弗兰克

今天去电影节看了，对世博馆区域人生地不熟，小伙伴们没头苍蝇一样乱撞，结果就是冲进影院电影已经开场了。jon小哥在荧幕上边走着边做着曲， 回到家记录灵感却又产生了不如意的懊恼。短短几个镜头就勾勒出了这个生活浑浑噩噩，有梦想又达不到的形象，闲来有事无事在社交网络上发个状态，几乎都跟你我一样。

然后转机出现了，大头乐队【】的键盘手去跳了海，jon临时顶替上阵。虽然因为设备故障他的演出只进行了一会儿，不过他因此认识了Frank，大头乐队的灵魂人物。从此之后事情就都改变了。

Frank是个特别的人，就像don，那个和人形模特做爱的前键盘手说的，世界上只有一个Frank，古怪而友好，带着孩童一样的不谙世事，直指人心，最重要的是他妈的才华横溢。他那种特殊的感染力很容易就成为了乐队里的精神领袖。在山区里录歌的日子大概是全片最欢乐的一段，笑声那个叫此起彼伏。看的时候就感叹英国网络覆盖真好，这种荒郊野外都有无线网络。。。以及人人都是拖延症患者，林中小屋租期都过了，jon只好自掏腰包。可就算这样他依旧不讨人喜欢，而讨厌他的人以生猛的Clara大姐为首。话说这位大姐简直就是俄罗斯战斗种族，全片穿着一身vintage睡衣长裙晃来晃去，冷不防掏出来一把掏肾小刀分分钟戳瞎你。jon小哥被她激的跳出浴缸大叫cunt那一幕简直全场爆笑，按Clara下一秒就把小哥办了的反应看来小哥的小弟应该不错，不知道和法鲨比起来怎么样【喂等等

然后终于，终于，在jon的胡子再不刮掉都能去演耶稣了的时候，他们开始录专辑了。法鲨在此处展现了欧洲第一腰线的美妙肉体！附送nipple一枚！【喂 录完专辑的那一段对话其实是个预兆。don 和done的发音很相似，而他喝庆功啤酒的样子就像是再也没有下一次。确实也再没有下一次了，第二天的清晨他带着Frank的头罩吊死在了河边的树上。

之前他用jon的电子琴自弹自唱的那一段相当的黑色幽默，优美哀伤的旋律唱的是和人形模特做爱，这明显是没治好啊你怎么放出来的！然后他就发表了那套一Frank论。从他的话里明显能听出对Frank的艳羡。jon和don一样，穷尽一生或许都只是mediocre，而Frank则像是一个异教徒的膜拜对象。最终don带着永远都成不了Frank的抑郁忧愤自杀了，他离Frank最接近的距离也不过是死时戴在头上的头罩。

至于后面的船葬就坑爹了啊，烧木柴的火就能把人烧成灰了？船还好端端的飘回来了。。。导演文科生妥妥的【艺术创作就不要这么计较了好吗

这部片子前面一个小时笑料都挺多，最后半个小时让人鸦雀无声。情节上的转变不是急转直下，而是矛盾一步步的爆发，如同温水煮青蛙。Clara对于jon的厌恶不是毫无来由，这女人的嗅觉和保护欲像是一只母豹。因为这个外来者根本和乐队成员是两类人，而Frank偏偏还挺喜欢他，这简直气死人了。大头乐队的组成者都是音乐nerd，而jon不是，无论他多么努力地试图融入这个集体，体验他自以为的折磨和黑暗童年，就像梭罗住在艾默生借给他的小屋里躲避人头税。jon的梦想是站在舞台中央接受所有人的掌声，而Clara对此不削一顾，虽然按照马斯洛的需求理论人人都渴望社会认同，不过Clara似乎是个例外。她不需要外人的认同，有Frank就够了。但是Frank就像个小孩子，听到他的音乐有人喜欢立刻欣然同意了演出的邀约，而知道真相的时候沮丧地都缩到了桌子下面。Frank到美国之后一路上明显freak out了，而jon看不到这一切，或者说看到了，却视若无睹。他的注意力在别的事情上。他想通过Frank来实现自己，可那是不可能的。Frank穿着裙子给头盔花了大浓妆上台是全片荒诞和讽刺的高潮。jon让他迎合观众，于是他就用他的理解这么做了，最后的结果当然是失败。

