Horrific Period Pieces

Horrific Period Pieces

by Kristin Battestella

Steeped in gothic mood and bleak atmosphere, this trio of films past and present provides both period piece sophistication and slow burn horrors.

Black Torment – Black screen panting and tense chases through the brush with music to match every snapped branch and booted footstep open this 1964 eighteenth century ye olde horror. It's not a Hammer production, though it certainly feels like it with brutal strangulations, newlyweds in carriages, tricorn hats, bosomy frocks, and angry barons in powdered wigs. Heraldic notes and a lovely country manor house with grand columns and chandeliers belie the ornery blacksmiths, crippled nobles, and village tales of murder and violence. Sign Language is the only way to communicate, but the invalid can see and hear all the whispering servants, giggling maids, and witchcraft rumors – not to mention some casual innuendo about drinking and getting merry with the oh so fashionable butler. Ominous letters, cryptic family mottoes, eerie ancestral portraits, and footmen carrying the clearly pained but unable to object patient create tension amid noises in the night, a missing family bible, and suicidal history. There's romance but also secrets, screams, barred windows, and phantom ladies walking the grounds. Who's imagining what or driving one to madness? Despite obvious doppelganger red herrings, the mystery builds a sinister atmosphere with wheelchairs and evil suspicions while lingering recollections of a first wife provide Rebecca shade. Necking in the stables and townsfolk versus ruling gentry intensify as the seemingly law abiding local militia is also beholden to our baron regarding horse chases and murder accusations. Misunderstandings on a man said to be in two places at once escalate with tell tale ink, staircase frights, fainting spells, fatal revelations, and churchyard toppers. Slow spins, blurred images, askew angles, and up close camera shots of terrified eyes and sweating temples accent the out of control ill tempers and brain fevers while entertaining visions, muskets, and climatic sword fights set off the titular frights with a little foaming at the mouth for good measure. Although the dim, elusive print is in need of a good restoration, this sophisticated period piece pot boiler with horror pacing and flair is well worth the watch for mid-century gothic fans.

The Little Stranger – Lenny Abrahamson (Frank) directs Domhnall Gleeson (The Force Awakens), Ruth Wilson (I am the Pretty Thing that Lives in the House), and Charlotte Rampling (Zardoz) in this 2018 adaptation of the Sarah Waters novel. Post-war razors, old telephone ring rings, vintage lamp glows, and doctor bags set the scene before house calls to the lovely but overgrown country manor sheltering a burned RAF pilot and a fearful servant. Damaged plaster, a disused service bell system, quaint antiques, and a fine staircase provide former grandeur – our doctor's mother was a maid at Hundreds Hall before the 1919 parasols and garden parties last hurrahs. This fallen Old World charm versus Second war torn onward crossroad is firmly felt, and some cannot let go of the past. Layered dialogue provides the catching up exposition on family deaths, new medical treatments that could heal the wounded, and the once wealthy now like everyone else unable to afford upgrades and estate taxes. Our poor country doctor is more formal and button up in his suit, a stoic spire in the center of the frame interfering with family affairs or land sales when not spending holidays making their tea. Extreme, distorted, close up shots reflect his invasion of this space where the manor's past is still very much in the present, and his narration recalling a visit there as a boy parallels current events – he's “admitted” at the top of the stairs rather than waiting at the bottom, spoiled like a proper little gentleman, and made to feel like a part of the house. Mirrors and careful editing reflect the intermingling while the forties gowns inspire a past within the past trying to recapturing that pre-war class feeling. Awkward parties mixing old philosophies and new pretentiousness begat sudden dog attacks, blood, and screams. Real life troubles, barely understood shell shock, and fears that there's something in the house that wants them dead affect everyone's state of mind, and although our doctor has new opportunities in the city, viewers wonder if his dancing and romancing the daughter is just to complete his mastery of the home. Everything is happy away from the leaky house with knocking sounds, disturbances in the night, and names of the dead inscribed on the walls yet he wants to stay while she's ready to leave once the bells ring by themselves and old speaking pipes echo from the nursery. Many incidents are told rather than seen, which adds to the psychological versus supernatural mystery as more of the manor is explored. After such hear tell subtlety, the scares are more intense when they do happen – slamming doors and desperate pounding are traumatic for the person experiencing the out of control malevolence. Are the ghosts and poltergeists real or merely hysterical women in some collective episode? Memories and self harm escalate to emergencies in the night, fatal falls, ghostly interventions, and who can't or won't let go extremes without the need for anything over the top thanks to fine performances and period touches. This may be slow for some but the characterizations and drama don't rely on run of the mill in your face scares. Elements left unexplained create discussion, and this should probably be watched twice for the subdued setting of the scene – which is perfect for audiences that don't expect chills a minute and can enjoy a simmering sense of dread.

