![Picture](/uploads/2/1/3/6/21368710/_1410375444.jpg)
Frank (15.)
Directed by Lenny Abrahamson.
Starring Domnhall Gleeson, Michael Fassbender, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Scoot McNairy, Francois Civil and Carla Azar. 95 mins. Out on Blu-ray and DVD
Frank is a difficult film to get your head round; but then it is a difficult head to get a film round. Playing a bizarro world version of Frank Sidebottom, Michael Fassbender spends the whole film (well, spoiler, almost) with his head hidden beneath a giant spherical fibre glass head. Now, I really don't want to be the one saying that a man who spends almost the entire film with his head hidden beneath a giant spherical fibre glass head, gives the performance of the year but after two viewings I have to concede that no other performance this year has grabbed me quite like Fassbender's does in this.
There are no real reference points for this film, it is equal parts laconic American road movie and sappy Richard Curtis rom com. It is at times banal and annoying, yet magical. Fassbender's performance does what all great performances do, it gently brushes aside your objections because it gives you something you want to keep, something that makes it worth putting up with all the shortcomings. His previous two roles in The Counsellor and 12 Years a Slave, were perfectly respectable turns but by his standards a little dull and conventional. This is him back on miracle form.
He is very difficult actor to pin down. There is something Zelig-like about his adaptability, he seems to want to blend in, to not make a big deal of what he has done to make his character believable. Yet in Prometheus there is the scene where the android David is trying to model himself on Lawrence of Arabia and the association between Fassbender and Peter O'Toole, as showy and barnstorming a performer as it is possible to imagine, seem obvious. He's not Mumble Fish methody, he's not theatrical, he seems to follow no school or traditions. There is a cold perfection to his acting but on screen he isn't a distant figure. When necessary, he is very identifiable. Frankly he is almost impossible to figure out.
Part of the reason why Fassbender stands out here is that Frank is the only fully realised character in the script. Written with Peter Straughn, it is a wild autobiographical fantasy spun from journalist Jon Ronson's experiences as a keyboardist in Sidebottom's band, and then conflated with the story of eccentric musical geniuses such as Beefheart and Daniel Johnson. The other band members are all single issue eccentrics, from the pretentious and threatening French rhythm section (Civil and Azar) to the pretentious and threatening American Clara (Gyllenhaal.) Weirdest of all is the Ronson surrogate Jon (Gleeson) who's written as a standard comic div, an uptight conventional Englishman; like Hugh Grant joining Nirvana. It seems too broad a comic juxtaposition, too obvious an audience identification figure. While the band is happy to remain in audience baiting obscurity, Jon sees their talent and pushes them towards greater accessibility and fame.
In our world Frank Sidebottom was a Northern comedy novelty act, a bit of punk flotsam that popped up from time to time from the eighties onwards. A lollipop shaped George Formby imitator who performed pop covers played on a bankulele (a cross between a banjo and ukulele), sung in a kazoo like voice while all the time wearing a giant spherical fibre glass head. The key to the act was that while Frank was always a positive, upbeat, almost family friendly character, the head made him deeply disturbing. After three decades of intermittent fame, the act was curtailed with the tragic early death of creator Chris Sievey.
In the film Frank's spherical head has been plonked onto a Captain Beefheart type figure; the Kansas born leader of an obscure avant garde music act with an unpronounceable name, The Soronprfbs. After picking up a new keyboardist (Gleeson) after the attempted suicide of their previous one, they ensconce to a deserted spot in Ireland to record their new album in an intensive and lengthy session that recall Beefheart's exertions of his Magic Band while making Trout Mask Replica. It’s a very strange flip, like Emu appearing wedged under a hobo Tom Waits’ arm in a late 90’s Jim Jarmusch film, or John Shuttleworth being sent on tour in an Aki Kaurismauki film.
Director Lenny Abrahamson had previously been a contented purveyor of low-key, small scale Irish miserablism (Garage, What Richard Did) and he retains the comfort blanket of depression with a story that is filled with suicide attempts and mental health isses. The way the film appears to buy into the myth of tortured genius irritates. What redeems the film is that it convincingly portrays genius. Anyone can put on a plastic head, some can do an American accent, a few can sing, but very few can convey a sense of genius. Frank is supposed to be a savant who can take inspiration from anything and spin it into music almost instantly. Abrahamson and his composer Stephen Rennicks have come up with songs that sound exactly right for the band. It is only watching a second time that you you realise how little music there is in the film but there is enough, just enough, to map out the parameters of a great talent and the one number we hear in full, I Love You All, is heartbreakingly good.
Frank is flawed but lovely. It is not a Frank Sidebottom film and there are no songs about Timperley. But in spirit it is, it really is.