失去头盔以后Frank就像是变了个人，话说这段法鲨演得真好，一个大男人低着头握着拳头仿佛一个局促不安失去依靠的小孩，失去了音乐创造的动力和灵感。而jon也失望的发现了，他之前臆想的折磨和黑暗童年根本不存在。影片的结尾jon带着Frank去找了Clara他们，然后Frank重新开始唱歌，流着泪水。而jon走出他们的生活，就像是荧幕前的观众在字幕结束后总还是要走出放映厅各回各家。the illusion is over。

说实话这片子的主题还是比较老的，一是借Frank的父母之口吐槽了文青“音乐灵感源于黑暗童年”的观念，二是影片矛盾也很眼熟：一个局外人机缘巧合加入了他一直梦寐以求的XX团体，得到了这个小团体灵魂人物的赏识，和灵魂人物的原亲友产生矛盾，最后发现现实和梦想的大相径庭。这种套路可以拉出一个排。不过好在导演还是加了点新元素在里面的，例如社交网络。jon从一开始就不是一个有强烈主见的人，他甚至听从网络视频对于激发灵感的建议，而最后Frank父母的话算是彻底把他抽醒了：Frank的才华和灵感都是天生的。影片的结局早已在开头的那个海报镜头中昭示了，jon的梦想是站在舞台中央，而现实中他最后还是台下诸多模糊身影中的一个。

好吧最后放任自己来花痴一下。这片的原声是必须要下的，法鲨的歌声必须当voice porn循环播放。欧洲第一腰线穿背心简直就是肉弹苏的人找不着北，就是本来已经头大还戴了大头盔更加五五身了哈哈哈哈【喂 摘下头盔以后则让人心疼，哪怕头上化妆做了两圈疤痕头上斑秃【。也还是那么美！【。拉近景特写就感觉底下的迷妹苏倒了一片啊。。。然后往don的尸体旁边放小海豚玩具还有迷妹喊了一声Charles！这位迷妹你克制一下好吗！

ps. 出来以后简直不能直视电影院宣传屏幕上dofp的老万

pps. 我还有两篇论文没写居然来写这个，简直作死，明天还要刷locke，活不成了_(:з」∠)_

其实 我只是很单纯的想起了我悲催的乐队时光，像是男主角一样，想成为一个可以活在排练室或者舞台的人，排练流行歌让我觉得是狗屎，排练自己的歌被别人认为是狗屎，想了很多却仍然没有提升自己的水平，仍然找不到自己的一丁点才华，乐队成员都是正常人，就想我一样，成员走了又走，最后剩下我一个。