Lizzie – Maid Kristen Stewart (Twilight) gets steamy with the titular turn of the century murderess Chloe Sevingy (American Horror Story) in this 2018 biopic accented with fine costumes, rustic lighting, and vintage Victorian interiors. Six months before the screams and blood, the buttoned up, repressed daughter is already defiant against the patriarchal oppression by going to theatre parties unaccompanied where low cut, colorful frocks contrast the tight collars and immediate sexual tension at home. The Bordens can't have anything too extravagant despite being able to afford it, and Lizzie prefers the barn and animals to people, reading aloud in an innocent but antisocial loneliness. While some dialogue is a little too modern, our eponymous lady has a progressive, forceful, even masculine energy that can't be contained with fainting spells. Our old maid is called a lesbian abomination but in turn rightfully calls her perverse, abusive father a lying coward before creaking floorboards, broken mirrors slid under the door, revenge injuries, and burned documents reveal the truth. The up close camera often peers through the window, catching the glances as each lady looks at each other – the audience is in on the intimate possibilities but when your employer suggests his servant leave the door to her hot attic room open, she can't exactly say no. The strict orders and behind closed doors implications are uncomfortable enough without the often seen exploitative, degrading visuals, and the women bond during intimate undressings and corset tightenings. Theft and rebellious acts increase amid suspicious business deals, threatening letters, and whispering relatives. The women have to eavesdrop to learn what the men are planning for them before violent punishments and one and all sitting at the dinner table like nothing has happened. Is murder the only way out of the hypocrisy? Were the violent tendencies always there or could you be crazy in love enough to kill? The ax is shown throughout the pot boiler, and although the stifling camerawork may be disorienting to some viewers, it mirrors the closeness when it is both welcomed by the women or invaded by nasty men. Regardless of height the unprotected ladies must look up to the creepy uncles, diminished and fearful of physical violence. Retro photo pops accent the bludgeoning editing before jail and witnesses on the stand provide the fallout from this infamous hatcheting. Premeditated accomplices, church bells, deliberate nudity, and out of control horror are worth the wait once the finale reveals the symbolically sexual posturing, vomit, and splatter. Some people just don't have the stomach for this sort of thing while others so smooth have thought of everything. There is some unevenness with the characters – probably from when the project was envisioned as a television piece with bigger roles – and the killer romance meets Victorian women's lib messages are mixed. However despite liberties suggesting what went on in this congested house and a decidedly quiet, not mainstream style that won't be for everyone, this interesting perspective will have viewers studying this disturbing murder case with a sympathetic, personal anew.

Science Fiction and Action Thrillers!

Science Fiction and Action Thrillers!

by Kristin Battestella

These new and old, film or long form science fiction and action spectacles with memorable stars are a hodgepodge of space ships, disasters, aliens, robots, and more. Something for everyone!

