Frank Review

One of the joys of Michael Fassbender being in a movie is getting to see Michael Fassbender's face (and, when we're really lucky, other parts of him).  Michael Fassbender has a nice face; he's handsome in that classic manly way, like stars used to be.  He and Jon Hamm should stand together and smile sometime.  I'd like to look at them from the side.  That would be nice.  Those jaws.

Fassbender is more than just a nice face, though; he's also a terrifically talented actor.  The combination of his good looks and great talent elevate even the middling movies he's in: Prometheus and A Dangerous Method are better because of him.  Thus, though Fassbender's eponymous character in Leonard Abrahamson's Frank wears a papier mache head, the actor's talent shows through, and the result is a lovely performance in a wonderfully weird movie.

(I apologize deeply for this review's unprofessional beginning.  It's what Fassbender does to me.)

Frank is, in its structure, a sort of romantic-comedy.  But rather than focusing on a romantic relationship - there's little love to be found - the attractor in this case is a band.  Domhnall Gleeson plays Jon, an aspiring musician who tries to find inspiration in everything around him, with adorably awful results.  His effective meet cute with the fateful band (of misfits) occurs by the beach, where the current keyboard player attempts to drown himself, providing Jon a vacancy to slip into, and thus providing him a stepping stone to make his dreams come true.

But those dreams become somewhat subsumed in the larger artistic vision of Soronprfbs' (that's the band's name, not me having a stroke at the keyboard) lead singer, Frank, who never removes his cartoonish head, with its Betty Boop eyes and microphone hookup for when the band takes the stage. In a remote cabin in the woods, the enigmatic genius encourages his fellow bandmates to find the music in the world around them, a journey they undertake with as much gusto as Jon, but with (relatively) better results.  All the while, Jon secretly documents the bizarre creative process on the internet, becoming a minor virtual star and gaining the band a small following.

All the questions that must surface upon seeing Frank's head are brought up in short order, and only add to his mystique.  After answering a slew of Jon's questions, fellow band member Don (the ever reliable Scoot McNairy) tells him that he's just going to have to go with it.  The response reveals the necessary surrender one must have when dealing with a boundlessly creative, and curbs the modern movie-goer's desire to have everything explained to them.  The film comes close to outright refusal, only briefly flirting with a Psycho-esque backstory that still leaves plenty of room for confused awe.

That confused awe is hard to escape while watching Frank.  Fassbender takes on the difficult task of making a deeply empathetic character without the screen actor's greatest asset: his face (though Frank says his facial expressions aloud for others' benefit).  With a mutt accent that defies geographical pinpointing, Frank becomes a fictional character even in the real world of the film.  Even though those around him know some of his past, he is still larger than life.  Late in the film, Maggie Gyllenhaal's fiercely protective Clara sings, "I want to marry a lighthouse keeper."  But in attaching herself to Frank, she has instead married the lighthouse.  Frank is a beacon of acceptance, of abundant life and creativity, of escape from the crushing pressures of everyday life.

Unsurprisingly, the band's trip into the public eye doesn't go well, but it is to the characters' benefits.  In the end, Frank isn't about the musicians connecting with their audience; it's about them connecting with each other, purely, in the act of creation.  Art is selfish, but at least within a band, that selfishness is shared.  It's a bit of sweet irony, then, that Frank is such a watchable film, one that will delight those lucky enough to sway to its unique tune.