need of a rest, and the eccentric rich are just not that interesting. The world does not need another documentary about modernist art, the troubled rich, and suntanned surrealist celebrities. (What about the boring rich, by the way? Why do we not see the rule depicted, only the exception?)

In Peggy Guggenheim: Art Addict, Peggy Guggenheim does all the things she always does in these stories. She travels and collects art. She sleeps with artists and has a gallery where moderns get their start, including women, and Jackson Pollock pees in her fireplace during a party. At the end of her life she is surrounded with small fluffy dogs and is insecure about a botched nose job. For her legacy she leaves a museum of her collection in Venice, which you can visit today. It is all very fancy and high-up and familiar.

Art Addict is by Lisa Immordino Vreeland, an inhabitant of elite New York herself as the granddaughter-in-law of fashion icon Diana Vreeland. She got the fanciest talking heads—celebrity artists, dealers, Robert De Niro—and of course they don’t say much. The movie’s best contribution is Guggenheim’s voice itself. Immordino Vreeland discovered old audio interviews with her biographer, and at one point, in her deep staccato, Guggenheim blurts, “I had seven abortions.” Then the movie, with its jazzy score, moves on.