Earthquake – Despite the older phones, analog equipment, suave seventies corduroy, tacky wallpaper, and patterns everywhere; we can see the genre influence of this star packed 1974 disaster yarn written by Mario Puzo (The Godfather) on films like Independence Day. The titular rumblings begin early for engineer Charlton Heston (Planet of the Apes), his cranky wife Ava Gardner (Mogambo), and an Afro sporting Victoria Principal (Dallas) as terse conversations introduce the drama. Higher up cops chew out George Kennedy (also of that other disaster flick Airport '77), and no one believes the scientist who thinks the big quake is imminent even amid fleeing animals, reservoir perils, and landslide action. Yes, the actress reading flirtatious script lines meta falls flat. The age difference between rough Chuck and ingenue Genevieve Bujold (Anne of a Thousand Days) is ridiculous – almost as bad as his father-in-law cum boss Lorne Greene (Battlestar Galactica) looking as old as his onscreen daughter Ava. However, there are enough seismic sciences, probability curves, and scale debates alongside a whiff of social commentary regarding ignored Mexican victims, so-called religious freaks, negative treatment of soldiers, homophobic slurs, and racist insults. Red tape at the top contributes to the situation with officials worried over public panic and implausible evacuations, but certain action is laughable, too – be it the trailer full of cows going off the overpass or crumbling models of famous buildings and hello faux splatter in that disturbing elevator mishap. Green screens and matte backgrounds are at times obvious, yet most of the effects actually aren't bad, with green smoke and orange fire creating eerie glows. Of course, these two hours will be slow for those expecting the disaster quickly, and the story does stall with inadvertently over the top seriousness and too many characters that should have been combined cluttering what's important before the tolling bells, trembling bridges, falling bricks, smashed cars, and buckling highways. It's interesting how these crisis scenes are also done sans dialogue – there's no news coverage, authorities are non-existent, and some of our disparate people never even meet. This starts with detail but becomes haphazard, bouncing from scene to scene with dam releases, sparking wires, and seemingly significant players disappearing in the chaos. Ironically, today such movies are one visual sensation after another desensitizing spectacle for the entire ninety minutes! Aftershocks damage supposedly safe buildings where the rescued gather, crowds remain in peril, the military is portrayed as crazy, and one anonymous kid with a transistor radio tells us this disaster is the worst ever. Sadly, we've seen far worse than this fiction, and shootout injuries, looting assaults, dangling scaffolding, and claustrophobic tunnels may be upsetting for some younger audiences. The big watery consequence should probably have happened earlier, gas and fire damage are unrealistically minor, and this is both of its time in lacking a narrative resolution yet progressive with some seventies cynicism and a few dramatic surprises. We love it when our stars rescue puppies, and only Charlton Heston can save the day – because he must rescue not one, but two babes. After all, an earthquake is the perfect time to break up, and most importantly in a crisis, that megaphone is announcing where the hot coffee is available.

Didn't Think It Was *That* Bad

Saturn 3 – Underground Titan bases, a twenty-two day eclipse, cut off communication, and evil robots spell doom for Kirk Douglas (The Man from Snowy River), Farrah Fawcett (Charlie's Angels), and Harvey Keitel (Bugsy) in this 1980 British tale with not terrible but obviously influenced by Star Wars celestial illustrations and space graphics. That futuristic faux serious marching, foreboding mission preparation, and emergency radio chatter opening, however, is all unnecessary hype. Rather than showing a murderer switching places with the real pilot over a failed psych test, just begin with the supply run landing at this sheltered assignment and leave the ulterior intentions unknown. The duo here has chosen this cool but behind schedule hydroponics lab with its artificially blue tinted water and green lit plants, and of course the talk of never having been to earth or how nice it would be to go outside and breathe real air happens in the shower! Such sheer robes, nudity, sex, and drug experimentation stir the tense dynamic between this older gent, younger woman, and new younger man amid ominous device sounds and spying on the monitors by all parties. Weird scene transitions and epic music at the wrong times under estimate the mature audience and don't need to try so hard when our newcomer is unmistakably blunt about his desire; jacking in interfaces, blasting hoses, and sliding the giant head in and out of the robot cavity make for better symbolism. He's building this demigod robot with brain tissue and advanced connections to replace half the couple – who overhear this obsolete talk and fear the end of their idyllic. Can they toss their problems out the airlock or will kindness be their undoing? Scary injuries, creepy surgeries, and dogs in peril are well-filmed tense when the cast is allowed to stew, argue over who has the more violent tendencies, or foolishly think one of them can control such intelligent machinery. Again, knowing the new guy and his toy are trigger happy takes away some of the fun when playing chess with the machine leads to something more sinister, but our sassy robot with the laughably tiny little head and giant oversize body takes charge with a creepy machine re-assembly. References to Hector, Troy, and the original fight over a woman accent the man versus man, man versus nature, and man versus himself conflicts while a touch of blood and gore add danger. Did we need the robot terror on top of the chilling human story? The narrative unevenly wastes time with the commonplace machine chase instead of dealing with the personal elements, meandering with random running down the hallways and under the deck grate attacks that ironically give Aliens inspiration. Editing or behind the scenes troubles are apparent and an expected twist that should have come much sooner pads the final twenty minutes with spectacle when the taut science fiction triangle is interplay enough. Although its flaws prevent this from being a totally well told SF parable, the juicy defeat of man at his own science remains late night entertainment.

