Frank: The Dead Ends of Artistry and Success

Remember those books from when you were younger with titles like ‘What Will I Be When I Grow Up’ and ‘I Can Be Anything’? They illustrated a fantastical land where everyone has the job they want. Footballer, scientist, musician, artist, astronaut – all it apparently takes to become one is desire. These books never depicted the mundane jobs, manned by those not lucky enough to work for the love of it (rightly, let’s not crush the dreams of children before they find out Santa doesn’t exist). How many kids want to be an admin assistant when they’re older? Or a community liaison officer? Or be in local government?

Frank serves as a comforting film for existentialists whose hopes in life are fading away. Jon (Domhnall Gleeson) keeps his musical ambitions alive amidst mundane office work, living in an uninspiring seaside town, and suffering copyright-infringing earworms. His walls are adorned with pictures of rockstar ideals: the frontman swaggering onstage, the girls fawning on the front row, the cool-as-fuck photoshoots.

It appears Jon finally catches a break during a bizarre encounter on the beach in which he replaces the keyboardist of Soronprfbs (/ˌʌn.prəˈnaʊn.sə.bəl/), who’s too busy trying to drown himself to notice. Jon’s visions of success though are quickly thwarted. Soronprfbs sound as if The Fall had sex with a radio transmission from Mars. Not to mention their enigmatic front man, Frank (Michael Fassbender), sings in riddles and wears a papier-mâché head.

Jon’s first participation in the band involves a factious gig in a pub, followed by an 11-month retreat somewhere in rural Ireland to record an album. The situation, and being surrounded by idiosyncratic characters like the often mute, clad in black rhythm section (Carla Azar and François Civil) and freeform emotionalist Clara (Maggie Gylnnehal), should inspire Jon. Yet, a divide between him and his bandmates soon forms. They love making music while he’s more interested in the finished product and plaudits. Jon’s favourite keyboard is the one on his Macbook, raving about himself and the band on social media.

He contributes little to Soronprfbs – his musical compositions described as “shit” and “fucking shit”. This seems harsh coming from his peers, but Jon’s trend-chasing cacophony of ‘la la las’ are exactly that. That’s another thing about those children’s books: they never touch upon talent. School teaches everyone to be an astronaut, but the majority, irrespective of luck, simply aren’t cut out for it.

The film doesn’t find salvation in esoteric artistry either. Soronprfbs’ purpose is foremost an enabler to keep the pack of outcasts together. Light plays a significant part in Lenny Abrahamson’s direction. The band enter their comfort zone in the muted palette of Ireland, where they’re alone to harmonise with their surroundings. But they immediately fall apart when stage spotlights, harsh Texan sun, and daylight through the hotel windows shine on them. It’s as though the brightness exposes the band to reality, so they act out in hope of isolating themselves again. To Soronprfbs, nothing should exist beyond Soronprfbs.

Although Jon manipulates him somewhat to think this way, Frank – with whom Fassbender achieves more emotion than what most actors can do using their real heads – shows a willingness to enter the mainstream. He fully embraces the manufactured weirdness of South by Southwest at first. However, the lingering worry of the weirdness not embracing him back clings like a black dog on his shoulder. Frank self-destructs, goes AWOL, and regresses into his 14-year-old self, living at his parents’ home in Bluff City, Kansas.

There is little surprise upon the revelation of Frank’s acute anxiety. The film’s saddest scene is near the end when Jon asks Frank’s parents about what led to his ill-health. “Nothing happened to him, he’s got a mental illness,” his Dad states. Film and literature have taught us clearly signposted traumatic events cause psychological disorders. The scarier truth is they can be triggered by everything or nothing.

And the romantic notion of mental illness somehow benefiting the sufferer’s creativity? “He was always musical, if anything it slowed him down.” Frank may have carried an aura as he wore the Sidebottom head, but strip away the mask and he’s just another human struggling to cope. Think of Kurt Cobain or Richey Edwards or Amy Winehouse – the ‘martyrs’ of rockstar mythology. Now consider their internal torment, and how it robbed us of more of their genius. They were all Franks who discovered fame and fortune weren’t the cure for their downward spirals.

Jon realises music is not an escape from the drudgery of 9-5; rather it’s a method of understanding the real world. The last act in his ‘career’ is to reunite a headless Frank with Soronprfbs. Together they improvise the catchiest song on the sublime soundtrack; Frank’s off-the-cuff observations – “tale beer. Fat fucked, smoked out. Cowpokes. Sequinned mountain ladies. I love your wall. Put your arms around me. Fiddly digits, itchy britches. I love you all.” – transform into a beautiful pop number. Jon walks away as they continue playing, happy to let his dreams diminish in the knowledge he experienced and survived them.

One final aspect those children’s books fail to convey: careers suck. Why else do we change them all the time? Whether you’re a visual artist or a sandwich artist, repetition and a decreasing lack of satisfaction turns glamour into misery. Wanting to ‘be’ something doesn’t account for the physical, mental and societal roadblocks in the distance. Frank shows we should stop pressuring ourselves into neatly defined paths, and instead aspire for inner-peace. Dream of that retreat in rural Ireland – tranquil, endless, free.