其实 最后反而释然了起来，回到现实世界的感觉很好，其实每个普通人都可以因为喜欢拾起吉他，拨弄大三和弦。

其实 你不能把它当做你的梦想，充其量是一个爱好罢了，一个你保持妄想的泳池，一个让你短时间内带上头套的排练室。

其实 很简单，我只要唱给我自己听就可以了

（芷宁写于12月7日）
与其谈及影片《弗兰克（Frank）》的拍摄手法和表现方式，倒不如聊聊它所表述的典型现象和典型人设。
看这部影片，大概会让很多特别文艺的文艺青年感慨万千，相较于普通青年，极端文艺青年就像片中的弗兰克般只能存活于属于自己的世界里，一旦落入现实社会，便会无所适从，即便基于好的出发点，欣然摘掉了用于掩护或依赖的屏障，却依旧找不到适宜自如的姿态出现在世人面前。
这种境况是比较残酷的，这类“不合群”的人往往被各自的“文艺基因”激发着催动着，他们不安于世俗，想过能自由创作并尽情表达的生活，然而，一旦被迫从自己过得惯的生活状态中抽离，他们便如初生的婴孩般脆弱无助、不堪一击，任何一个嬉闹的玩笑都会彻底毁了他们。
如果将弗兰克们的音乐创作置于大众的视听中，或许一时间无法确认那究竟是天才之作，还是毫无天赋的呓语胡闹，但至少可以确定的是，当初乐队在森林木屋中制作所谓的新 专辑的时候，弗兰克们是快乐的，自在的，无畏的，仿佛几个在属于自己的国度里肆意放纵的精灵，至少像是从外星球放逐来的。
Don在位于湖光山色的小木屋的自杀了，带着一种预示性，也代表着彻底意识到始终也无法达到心之所系的一种幻灭，这种幻灭是致命的，仿佛提前预告了弗兰克等人参加西北偏北音乐节的行为也是一种致命的幻灭。弗兰克整日整夜以大头娃娃的头套示人，就连吃东西、洗澡时也都带着，他以这种方式避免自己和这个世界做无阻碍的接触，那里只容他独自踯躅，Jon的加入以及Jon以网络曝光乐队轶事的方式，让渴望得到认可的弗兰克误以为有了新的和世界接触沟通的途径，却不料，这样的方式和他适宜生存的模式是相悖。最了解弗兰克的是Clara，她在音乐节表演前夕选择离去，看似是分裂乐队的始端，却是在敲响警钟。
不少观众认为该片拍得诡异，剧情属极端类型，其实内心存有弗兰克式生存模式的人并不罕有，只是他们当中的很多人能在内心和俗世之间寻找到一个平衡点，从而侥幸度日。而弗兰克们就没这么幸运了，他们只能孤僻而偏执地存在于自己创造的一隅中，你可以认为他是天才，也可以同意医生的诊断，他就是个神经病，不过，似乎很多天才都是神经病。普通青年Jon在乐队的历程，便恰似以一个普通人的视角来呈现弗兰克式生存模式的局限性和不适应性。
此番戴着娃娃面具头套的迈克尔·法斯宾德给出了不错的表演，法鲨的这一演出令人想起了在影片《天国王朝》里饰演麻风国王的爱德华·诺顿，和诺顿一样，法鲨仅仅以肢体动作和情绪语言就突破了面部被遮挡的表演局限，于是，虽然在大多数时间里弗兰克都以大头娃娃的形象示人，观众却仿佛看到他的神情，继而窥到他的内心。
片尾，摘掉头套的弗兰克以奇特的嗓音，有点局促，有点羞涩地为他的伙伴们唱了一曲“I love you all”，世界是冰冷的，也是无情的，幸而他们还有彼此，彼此的存在和容纳形成了一个独一无二的空间，让他们得以存活。
（杂志约稿）

随手搜的，先摘过来，有空翻一下。
以下节选自Frank: The True Story that Inspired the Movie该书，书的作者Jon Ronson是剧本的Co-writer，也即电影中Jon的原型。
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更新，大概是不会翻译了，其实单词很简单很好理解，而且和电影里的对话非常像呢，可见改编之忠实。

In 1987 I was 20 and the student union entertainments officer for the Polytechnic of Central London. One day I was sitting in the office when the telephone rang. I picked it up.

"So Frank's playing tonight and our keyboard player can't make it and so we're going to have to cancel unless you know any keyboard players," said a frantic voice.

I cleared my throat. "I play keyboards," I said.

"Well you're in!" the man shouted.

"But I don't know any of your songs," I said.

"Wait a minute," the man said.

I heard muffled voices. He came back to the phone. "Can you play C, F and G?" he said.

The man on the phone said I should meet them at the soundcheck at 5pm. He added that his name was Mike, and Frank Sidebottom's real name was Chris. Then he hung up.

When I got to the bar it was empty except for a few men fiddling with equipment.

"Hello?" I called.

The men turned. I scrutinised their faces. In the three hours since the phone call I'd learned a little about Frank Sidebottom – how he wore a big, fake head and there was much speculation about his real identity. Some thought he might be the alter ego of a celebrity, possibly Midge Ure, the lead singer of Ultravox, who was known to be a big Frank Sidebottom fan. Which of these men might be Frank? If I looked closely would there be some kind of facial clue?

