Frank
(2014)
The appeal of Frank Sidebottom passed me by, which may be
just as well, as Jon Ronson’s sort-of fictionalised memoir of his time with
Frank’s band retains the iconic head of Mr Sidebottom but otherwise ploughs its
own distinct furrow. An amusing but melancholic charting of an unpronounceably-named
band that didn’t really want to make it big, but for the intervention of one
Ronson-stand-in keyboard player, sequestered because he can play three notes, Frank is an affectionate musing on the
shortcomings, indulgences, excesses and banalities of the creative urge.
Frank was co-written by Ronson and Peter Straughan. The
latter has earned a dazzling rep of late, after starting out in the adaptation
game with mixed results. There was How to
Lose Friends & Alienate People, and the brave (or foolhardy) attempt to
turn Ronson’s brilliant gonzo trip into the weird The Men Who Stare at Goats into a workable narrative. He then ran
aground slightly (The Debt) before
achieving the impossible and finessing a cherishable big screen Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Right now, he’s
receiving plaudits for the (ultimate?) BBC heritage adaptation Wolf Hall and has a fictionalised
version of doc Our Brand is Crisis
and an (another!) adaptation, The
Teleport Accident, on the way. In short, he’s in demand.
Ronson has long been a favourite journo. For a start, he is
clearly fascinated by all sorts of peculiar subject matter (way back with
Channel 4’s For The Love Of…), which
he investigates with an ironic air, one part intent on debunking and one part
non-committal. He clearly sees the antic as ever present in life, even if he is
less willing to entertain its most rabbit hole-dwelling recesses (seeking out overt
eccentrics and whack jobs to bear witness to fringe ideas, ones one is
top-heavy with doubt about in the first place, quickly becomes a self-fulfilling
prophecy in throwing out the baby with the bath water). But it’s always fun to
read or watch or listen to his process, crossing from scepticism to doubt and then retreating to the safety of the shore once more. I’m doubtful that Ronson is a great original storyteller,
however. His DVD commentary comment about realising he didn’t have to stick to the
facts of “Jon’s” feelings, but rather could have him turn to the dark side, becoming
seduced by the idea of fame, is particularly revealing in this regard. Ronson’s
creative boundaries may be as inhibited as they were when he attempted to become a songsmith, but he’s completely in his element when inserting himself
into real life madness.
Frank finds Jon
hitching a ride to an Irish cabin with band Soronprfbs, where they are
ostensibly set to make an album. They actually spend most of their time dilletanting
in the name of artistic expression and discovery, at the behest of Terror of the Autons-looking Frank
(Michael Fassbender, showing he’s a good sport and a funny guy; it would be
nice to see his face too in a comedy next time). Jon’s friend in all this is
suicidal Don (Scoot McNairy; what is it with actors from Killing Them Softly washing up in Britain?). His archenemy is Theremin-wielding
Clara (Maggie Gyllenhaal). There’s also a drummer (Carla Azar as Nana) and a
bass guitarist (Francois Civil as Baraque).
First impressions suggest Clara is a complete bitch to poor
unassuming Jon (Gleeson does a decent not-quite-Ronson). But, as he becomes
ever more hoisted by his own petard, drinking the sub-Jim Morrison Kool Aid
of Frank and warming to ideas of creative worth above his meagre station, we
begin to realise her brittle dismissiveness of Jon (“Someone needs to
punch you in the face”) and protectiveness of Frank may have a point. There are
inevitable deaths, confrontations and dalliances before the band end up – through
Jon’s illicit promotion – at the SXSW festival. Where all hell breaks loose.
Lenny Abrahamson, aided by James Mather’s cinematography,
has directed an exquisite looking movie, belying completely any presumption
that this would be quirky, rough-and-ready production. Indeed, despite the
conceit of its premise – a man who never takes his fake head off (“I have a certificate”) – Frank is a remarkably well-observed and
surprisingly low-key exploration of (Ronson’s favourite subject) madness and
invention, and the ways in which they attract and repel. Like many creatives,
Frank doesn’t need to assemble acolytes; they just congregate around him, sitting in awe at his charismatic feet. In some ways Jon is the cruellest character
here. Jon and Peter are unflinching in their takedown of someone with little
talent beyond hitting those three notes and a yen for the undeserved spotlight.
The actual introductory band song is pretty good in a
stream-of-consciousness, random, “got a good beat” way (although Ronson and
Straughan are way off if they think it sounds like nothing anyone has heard
before). The picture is frequently very funny, although rarely laugh-out-loud; this is comedy of observation and embarrassment. From Frank’s pseudish, gibberish attempts
to encourage the band to discover themselves, to his most likable song ever
(Jon attempts to make it more likable still), to the inevitable crash-and-burn
on stage, Frank walks a thin line
between tragedy and hilarity.
It doesn’t all quite work. The onscreen Tweeting is a too-familiar device, and, with the YouTube naivety, comes across as a fogeyish take on new technology (a hangover from originally setting this during the ‘80s?) Still, Frank is insightful, amusing, and steeped in Ronson-esque irony. Perhaps the real reason he blanched at turning “himself” into a fame-seeking opportunist is because deep down Ronson recognised a little bit of himself in that “Jon”?