Should Have Been Better

The Kettering Incident – Lovely forestry, mysterious lights, hooting owls, mountain fog, and past abductions open this 2016 eight episode Australian series starring Elizabeth Debicki (The Night Manager) before London blackouts, nosebleeds, and creepy phone messages. Journal entries record the hours missing, but security footage captures actions unknown amid strobe sounds, distorted camerawork, and unaware travels to eerie Tasmania. Aurora Australis, frozen birds, and UFO snowglobes in the general store add to the awkward homecoming, bizarre happenings, threatening letters, and small town who is who as local pubs versus bonfire raves reflect generational clashes and radical environmentalists protest the logging industry. Older homes, dusty case files, big computers, and the often down internet create a backwater mood as newspaper clippings, retro tunes, and decades old unsolved crimes lead to more abductions, hidden drugs, crooked cops, and under the table deals. Thunderstorms, reflections, ruins on the ridge, hazy dreams, and surreal colors askew nature while affairs, police egos, power outages, strange science, and cancer diagnoses divide the community. Cover ups, stonewalled investigations, phantom blood samples, and tense family relations interfere as mysterious rashes spread and moss grows indoors. Dogs turn on their owners, rare plants bloom, and high radiation counts contaminate fish, but ghostly static on the radio, chainsaw mishaps, night vision goggles, and geophysicist readings uncover catatonics and whispers of who knows what. Desperate men – accustomed to ruling over disposable daughters and drinking mothers or bar maids useful only for hitting, cooking, or sex – take matters into their own hands despite electromagnetic fears, screams in the woods, poison bogs, altered blood types, and multiple moons. From the ill but edgy cops and doctors to missing girls and suspicious sleepy inlets, unfortunately, this has a lot of cliches often seen in commonwealth television. Lacking procedures, tainted crimes scenes, and cryptic doctors bend for plot conveniences, and our lead isn't piecing the case together but preposterously meddling as dramatic effect requires. While it's pleasing to see strung out and realistic looking people; no one asks how everything is interconnected nor shares information. If they worked together, the mystery would be solved in six episodes. Instead, Lost style montages, red herrings, and tangents pad the weird occurrences, delaying important clues and stretching disbelief as smart police and scientists are made stupid with unaccounted for people sans alibis, fingerprint clues, and stolen evidence ignored. This isn't billed as science fiction, so the straying focus and point of view changes become window dressing as Antarctic connections and Dyatlov Pass similarities are tossed in with unnecessary sex scenes. Apparently, people won't share information unless they have sex, the hermit in the woods is never questioned, and established information is literally forgotten until the final hour. Dramatic asylum cliffhangers are easily resolved, and never held suspects unravel the intriguing underground evidence, craters, stolen weapons, and bio tech company bribes. Voiceovers resolve actions and revelations that were obvious all along – telling events rather than having the lead discover anything for herself. Maybe the lack of communication is part of the moral here, but the unlikable dumbing down and bait and switch genres take on too much flab. Empty shocks meant to sustain weekly viewing are better to binge marathon, for this doesn't know who its audience is and therefore underestimates not one, but two potential viewing groups in anticipation of a second season to explain everything. Those expecting a crime thriller will find the science fiction outcome annoying, and today's sci-fi audiences will be irritated at the slow potboiler pace not putting the fantastic at the forefront.