Then I became aware of another figure kneeling in the shadows, his back to me. He began to turn. I let out a gasp. Two huge eyes were staring at me, painted onto a great, imposing fake head, lips slightly parted as if mildly surprised. Why was he wearing the head when there was nobody there to see it except for his own band? Did he never take it off?

"Hello, Chris," I said. "I'm Jon."

Silence.

"Hello ... Chris?"

Nothing.

"Hello ... Frank?" I tried.

"HELLO!" he yelled.

Another of the men came bounding over to me. "You're Jon," he said. "I'm Mike Doherty. Thank you for standing in at such short notice."

"So," I said. "Maybe we could run through the songs? Or ... ?"

Frank's face stared at me.

"Frank?" Mike said.

"OH YES?"

"Can you teach Jon the songs?"

At this Frank raised his hands to his head and began to prise it off, turning slightly away, like he was shyly undressing. I thought I saw a flash of something under there, some contraption attached to his face.

"Hello, Jon," said the man underneath. He had a nice, ordinary face. He gave me a sheepish smile, as if to say he was sorry that I had to endure all the weirdness of the past few minutes but it was out of his hands.

Before I knew it we were onstage. As we played I watched it all – the band assiduously emulating the tinny pre-programmed sounds of a cheap, children's keyboard, the enraptured audience, and Frank, the eerie cartoon-character frontman, his facial expression immobile, his singing voice a high-pitched nasal twang.

After that night – the greatest of my life – a year passed. Life went back to normal. Then Mike phoned and asked if I wanted to be in Frank's band full time. So I quit college and moved to Manchester.

And there I was, in the passenger seat of a Transit van flying down the M6 in the middle of the night, squeezed between the door and Frank Sidebottom. Those were my happiest times – when Chris would mysteriously decide to just carry on being Frank. Nothing makes a young man feel more alive and on an adventure than speeding down a motorway at 2am next to a man wearing a big fake head. I'd watch him furtively as the lights made his cartoon face glow yellow and then black and then yellow again.

I am writing this 26 years later. The music journalist Mick Middles recently sent me his not-yet-published biography Frank Sidebottom: Out of His Head. His book captures perfectly that "rarest of journeys" when an onlooker got to see the man born Chris Sievey turn into Frank. "The moment the head is placed the change occurs. Not merely a change in attitude or outlook but a journey from one person to the other. I completely believe that Chris was born as two people." Middles likens Chris to transgender people, trapped in the wrong body.

I never understood why Chris sometimes kept Frank's head on for hours, even when it was only us in the van. Under the head Chris would wear a swimmer's nose clip. Chris would be Frank for such long periods the clip had deformed him slightly, flattened his nose out of shape. When he'd remove the peg after a long stint I'd see him wince in pain.

Frank's character was of a child in a northern town remaining assiduously immature in the face of adulthood. He was a paean to ordinariness. But Chris wasn't ordinary. He was chaotic. Sometimes, on the way back from some gig, I'd become aware that we were taking a detour to some house somewhere with some women we somehow met along the way. There would be partying while I sat outside on the sofa.

In the van I'd listen to Chris's stories, trying to understand him. He reminded me of George Bernard Shaw's unreasonable man: "The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man." Chris was the unreasonable man, except the world never did adapt to him and he never made any progress. Like when Frank was asked to support the boy band Bros at Wembley. There were 50,000 people in the crowd. This was a huge stage for Frank – his biggest ever, by about 49,500 people. It was his chance to break through to the mainstream. But instead he chose to perform a series of terrible Bros cover versions for five minutes and was bottled off. The show's promoter, Harvey Goldsmith, was glaring at him from the wings. Frank sauntered over to him and said, "I'm thinking of putting on a gig at the Timperley Labour Club. Do you have any tips?"