Directed by Lenny Abrahamson.
Starring Domnhall Gleeson, Michael Fassbender, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Scoot McNairy, Francois Civil and Carla Azar. 95 mins. Out on Blu-ray and DVD
Frank is a difficult film to get your head round; but then it is a difficult head to get a film round. Playing a bizarro world version of Frank Sidebottom, Michael Fassbender spends the whole film (well, spoiler, almost) with his head hidden beneath a giant spherical fibre glass head. Now, I really don't want to be the one saying that a man who spends almost the entire film with his head hidden beneath a giant spherical fibre glass head, gives the performance of the year but after two viewings I have to concede that no other performance this year has grabbed me quite like Fassbender's does in this.
There are no real reference points for this film, it is equal parts laconic American road movie and sappy Richard Curtis rom com. It is at times banal and annoying, yet magical. Fassbender's performance does what all great performances do, it gently brushes aside your objections because it gives you something you want to keep, something that makes it worth putting up with all the shortcomings. His previous two roles in The Counsellor and 12 Years a Slave, were perfectly respectable turns but by his standards a little dull and conventional. This is him back on miracle form.
He is very difficult actor to pin down. There is something Zelig-like about his adaptability, he seems to want to blend in, to not make a big deal of what he has done to make his character believable. Yet in Prometheus there is the scene where the android David is trying to model himself on Lawrence of Arabia and the association between Fassbender and Peter O'Toole, as showy and barnstorming a performer as it is possible to imagine, seem obvious. He's not Mumble Fish methody, he's not theatrical, he seems to follow no school or traditions. There is a cold perfection to his acting but on screen he isn't a distant figure. When necessary, he is very identifiable. Frankly he is almost impossible to figure out.
Part of the reason why Fassbender stands out here is that Frank is the only fully realised character in the script. Written with Peter Straughn, it is a wild autobiographical fantasy spun from journalist Jon Ronson's experiences as a keyboardist in Sidebottom's band, and then conflated with the story of eccentric musical geniuses such as Beefheart and Daniel Johnson. The other band members are all single issue eccentrics, from the pretentious and threatening French rhythm section (Civil and Azar) to the pretentious and threatening American Clara (Gyllenhaal.) Weirdest of all is the Ronson surrogate Jon (Gleeson) who's written as a standard comic div, an uptight conventional Englishman; like Hugh Grant joining Nirvana. It seems too broad a comic juxtaposition, too obvious an audience identification figure. While the band is happy to remain in audience baiting obscurity, Jon sees their talent and pushes them towards greater accessibility and fame.
In our world Frank Sidebottom was a Northern comedy novelty act, a bit of punk flotsam that popped up from time to time from the eighties onwards. A lollipop shaped George Formby imitator who performed pop covers played on a bankulele (a cross between a banjo and ukulele), sung in a kazoo like voice while all the time wearing a giant spherical fibre glass head. The key to the act was that while Frank was always a positive, upbeat, almost family friendly character, the head made him deeply disturbing. After three decades of intermittent fame, the act was curtailed with the tragic early death of creator Chris Sievey.
In the film Frank's spherical head has been plonked onto a Captain Beefheart type figure; the Kansas born leader of an obscure avant garde music act with an unpronounceable name, The Soronprfbs. After picking up a new keyboardist (Gleeson) after the attempted suicide of their previous one, they ensconce to a deserted spot in Ireland to record their new album in an intensive and lengthy session that recall Beefheart's exertions of his Magic Band while making Trout Mask Replica. It’s a very strange flip, like Emu appearing wedged under a hobo Tom Waits’ arm in a late 90’s Jim Jarmusch film, or John Shuttleworth being sent on tour in an Aki Kaurismauki film.
Director Lenny Abrahamson had previously been a contented purveyor of low-key, small scale Irish miserablism (Garage, What Richard Did) and he retains the comfort blanket of depression with a story that is filled with suicide attempts and mental health isses. The way the film appears to buy into the myth of tortured genius irritates. What redeems the film is that it convincingly portrays genius. Anyone can put on a plastic head, some can do an American accent, a few can sing, but very few can convey a sense of genius. Frank is supposed to be a savant who can take inspiration from anything and spin it into music almost instantly. Abrahamson and his composer Stephen Rennicks have come up with songs that sound exactly right for the band. It is only watching a second time that you you realise how little music there is in the film but there is enough, just enough, to map out the parameters of a great talent and the one number we hear in full, I Love You All, is heartbreakingly good.
Frank is flawed but lovely. It is not a Frank Sidebottom film and there are no songs about Timperley. But in spirit it is, it really is.