A Disappointing Skip

Star Wars: The Last Jedi – The themes, pacing, and characters for this 2017 Episode VIII from writer and director Rian Johnson (Looper) are very disjointed. John Boyega, newcomer Kelly Marie Tran, and Benico del Toro (The Wolfman) are lost in an irrelevant subplot of intergalactic casino races, contrived theft, and star destroyer stealth attacks made useless by The Resistance's slow crawl through space. Domhnall Gleeson's cranky General Hux doesn't so much pick off the fleet as they merely sacrifice themselves one by one with dumb counter attacks while purple haired Laura Dern (Jurassic Park) is wasted and Oscar Isaac does little but redundantly repeat the elder ladies' jejune wisdoms. There were several moments to fittingly send off the late Carrie Fisher, but instead, The Force goes even further beyond what we ever thought its mystical capabilities were. Daisy Ridley's Rey and the utterly lame Kylo Ren play telepathic footsie for most of the movie – I really hope they aren't related – while poor Mark Hamill's Luke Skywalker is sort of there...maybe. Too many characters old and new enter or exit without deserving time. For all the female fronting, the cardboard women tropes are obviously written by a man and don't seem like characters in their own right. Each is defined by what the men around them need – sacrificing, motherly, crushes, babes blowing on dice, or alien maids. Even Leia is repeatedly stressed as Luke's sister being her most important value. Gwendoline Christie's tough Captain Phasma is easily defeated in one scene, and CGI covered Lupita Nyong'o is reduced to a hologram call. More silly animated animals, easily dismissed villains, and lengthy purely for the spectacle sequences litter the screen while a major female character's narrow escape from an exploding ship on a stolen shuttle is told by another male character rather than shown. Although rebel numbers dwindle constantly, there are somehow plenty of people to keep fighting while the overlong two and a half hours plus battles over whether the space action or Jedi plot is more important. Despite so many should be enjoyable people and dazzling designs, this is incredibly busy for being so boring. It's also disappointing, even angering, to hear there is no overall trilogy sequel plan and that each director can do his own thing – leaving these films to meander as long as it pleases Disney to manipulate Star Wars fans. In low budget horror, problems arise when one writer/director has no second checks or balances, and this makes for expensive, glaring issues here amid lifted elements of Empire and Return of the Jedi as Last tries to be a personal middle a la The Two Towers but grasps for air rather than giving us anything to hold. I'm still nicknaming VI as just Jedi and shortening this to Last – as in the last Star Wars movie I'll see at the box office for the foreseeable future. The rehashed but recognizably fun Episode VII launched something new and Rogue One came full circle where we never knew possible. I'm still thinking of this one, but for all the wrong reasons, and I wish we just had The Thrawn trilogy as films instead.

Frank (2014)

Frank is a Quirky Little Delight.

By Kristin Battestella

By chance, struggling songwriter Jon (Domhnall Gleeson) meets Soronprfbs, a band as unusual as its unpronounceable name thanks to Theremin player Clara (Maggie Gyllenhaal), silent drummer Nana (Carla Azar), French bassist Baraque (Francois Civil), and lead singer Frank (Michael Fassbender) – who just happens to wear a giant papier-mâché head at all times. Jon quickly becomes the band’s keyboard player as they set out to record their new album, but oddball manager Don (Scoot McNairy) warns Jon that it is difficult to match Frank’s unique genius. Not considering the special dynamics of the group, Jon chronicles their musical retreat on social media – but surprising internet notoriety and its subsequent festival invitation bring the band fame and a drastic upheaval.

Without subtitles, director Lenny Abrahamson (What Richard Did) and writers Jon Ronson (The Men Who Stare at Goats) and Peter Straughan’s (Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy) unusual singing internal monologue must be confusing to start. However, the relatable ho hum of an aspiring songwriter stuck in small town job and still living at his parents’ house quickly takes over, and Frank firmly establishes the context of its world with just enough onscreen twitter graphics, internal self-referential social media marketing, and ironic hashtags. Clearly, our unreliable narrator chronicling this unpronounceable band’s efforts via YouTube is not “#livingthedream” before or after his ridiculous beard is grown and food is rationed in this quest for song. Achieving a big break at the unfortunate circumstances of others, instant memoir capturing, and insensitive media jokes about the eponymous singer are accurate to today’s real life absurdities and lead to some tender, serious moments in Frank – which are in turn realistically cut short via slamming doors or contemporary awkwardness. The witty, natural scripting anchors Frank’s social commentary, and though goofy one-liners may seem out of context, the audience can roll with a safe word like “chinchilla!”