We crisscrossed Leeds and Bury and Sheffield and Liverpool playing the same venues over and over again. Time passed and the audiences grew to 750 and sometimes even 1,000. It was consequently baffling for me to become aware of a growing sense of discontent in the van. Chris had been asking friends to perform cameos between the songs on his records. In this spirit he had asked his brother-in-law's friend Caroline Aherne to voice the part of Frank's neighbour, Mrs Merton. Afterwards, Caroline decided to keep Mrs Merton going. She somehow got her own TV show, The Mrs Merton Show. She won a Bafta. Her followup series, The Royle Family, won about seven. The Royle Family Christmas specials attracted audiences of 12 million. And meanwhile we were crisscrossing Manchester and Bury and Leeds and Sheffield and Liverpool in our Transit van.

The band's guitarist Patrick Gallagher told Middles: "It wasn't Caroline's fault. Chris was totally out of control. Whereas, say, Caroline Aherne had a single vision and could just pursue that, Chris might have a fantastic idea, and then, just as the point where it might actually get somewhere, he would spin off onto something completely different. That's OK for a while but it tended to piss people off because they never knew where they stood."

Suddenly everyone around us was becoming famous. My next-door neighbour Mani had a band. They became The Stone Roses. Our driver, Chris Evans, left us to try and make it in radio. By 2000 he was earning £35m in a year, making him Britain's highest-paid entertainer.

There is always a moment failure begins. A single decision that starts everything lumbering down the wrong path, speeding up, careering wildly, before lurching to a terrible stop in a place where nobody is interested in hearing your songs any more.

With Frank I can pinpoint that moment exactly.

"Chris wants to have a rehearsal," Mike told me one day.

"Why would Chris want to rehearse?" I said.

"To take things up a level," Mike said.

Chris's house was in a normal, nice, modern cul-de-sac. His children were playing outside. His wife, Paula, answered the door and told me to go to the spare bedroom. I walked up, passing the bathroom and glanced in. Staring back at me from the sink was Frank's head.

"In here, Jon," I heard Chris shout.

I opened the bedroom door. And stopped. A man was standing there, maroon shirt tucked smartly into neat black jeans. As I walked in he started playing a tight soul-funk riff with seeming nonchalance, but I understood it to be an act of aggression.

"Who ... are you?" I said.

"I'm Richard," he said. "From the Desert Wolves."

I'd like to say that during the years since Richard the bass player took an instant dislike to me – a dislike that only intensified during the months that followed before the band imploded, and climaxed in him yelling that he'd like to break my "keyboard-playing fingers" – he went on to have a disappointing life. But he didn't. He became one of the world's most successful tour managers, looking after Woody Allen and the Spice Girls. He currently manages the Pixies.

Richard was not the only proper musician Chris brought in. A skilful guitarist and a saxophone player turned up in the spare bedroom too. We began to sound like an excellent 1980s wedding band.

Chris told me to book us the biggest tour we'd ever undertaken. He choreographed it so I would begin the show. I'd walk on stage, alone, into a spotlight, and play a powerful C with my left forefinger. The synth brass tone – the most stirring of all the Casio tones.

We hired a people-carrier instead of a Transit van and set off to our first venue. The mood was pumped. The old band members had a certain avant-garde loucheness. But this new band: I felt like I was in a college sports team. We soundchecked. The place was packed. And then I walked out into the spotlight. And in the space of that first song – our classic Born in Timperley (to the tune of Springsteen's Born in the USA) – the audience veered from fevered anticipation into hoping we were playing a weird joke on them into realising with regret that we were not. The NME savaged us. By the end of the tour we were playing to almost-empty houses.

Chris returned to Manchester to a court summons. He owed £30,000 in back taxes. On the day of his court appearance the judge told him it was a very serious matter and had he considered a payment plan?

"Would a pound a week suffice, m'lud?" he asked.

"No it would not!" the judge shouted.

Chris never actually said to me: "You're fired." But I began to notice in the listings magazines that he was doing solo shows – just him and a keyboard. They were in the same venues we used to play, then in smaller venues, and then eventually there were no shows at all.

I moved back to London.

Ten years later I was in the park with my son when the phone rang.

"HELLO!" said Frank Sidebottom.

"It's been so long. How are you?" I said.

"Oh I'm very well actually, Mr Ronson," Frank said.

"Frank," I said. "Will you put Chris on?"

