Lenny Abrahamson
Frank

I knew nothing, except that plot fragment that Marti had told me, but I can't remember everything. So I was convinced I was in for a School of Rock, a little story with a happy ending and a couple of cleverly placed musical citations. I was way off.

A band arrives in town, led by a frontman who hides his face inside a papier-mâché mask. John, an office worker who dreams of becoming a musician, even though he only has a few far from awesome choruses in the works, unexpectedly finds himself in the position of having to replace the band's keyboardist for that night's concert after witnessing his suicide attempt.

The director's narrative can't just be fantasy, there must be something biographical to tell this environment with such irony. To build the figure of Frank, who seems like a messiah in a mask, surrounded by highly stereotyped Indie musicians, a Fugazi spirit, a leap towards the Flaming Lips, edible lyrics. To tell the story of the album's writing, strictly in a house surrounded by nature. To portray the genius next to madness (intrinsic? necessary?). To seamlessly include everything one might expect, but without making it seem trivial. To define the roles. Goliardic, extreme, and ironic are three points connected by a real touch.

Even the role of Twitter, John’s companion in the hopeful climb to fame, didn't bother me. I usually endure these insertions, whether they are criticism or praise, it's the same to me. In this case, this Lenny Abrahamson (a director previously unknown to me) helped me maintain the distance between the reality of the band and that of the outside world. The same function as Frank's fake head, through which he sings, eats, drinks, and from which he never wants to separate. Just like the touching, whispered epilogue in cold light photography. I emerge from it amused, bewildered, but not disappointed, fascinated.