Where is the line between bad art and musical greatness? If you are exploring yourself and not hurting anyone with your artistic expression, does it matter?  What’s mental? What’s creativity? Frank addresses both the humor and difficulty in the creative process with comedic circumstances and heavy dramatic turns beyond the music. Do we unwittingly manipulate and stifle others, hindering what they desire for our own selfish dreams? Considering the at times solemn subject matter, some of Frank’s scenes are perhaps funnier then they are meant to be, but the self-aware design here makes it okay to laugh – after all, “I thought it was supposed to be hilarious?” Sometimes that’s the kind of the question we ask ourselves in life, and Frank raises an interesting discussion about mental illness and if a rightly inspired catalyst can nonetheless turn out wrong. If it takes wearing a mask in order to be heard in our musical collective or share your individuality with a select few, why is that so unusual? How is expressing oneself from under a mask any different from those phony hashtags and the art or illusion we so adeptly present to ourselves?

Frank smartly gives the audience our window through Domhnall Gleeson (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Star Wars: The Force Awakens), and we understand his pretense and relative normalcy before meeting the crazy of Soronprfbs. Maybe his life is mundane, but he thinks this bizarre band is his golden ticket and we appreciate his excitement at this adventure. Jon asks the questions on our collective mind: Does Frank have a beard under his fake head? How does he brush his teeth? Is he disfigured? He’s from Kansas? How indeed does one explain the abandonment of his job and the use of his nest egg to fund this odd band’s odyssey? The bizarre isolation of making an album becomes a therapy session for Jon. He wants Frank to open up to him but Jon is so into his own exploration that he doesn’t realize how far out of their comfort zone he has pushed the other more valuable members of Soronprfbs. Sure, he puts his body on the line and grows concerned over a keyboard player jinx, but is it worth it to shake these unstable band mates passed their limit? Jon is in many ways a fame seeking, tell all groupie wanting to be the star. He doesn’t mean to interfere but that’s exactly what his not seeing the forest for the trees fake tweets and YouTube spotlight does. Jon insinuates himself into the group and comes to believe they can’t be a success without him – but he never considers the creative expression of playing in a band is not only enough but just what Soronprfbs needs.

 

Understandably, the audience isn’t inside the Frank Sidebottom inspired head with Michael Fassbender (Shame, X-Men: Days of Future Past), yet his bizarre introduction makes perfect sense in this askew Frank world. Once we see Frank still wearing his head in the band’s van and realize that it is not just part of his on stage ensemble, we’re hooked. One might initially think Frank and his “has a certificate” head is something for him to hide behind, but to him, making music is a revival, a religious experience with field work, recording outdoors, and screeching like bird. His mask helps him to express himself and see through other people’s issues even though he may not accept his own broken genius. Frank has some good points about the awkwardness of people’s looks and how we are perceived, and we don’t blame him for wearing the head. Perhaps it would be annoying or too amusing, but yes, life just might be easier if we clarified our facial expressions or creativity with sincerity and without judgment. Fassbender doesn’t sing poorly at all, but the quirky lyrics and batty, unconventional music perfectly convey the offbeat genius behind the mask. It’s also ironic yet somehow fitting that we don’t know what Fassbender is really doing under the head – being method or hamming it up. The head in itself is a neat concept, but why was such a big deal made of Fassbender’s wearing it? Have not good-looking, talented thespians been hidden under masks and prosthetic make up for nearly a century of film? Fassbender has done prosthetic work previously and proven he does his all with extreme character embodiments and physicality. Technical acoustics aside, his voice is also different inside the head, adding yet another tool to make Fassbender seamlessly disappear as Frank. Maybe more stars should try performing with a bag on their head and see if they sink or swim based on body and merit instead of chisel. Fassbender’s performance is excellent as usual, yet the focus on the actor inside the giant head detracts from Frank’s themes of why we hide within our own masks whilst needlessly interfering with the content, artistic fragility of others.