Chris filled me in on the past 10 years. Now divorced from Paula, he was an animator on the children's claymation series Pingu. He loved the work but missed Frank and wanted to bring him back from retirement. He was wondering if I'd write something about my time in the band to help him with the comeback. My story was published in the Guardian. My friend, the screenwriter Peter Straughan, asked me if I thought the story could be adapted into a film.

Not long after that, Frank was playing at a pub near my flat. I found Chris in a dressing room at the back, Frank's head in a bin bag at his feet.

"How did you lose so much weight?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said, looking pleased.

"Well, whatever you're doing," I said, "you look great."

We walked across Kentish Town Road so Chris could buy some cigarettes. He'd already given us his approval on the film and I told him the latest news. FilmFour wanted to fund its development. But – and Chris and I shuffled awkwardly around the question – what would the film actually be about? Specifically, Chris wondered, would Chris be in it? Chris had always said we could do what we wanted with the story. But he was worried that however the film might depict Chris, any reality would surely damage Frank.

I had similar concerns. Chris portrayed himself as untroubled. While a total dearth of anxiety was a fantastically enviable character trait in real life, how could we write a film about a man who just didn't care when everything went wrong and in fact found disaster funny? And if Chris was secretly more obsessive about Frank than he let on, how would he feel if the film reflected that? But there was a solution. What if we fictionalised the whole thing? It could be a fable instead of a biopic – a tribute to people like Frank who were just too fantastically strange to make it in the mainstream.

I set off for America to research other great musicians who'd ended up on the margins – Daniel Johnston, Captain Beefheart, the Shaggs. A week after I returned, I saw Frank Sidebottom's name trending on Twitter. I clicked on the link and it said "Frank Sidebottom dead". I wondered why Chris had decided to kill off Frank. So I clicked another link:

Stars lead tributes as Frank Sidebottom comic dies at 54
Chris Sievey, famous as his alter ego Frank Sidebottom, was found collapsed at his home in Hale early yesterday. It is understood that his girlfriend called an ambulance and he was taken to Wythenshawe Hospital, where his death was confirmed.
Manchester Evening News, 22 June 2010

When I'd told Chris at our last meeting how thin he looked – he didn't know it then, but it had been throat cancer.

Frank Sidebottom comic faces pauper's funeral
The comic genius behind Mancunian legend Frank Sidebottom is facing a pauper's funeral after dying virtually penniless. Chris Sievey had no assets and little money in the bank, his family have revealed.
Manchester Evening News, 23 June 2010

A pauper's funeral? What did that involve? A journey back in time 200 years? I sent out a tweet. Within an hour 554 people had donated £6,950.03. By the end of the day it was 1,632 donors raising a total of £21,631.55. The donations never stopped. We had to stop them.

A Timperley village councillor, Neil Taylor, started his own fund-raising campaign for a memorial statue – Frank cast in bronze. He sent me photographs of its journey from the foundry in the Czech Republic to its final resting place outside Johnson's the dry cleaners in Timperley. In the photographs, Frank looked like he'd been kidnapped but was fine with it.

And now our Frank film – directed by Lenny Abrahamson and starring Michael Fassbender, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Domhnall Gleeson, is going to be premiered at the Sundance film festival. As I prepare to go to it, I remember something Chris once said to me. It was late one night, and we were in the van, reminiscing about a show we'd played a few weeks earlier at JB's nightclub in Dudley. It was very poorly attended. There can't have been more than 15 people in the audience. One of them produced a ball, the audience split into teams and, ignoring us, played a game. In the van, Chris smiled wistfully.

"That Dudley gig," he said.

"Ah ha?" I said.

"Best show we ever played," he said.

