Um, where to start? How about by saying that this isn't the review I was expecting to write of Lenny Abrahamson's
Frank. That's as good a place as any. Irreverent, self-knowing, self-conscious creative types locked in cultish awe of a man with a papier-mâché head is what I thought I was getting into. A fun, quirky indie-comedy ready for unpacking.
Frank is all that and a whole lot more than that at the same time. It is just that what it is and what it is isn't all that coherent in either guise. A musical savant stuffed into a giant spherical head, were you expecting it to be coherent? Were you expecting it to be as dispiriting as it is? Abrahamson's on a bender, swinging from eccentric, obsessive, moody musician types to crippling, socially insular paranoia. Soronprfbs characters splinter moodily. Where does that come from? Nonsensical non-sequiturs non-stop. Droning. Did Daniel Johnson ever sing about sequinned mountain ladies, fiddly digits and itchy britches? Domhnall Gleeson does good beard. His character is ginger. #plotdevelopment. Gyllenhaal is slight. Whole band is slight. Scoot McNairy is less slight. Lessons aren't learnt. Lessons are already learnt. Humour is sadness. Sadness is humour. The point is art. The point is madness. The point is coattails. The point is twitter. The point is SXSW financing. The point is schizophrenia. The point is suburbia. The point is visual allusions. The point is cowbell. The point is hollow. Inside your face the music echoes. It doesn't stop. Band is family. Teardrop.
★★★☆
Trailer:
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