And what of the delicate band that is of Soronprfbs? Maggie Gyllenhaal (Secretary, Donnie Darko) is wonderfully bitchy looking as she breaks instruments, walks of stage, and pretends she doesn’t care. Clara’s attitude is oh so modern but she is styled as a classic vamp – corsets, bras, silky lingerie, cropped black hair, and a perfect cigarette. She hates Jon, saying he is merely there to press the keys on the keyboard and nothing more. Is that his true, meager role in the band or does her fierce loyalty to Frank coddle the singer? Clara is a tough love maternal figure who contests Jon’s notion that their music must be likeable. She knows Soronprfbs doesn’t need to be famous – but they do need music to heal. It’s both sad and humorous how Clara’s physical threats and proactive defensive of Frank aren’t enough to deter Jon, and it’s an interesting role for Gyllenhaal. Crazy cool and aloof but likable, independent and strong yet inseparable from her band mates – Clara could be the cliché, detestable Yoko element of Frank, but Gyllenhaal creates a sensitive and bizarrely nurturing anchor to Soronprfbs. Scoot McNairy (Argo, also in 12 Years a Slave with Fassbender) as manager “I used to fuck mannequins” Don is also a bittersweet analysis providing comedy and catalyst for Frank. He freely admits he is weird and inferior to Frank, yet Don desperately emulates him in a tantalizing but bitter encapsulation – you have creative genius or you don’t. While some people can accept that fate, such realization can be disastrous for others. Real life rocker Carla Azar as drummer Nana doesn’t have much to do on the surface of Frank. She doesn’t speak but no less keeps the rhythm for the band, beating on regardless of the drama unfolding. When she does voice her opinion, however, Nana provides a critical fulcrum and band perspective. Bass player Baraque as played by Francois Civil (As Above, So Below) also technically doesn’t do much, but the tongue in cheek forgotten bassist of the band provides a very subtle humor. He seems to only speak French yet everyone apparently understands him with no difficulty – another hidden dynamic of Soronprfbs that an outsider just won’t figure. These members of Frank’s ensemble each have their own little eccentricities, and whether a loud voice or a small one, their parables come together beautifully and really sing.

Some audiences may not actually like the music Soronprfbs makes, but the quirky, charming scoring balances the avant-garde chords of this bemusing Frank journey. The locations are also both small and relatable or big and traumatizing as needed – from the bleak British start and exploratory Irish wilds to the rush of a faux SXSW festival performance, bitter motel rooms, deserts, and ordinary Middle America. These adventures can both maximize one’s potential or drive one crazy, and Frank portrays the tightrope possibility between genius and madness across these intimate travels. The nostalgic mix of cassettes and old-fashioned recording methods meeting computerized music technology and social media is also a jarring but parallel juxtaposition. Maybe the equipment fits and does what it needs to do, but other times the musical experimentation Soronprfbs does get scrapped for something more emotional or to the core. Streaming options are available for Frank; however, the blu-ray rental is fittingly and ironically cumbersome with abundant previews and an appropriately peculiar interface. Thankfully, a more awesome ten minutes of deleted scenes, over 40 minutes of assorted behind the scenes, cast and director interviews, and commentary tracks add heaps of discussion and continuing Frank conversation. (Oh, the puns!)

Young modern audiences may dig the offbeat musical explorations, contemporary media design, and unusual performances in Frank, yet those atypical elements may deter some viewers expecting traditional musical style, a completely hardened look at mental illness, or a more factual biopic of the late Frank Sidebottom source. Awkwardness, difficult self-discovery, and curious tunes are a major part of Frank; however, the dramatic presentation remains solid over 90 minutes. The commanding ensemble handles a difficult subject with humor and sensitivity, making for an excellent character study that explores the quirky whilst being no less poignant. Audiences shouldn’t be surprised when Frank takes a bleak thematic turn for the finale, but the conclusion here is must see and more than worthy of any perceived oddities – no matter how you pronounce Soronprfbs.