Frank观影结束
关于这部电影对我的冲击，我看完后这两个小时，在淮海路嘈杂的街道上徘徊了两个小时才理清了思绪，现在一一道来:
1.首先，这并不是一部像《寻找小糖人》或者《醉乡民谣》一样纯粹关于音乐的电影，里面虽然讲的是乐队的故事，但甚至没有一首“像样”的曲子，更多是不知所云的胡闹。但是只有在他们制造着只有他们自己听得懂的诡异声响时，一切都是快乐的，在他们的“音乐”中，我们感受到的是自由奔放的灵魂和生命的跃动。但是当最后他们不得不迎合观众的品味而唱起所谓正常的歌的时候，我们感受到的却只是压抑和痛苦。当然，这部电影也有好的音乐，在影片结束的时候，摘下头套的Frank唱出了对伙伴们最后的感激和爱，他眼中的无助和悲伤、脸上流下的泪水、几乎带着哭腔的动人歌声，响彻了观众的心。然后字幕出现的时候，又是两首动听而伤感的歌，银幕上零落着解体了的Frank头套，告诉我们这是他最后的哀歌。
2.这并不是一部轻松愉快的喜剧，不可否认，它前半段的幽默、无厘头，让在场的人笑得前仰后合，即使在看似严肃悲伤的时刻，也能突然转为笑料。或者说在前半段里，在森林中“隐居”的主角们还有能力驾驭自己的生活，有勇气去嘲讽生活的无常。到当这群怪胎突然闯入了“尘世”，面对世人好奇、嘲弄的注视，这群“精神病院的逃犯”终于不得不回忆起自己的“不正常”，曾经拥有“天马行空的才华”的音乐家，变成了”马戏团里的畸形人”，一个用于满足公众猎奇心理的展览品。在整个世界的嘲笑之下，这群“喜剧演员”变为了真正的悲剧，再也无法保持超然和幽默，满脸都是惶恐。因为世界想看的，不是带着头套的音乐天才，而是头套之下逃避现实的可悲笑柄。
3.这是一部充满了爱的电影，在前半部中，他们为了录制新专辑而在森林中过了一年多与世隔绝的生活。到观众渐渐意识到，所谓的新专辑只是一个借口，这群不能被社会容纳的怪胎只是为了生活在一个可以尽情嬉戏胡闹、不被任何人指摘和评判的理想乡，出专辑、成名、赚钱，对他们来说都是浮云。他们用自己独特的方式赞赏彼此，相互依偎，保护着他们各种执着的怪癖，这种关系非常温暖。甚至为了保护Frank脆弱的内心，他们甚至因为主角擅自将他们的故事发到社交网站、引起了人们的注意而恼羞成怒，拒绝“出世”。
4.这部电影里隐藏着对经典电影的各种致敬。我水平有限，只说说片中直接点名提到的两部。
一部是大卫•林奇的《象人》，讲的是一个善良的医生出于人道主义的目的想要解救马戏团里畸形人“象人”，让他重新融入社会，却弄巧成拙，将“象人”引向了悲剧的命运。Frank中的主角也想要帮助Frank回归社会，但是却揭开了他心中最隐匿的伤痛，从而失去了他作为音乐奇才Frank的身份，不得不直面惨淡的人生和自己的不正常，从伊甸坠落到了残酷的人间。
另一部是维姆•文德斯的《德州•巴黎》，讲述了一个少年跟随父亲去寻找从未谋面的母亲，结果发现母亲已沦为娼妓，对母亲的美好幻想瞬间幻灭。Frank中的主角自己认定完成Frank古怪的行事风格和杰出的音乐灵感的必然是他灰暗悲惨的童年经历和曾进过精神病院的黑历史，整天想方设法要揭穿他头套下的真面目，到等他以撕裂了Frank的梦境为代价获取真相，却发现Frank的出身和外表都极其普通，失望与后悔排山倒海而来，但失去的innocence（天真/无知）已经再也无法挽回了。就如柏拉图所说:人类一旦走出洞穴，见到了光明（被启蒙），就再也无法回到黑暗的洞穴（混沌/无知）中去了。

Frank 纵然是一个无可争议的可疼可爱又独特非常的角色，但Jon这根“搅屎棍”却让我很感兴趣。如果非要从这部并不喜剧的电影里看出一点阳光，我想说他的存在带来的是一种莫名的伤感，和淡淡的希望。

