弗兰克

只想做一个安安静静的外星人
                                                                   韩松落

        看《弗兰克》，想起身边许多人。

        朋友老柳，写诗、写歌、唱歌，也做陶，以前去过很多地方演出，也组过乐队，后来离开了，那支乐队现在是大神级别的乐队，但这都和他没关系了，他生活在我们这个小城市里，没想过要出去，也没想过要“做些事情”，他安安静静地住在一个很老的小区里，和女友还有一群猫生活在一起。

        不甘心的是我们。有次去他家，看到他做的陶器，件件令我震惊，我马上有了商业计划，租陶窑！批量生产！开班授徒！开网店！因为对陶艺略有了解，我甚至想到了去哪里买陶土，在哪里建陶窑，怎么宣传网店，乃至怎样包装才能减少运输过程的毁损。回头一看，他脸涨得通红。后来，我们曾在许多时候见过他的这种反应，在人们推他上台演出的时候，在交际场合，人们给称他是诗人和音乐家的时候，他的脸，都涨得通红。现在我们知道了，如果真爱他，就让他安安静静地住在小院子里，和猫在一起。

        如果在电影《弗兰克》里，老柳就该是那个神秘乐队的灵魂人物Frank吧，而许许多多人，都像那个偶然闯入乐队的青年Jon。他进入这个乐队，认识了Frank、Don、Clara，他们沉迷在音乐——不对，应该是声音之中，各有怪癖，Frank永远戴着大头娃娃头套，靠吸管吸取食物，Don只和人偶做爱，Clara阴郁而神经质。在Jon加入之后，他们决定到山林间的度假小屋里，去录制一张专辑。事实上，录专辑不过是个由头，他们只是要远离尘嚣，在那里过一种尽可能随心所欲的生活。

        而Jon，就像我们这些“正常人”一样，既被他们吸引，也试图用一套入世的生活框架去影响他们。他在加入乐队之后，就在博客和优酷上发布乐队的信息，这些讯息让他们赢得了关注，粉丝不断增加。走出山林，去参加音乐节，就成了顺理成章的事，这种推动力，最初来自Jon，远处粉丝的关注，让这种力量膨胀。Frank对这种关注的态度，非常矛盾，他既希望人们了解自己的音乐——不，声音，又不适应山林之外的一切，事实上，他们到底有没有能为世俗所用的才华，其实也很可疑。音乐节的失利，于是毫不意外，Frank出走，乐队沦落到去酒吧俱乐部去演出。幸亏，最后的结局并不那么悲哀，他们又聚在一起了，而这一次，Frank摘下了头套。

       作家宗渺渺曾经做过一系列音乐人访谈，在她不那么官方和主流的采访态度指引下，音乐人们都表现出了他们的另外一面，古怪的、随性的，宗渺渺也这样说了：“怪人都是外星人”。至于他们是不是外星人，暂时没有足够的证据支持，但他们就是那样一些人，就像石头是石头，树木是树木，就像杜鹃有自己的生长地理，海葵有自己的颜色，番茄有自己的味道，它们之所以成为它们，不外是因为这些独属于它们的特质。

        如果理解了这一点，《弗兰克》就显得不那么灰暗了，它不是怪人们的失败之歌，也没有谴责这个不肯接纳怪人们的社会，它只是用Jon的观照、入世努力，来映照出怪人们的生活，他们就和石头、树木、杜鹃、海葵一样，有自己的味道和特质，理解这种特质，不去强行纠偏（这个说法其实也不妥当，但我们的立场多半如此），就已经挺好了。

        电影里没有出现过乐队的完整作品，片尾那首歌，也不能说明弗兰克到底有没有音乐天赋，其实这根本不重要，重要的是，他们活在那些声音里，生活在乐队成员的彼此接纳里，以此为寄，以此为栖。

         而这，就已足够。

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.

我们都像Jon一样
有点小本事
有点小梦想
以为距离成功只差一个机遇而已
在专业人士的身边
觉得自己只要努个力就能跟他们一样
面对无法企及的天才
就认为只是因为没有跟对方一样的曾经
但一介凡人
有点小本事
还有小梦想
当然不会满足于just happy
当他终于用自己的标准把天才毁入凡间
当他终于明白有些天赋真的是天生而无需历练
当他终于把张牙舞爪的Frank变成了像一直在做错事的小孩
他才真正看清
你从来就跟他们不一样
Jon

网太挫好不容易啃完Frank的生肉，来写写。从开头男配的脑内独唱+独白就见识了配乐的强大（里边所有被角色不齿的调调我觉得都挺好听的啊...），并且奠定了全片魔性的风格（并不，是黑色幽默）。

一说片子里两个对立方面，男配是个失败却想成功的人，无时无刻不在找灵感写曲子尽管结果不好，这一点跟Frank他们乐队（SORONPRFBS简称SORO好了）很像很像，这也许是为什么一开始那个键盘手招了男配到gig来。但同时男配和SORO从一开始也不一样，男配需要twitter跟外界交流、牢骚日常，反正就是对自己音乐人的身份十分认同并且因为不成功不出名整天丧气窜天；SORO干脆是纯粹地下，完全不苦于出不出名，gig也是自己不满意就内讧不演了，后来想出专辑大概也是希望做个成品把自己的概念传播出去，甚至为此在森林里呆了一年，所以那对法国男女说男配disgusting，大家根本就不是一个追求嘛。

