Movie Review: "Frank" (Lenny Abrahamson, 2014)

THE HEAD BECOMES HIM by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Michael Fassbender (yes, really) in "Frank"

 

Cold, cruel eyes; a joyous and scary smile; and an icy, metallic voice.  There is nothing about Michael Fassbender that is not magnetic—every step he takes and every sound he puts forth thrillingly throttles the movies he performs in.  But in “Frank,” he has topped himself by doing the seemingly impossible—needling wit, remorse, and humanity into in a man who literally hides behind a mask.

            But more on that later.  “Frank” (a tender black comedy directed by Lenny Abrahamson) is inaugurated not by its titular personality, but by Jon (Domhnall Gleeson), a young office drone who lives at home but fancies himself a rock star in the making.  What savage luck for him, then, when the keyboardist for the local band Sonprofrbs (yes, that’s their name) attempts to drown himself, leaving a blank slot that Jon is more than eager to fill.

            Needless to say, nothing goes according to plan.  The music of Sonprofrbs may be wondrously absurd (their lyrics find intricacy in topics as unlikely as carpet fuzz), but their ranks are comprised of obnoxious, even violent characters.  And that’s to say nothing of Frank, who leads them on artistic journeys of discovery without ever removing his most prized possession—a fake, paper mache head.

            Already, this premise has invited snickers of bafflement.  Yet what gives “Frank” its gentle power is its straightforwardness.  Mr. Abrahamson regards the film’s most brutal incidents (including a scene where Jon is stabbed in the leg) with naughty amusement, but the movie’s imagery never becomes as eccentric as its characters.  Instead, Mr. Abrahamson (and his cinematographer, James Mather) keeps each shot calm and still—so Frank and company can flail about, thrusting their madness upon a seemingly sane world.

            To that end, the movie’s final act shifts from the cozy cabin the band calls home to the Texas musical festival South by Southwest—where Jon hopes Sonprofrbs will achieve the fame he’s always wanted for himself.  “Hello, South by Southwest!” he shouts gleefully when he and Frank finally take to the stage.  But what Jon fails to understand is that Frank and company aren’t meant to be in the midst of such roaring spectacle—they’re at their best and happiest cooped up in that cabin, making music with sticks, water, and anything else they can find.

            Part of the film is about how that Eden of creativity is undone.  Yet there’s still hope to be found within “Frank.”  “I love you all,” Frank sings in the film’s final scene.  In that moment, Mr. Fassbender’s tearful eyes shine with anguish and compassion, and it’s a life-giving to see such a wonderful artist unmasked, as if reborn. 

Still, I’m not about to forget the scenes Mr. Fassbender performs under that outrageous head, or the way he moves when wears it—stiffly yet nimbly, always ready to sing or strum or even, on occasion, dance.