Jon最大的问题，就是试图带这个不正常的乐队进入一个“正常”的世界。

一个意外到近乎荒诞的契机，让他和Frank的乐队有了交集，对于这个整日快要溺毙在办公室里做着无处实现的音乐美梦的年轻人，乐队是能帮他梦想靠岸的一大把稻草，是他能抓住的一切，因此他义无反顾地砸了进去。电影的开篇是愉悦的，一个把所见所想都尽力唱出来的音乐“才子”，你认为他是怀才不遇；一支神经兮兮浑身上下都在抖动着音符和灵感的“鬼才”乐队，你觉得他们大有可为。于是bang地一声，两者的碰撞制造出一种莫大的惊喜，也给了你一种严重的错觉——好戏拭目以待。

第一次登台合作的逼仄小酒馆，听众寥寥。但事后想想这其实是他们最棒的一次合作，因为此时还未抱定他遥不可及的幻象的Jon相对纯粹，所以即使暴躁的Clara毁了这场演出，但Frank与Jon无比呆萌的对视还是表达了前者对后者的认可。
看到这里的时候我一边开心一边暗暗地有些嫉妒Jon，我始终觉得他代表着的是这个世界上的大多数，平凡到苍白的经历和背景加上半瓶子咣当的个性与才华，阻碍在他与梦想之间的几乎是这地球上存在的一切。不清楚多少人能在他身上看到自己——游走在坚持与否的岌岌可危的悬崖，梦想的下一步就像那些永远在溜走的歌词一样捋不清楚。因此Frank发现了他，对我们来说竟是种巨大的安慰。


可有些梦真该被早点叫醒。

对Jon来说，这个乐队是他拥抱梦想的巨大机会；但对于乐队，彼此就只是彼此，音乐就只是音乐。这差异不可弥合。所以在爱尔兰朝夕相处的木屋里，沉浸在共同创作音乐的平和表象中，所有观者都跟在Jon身后盼着他的努力能够得来认可，但直到最后一刻，等到的却仍是以Clara为代表的其他成员的可怕态度：“我不知道为什么Frank选中了你但你让我厌恶。”这股欢脱祥和气氛下的巨大暗涌，事实上已预示了那梦想衰落的走向。

那么，Frank，何以才华横溢又魅力四射的Frank偏偏看中了Jon？——因为Frank是这群不正常的人之中最不正常的一个呀。

Frank在以一颗孩童般纯真的心脏创造音乐，所以他的才华才会格外显得光彩夺目，所以是他成为了乐队的核心领袖。他有着能够安慰他人的奇异力量，让没度成假的一家人带着焕然一新的灵魂满足离去，他也会在音乐节上得知可能并没有那么多人喜欢他们时沮丧得钻到桌子底下。他是“love you all”的Frank，让你的眼中盈满泪水，这样一个孩子般的人是不可能洞悉Jon眼中世俗的欲望的，爱是他与这个世界联结的唯一量度，也是他唯一希望从音乐中所获得的东西。因此Jon用视频点击率证明他们的“成功”，Frank理解为得到了喜爱；因此Frank珍惜Jon音乐上的珍贵，Jon却看到了自己梦想实现的指日可待。于是这两个人，在完全曲解了对方的意图后达成了某种错误的彼此信任，拼了命抱着惨不忍睹的坚持。而失败可想而知。

Frank不怪Jon，他根本不知道什么是怨恨。没有了Frank的乐队和没有了乐队的Frank都颓败得让人心疼，所以Jon做了他唯一能做的事，将命中注定在一起的他们再度聚合到彼此身边。

这家酒馆更加破败不堪，可却在Frank口中成了信手拈来的词。没有人在听，但音乐的力量明明振聋发聩。Jon看着，微笑着；再一个镜头，他不见了。

这个不正常的群体，怎么容得下他。

至于Jon的未来，也许他能找到志同道合的伙伴迸发自己的音乐才能，到达他的furthest corners；而也许他最终只是一个做梦的人。
但在那个小酒馆的舞台上，和乐队第一次合作的夜晚；在这个小酒馆的舞台下，最后一次做乐队听众的夜晚，我相信他找到了自我。
它能教会他如何走下去。