二说Frank，实际上是Frank把对立两方融合起来了，可以看出来乐队里他跟男配关系最好。其实一开始是键盘手找男配入伙的啊，但键盘后来说过他很想成为Frank*，这是从配角角度对主角人格性格的肯定吧，同时也说明了主角会在配角身上有一定映射。Frank带着大家寻找、制造和录制各种声音（在这想说一下这才是我所认知的音乐的真谛啊！！不只有旋律，还有各种经过奇妙混合的声音加入到歌曲里面，旋律所表达的一切情感才被真正充实——因为旋律本身并不能让人感同身受，而音效带出的质感和情景才真正接地气有灵魂啊。顺便这里推首歌，Muse的Animal一定听到最后），他能轻易把人逗开心，就他身上有的那种积极个性阳光完全不能被头套限制，虽然说肯定是因为自闭之类的原因才会戴头套，但这样一来自闭小伙就直面人生了嘛，带给人的灵感鼓励温暖肯定是他自己也想感受到的所以这种力量其他人远远不及。然后要引出归属感的概念啦，Frank属于SORO，而SORO归于地下——不是那种埋没、隐晦的地下，更多是种自娱自乐和对自己优秀个性风格的保持，同时男配属于大众社会，从Frank的角度来讲男配甚至不属于音乐，加入SORO从一开始的寻找机会发光发热到后来的利用，男配跟SORO群体跟Frank的矛盾越来越突出；其间Frank还想迎矛盾而上，这跟他的自闭和男配的影响都脱不了关系，自闭久了容易被外面的世界吸引从而变得极端想要迎合上去，最后本来说好的big gig失败因为乐队分崩离析，就剩Frank一点点的不甘心（或者说是因为男配的忽悠）追赶着微弱的成功的可能性。男配一心为了成名完全不顾其他成员的劝阻最后伤害到Frank导致他消失，后来Frank头套没了（鲨鲨上线）让人心疼得想抱抱他根本就没想好该怎么如此面对以前熟悉的环境吧，之后哭着给SORO大家唱的I love you all实在感动感动感动（从特别羞怯的没话找话到自然而然大家一起和出调调节奏和效果器来呜呜呜呜呜，而且还有不常见的法鲨眼泪煽气氛我的麻麻...）本来追求这么一致爱好品味这么统一的大家凑在一起就很棒了啊根本不用出名不是吗。总之，头套给了Frank归属感于是他安安心心地生活了十几年并且把自己的天分锻炼的超级棒；森林给了SORO归属感所以他们能够沉着气隐居一整年每天都醉心于创作；音乐对男配而言没有归属感他要的不过是出名，前后twitter界面上follower数量变化的细节也体现了这点。
以上，Frank，大概这样。前边的那个*是想说键盘手曾经说自己想成为Frank，可惜Frank只有一个，后来自杀的时候戴着Frank的头套，大概是“die as Frank”，是从作品内部对角色的肯定也是对Frank自身的另一面的另一种诠释吧，如果他不是这么talented如果他内心并不单纯不积极如果他不快乐那Frank就也不会存在了啊。

三说SORONPRFBS，乐队名字没法念隐喻他们没法成功，这里用周国平的话说就是在精神领域的追求中，不必说世俗的成功，即便是精神追求本身的成功也不是主要的目标，目标即寓于过程之中，对精神价值的追求本身成了生存方式。比较喜欢的是生存方式的概念，把追求作为生活方式不就是SORO他们在木屋里录歌时候的精神支柱吗，出不出名究竟又有什么必要。这样说来好像男配很可恶进来掺和一脚整坏了又走了，但其实他逼得Frank本体示人同时SORO经历这番一定能走上更明白的路至少对自己追求什么一清二楚了。男配在找出走的Frank的时候意外得知网上的点击率大多数其实是在看他们的笑话（妈蛋根本是编剧在自黑自己的逗比设定吧），他意识到自己对Frank和乐队的破坏有多大（重复了好几遍I ruined everything），感觉挺好笑实际挺悲伤的啊，做一些不能被理解的实验音乐（实际超级好听好么）被当成逗比这简直是艺术的悲哀，知我者谓我心忧，不知者谓我何求。其实不被人理解是艺术的悲哀也是幸运，要相信啊开拓者总是少的。片子在对实验音乐的价值进行探讨的同时可能也有着对电影行当的忧虑吧，也许，我瞎说的。

结束的太突兀算了最后来安利！！首先对于脑残粉（就我吧），头套Frank萌得令人发指，裸脸Frank心酸得让人嗷嗷叫不敢直视对方不给正脸什么的呜呜呜（其实主要因为法鲨的颜////////），Frank身材全程高能，腰身还有好看的胳膊和手////////法鲨讲话唱歌什么的根本把持不住！！！！【对于路人来说】，全员逗比的同时带着分量十足的内心戏，BGM全部给42个赞，各种小细节的黑色幽默都妙不可言，色调有种大森林水汪汪凉爽自在的感觉，乐队音乐全部现场演唱录制反正我觉得每首都好听QAQ（包括被除了SORO全员都唾弃的女配的兹兹电音好好好好听），哦不过警告全片无女主（。
片尾放了三首鲨鲨唱的歌，之后还会出专辑，天地良心！！！！

就这样

（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）