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导演: 伦尼·阿伯拉罕森
编剧: 乔恩·容森 / 彼特·斯特劳恩
主演: 迈克尔·法斯宾德 / 玛吉·吉伦哈尔 / 多姆纳尔·格利森 / 莫伊拉·布鲁克 / 斯科特·麦克纳里 / 弗朗索瓦·西维尔 / 泰丝·哈珀 / 肖恩·欧布莱恩 / 卡拉·阿扎 / 克里斯·麦克哈利姆 / 马修·佩奇 / 马克·休伯曼
类型: 剧情 / 喜剧 / 悬疑
制片国家/地区: 英国 / 爱尔兰
语言: 英语
上映日期: 2014-05-09(英国/爱尔兰)
片长: 95分钟

弗兰克的剧情简介  ·  ·  ·  ·  ·  ·
　　乔恩（多姆纳尔·格利森 Domhnall Gleeson 饰）是一个热爱音乐的年轻人，某天误打误撞加入了一支有点神经质的地下乐队，乐队的主唱兼灵魂人物是弗兰克（迈克尔·法斯宾德 Michael Fassbender 饰）——既是才华横溢的天才、又是终日戴着一个硕大头套的怪人。乔恩跟着乐队到爱尔兰某个偏僻的小木屋里录制专辑，他们在此过上几近与世隔绝的生活。这一年来，乔恩一直私自将他们的生活以视频的形式发布在社交网络上。终于，乐队的奇特经历引起了某个音乐节主办方的关注，乔恩说服成员们远赴美国参加这个叫SXSW的音乐节，藉此成名。
　　本片根据乔恩·强森的回忆录改编。片中的乐队领袖弗兰克以Chris Sievey为原型。Chris Sievey在七八十年代红极一时，他同时是个风趣演员，以喜剧形象“Frank Sidebottom”驰誉。在弗兰克身上还能看到Daniel Johnston、Captain Beefheart等特立独行的音乐人的影子。

　　给这部电影写影评是一件很心塞的事，因为这部电影本身就心塞无比。我已经记不清上一次在电影院里哭是什么时候了，当片尾开始滚字幕，I love you all响起，那一刻真的是，眼泪吧嗒吧嗒停不住地掉，想跟旁边的朋友开个自嘲的玩笑却连话都说不出来。
　　
　　Frank虽然是在说一个独立乐队的故事，也以Frank作为电影名，但我觉得它其实不是一部”音乐电影“，也没有打算给一个特殊的音乐人作传，事实上，它的主题依然还是那老套的主题：人生的无可奈何，与必将清醒的梦想，只不过用了乐队这个载体来说这个故事——但该死的，它讲得真好。
　　
　　——————
　　
　　电影的视角是以Jon这个普通青年展开的。为什么由他展开，这一点之后再说。总之这个一心向往音乐却只能被困在办公室里肖想的青年，机缘巧合下偶遇了一个古怪的乐队，他们一起生活、创作音乐。
　　也是透过他，让观众认识了一个拥有独特精神世界的Frank，从不以真面目示人，却拥有特殊的魅力，天真、善良、脆弱、才华横溢。
　　
　　这个神经兮兮的乐队里，每一个人都看上去很不合常理，和人偶做爱的Don，暴躁的Clara，都怪诞一如Frank的头套，电影的前半部分时间，Jon这个代表正常社会的人反而在那个与世隔绝的木屋里成了格格不入的一方。但他们一定程度上还是维持了相当的平衡，不正常的他们靠正常的Jon提供的资金维持了一年的自给自足，正常的Jon依靠不正常的他们在这一年里第一次看上去更接近了自己的音乐梦想。
　　
　　可惜，这种平衡没有维系太久，故事很快在乐队因为Jon管理的网络媒介，而被给与在西北偏北音乐节表演机会的面前急转直下。
　　
　　
　　
　　如果这是好莱坞，那也许电影会让这群怪异的人能够终于在机遇下发光发彩，完成一个”怪咖也能成功“的励志童话。
　　可惜它不是，事实上观者逐渐不安地意识到，影片越向音乐节这个高潮段落而去，就越加有一种失序脱轨的心慌。
　　
　　而最后这种心慌，也终于被应证了。
　　
　　
　　在这里我们先讨论一个问题，在音乐节最后的那场演出，如果一切都如常，乐队没有人缺席，这次表演会成功吗？
　　答案就是，不会。永远不会。
　　
　　还有一个问题，这部关于音乐的电影，为什么在音乐节之前，从未完整呈现这个乐队的作品？身为观众的我们，似乎无从得知他们耗费一年心血集体创作出的专辑里到底有什么样的歌曲。我们只知道他们用了哪些怪异的元素，却不知道它们最后组合成了怎样的模样。
　　
　　因为其实，它们的那张专辑并不重要，它必将堙没无闻，就像他们注定会在音乐节上失败一样，无论是他们自己，还是他们的音乐，本质上，就不属于那个地方，它们属于无名的苏格兰山区，属于颓败的酒馆，属于没有回音和欢呼的死寂。
　　
　　这是矛盾的根本所在，他们之所以是他们，Frank之所以是Frank，就是因为他们不属于正常的社会，他们就像能在真空里生存的鱼一样，在和寻常世界不一样的另一个领域里能够自由呼吸，而一旦上岸，就只能窒息死去。
　　
　　身为一份子的Clara是深知这一点的，所以她才那么反对乐队去音乐节上台，反对乐队有任何成名的可能，因为她知道结局必将失败。其余两个人其实也心知肚明，但是Frank，这个乐队的灵魂人物，只有他配合着本来就是普通人的Jon坚持到了最后，直到倒下之前，他才承认现实一般地对他和Jon试图迎合观众口味的曲子说，”这些音乐真糟。“
　　
　　因为Frank，其实和Jon一样，都在试图当一个跨越界限的人。Jon想要到水里去，Frank想要到空中来。Jon想要从庸常的碌碌无为中摆脱，抓住自己真正热爱的梦想，而Frank，他咬牙坚持在这越加难熬的空气里，整个人已经如弦一般紧绷，但还是离开Clara去抓住Jon的手，还是在听到Jon说有七万人已经看过他们的视频后，勉力坐起身，留了下来。
　　
　　他始终是个羞涩的孩童，他不愿意让人看到自己的样子，但他的梦想，一直很简单，他想要告诉更多人，他爱着这个世界，爱着所有他理解或者不理解的东西，有生命的人或者没有生命的板凳，他都愿意倾心以待。
　　
　　这也是这个角色让人觉得很心痛的地方，他是一条为了想要和更多人说话，而努力游到岸上，最终搁浅的鱼。他用全部的努力，想要去靠近那个世界，回应所有“期待他、爱他的人”。
　　告诉他们，I love you all.
　　
　　但在外人眼里呢？就像Jon在餐厅里听到的那个小哥所评论的那样，啊你们是那群怪咖，啊你们真好笑啊。
　　虽然Jon的回应是，“I don't think it hilarious at all." 我一点都不觉得好笑。（顺便一说这也是我对整部电影的想法）
　　但即使是Jon，他也依然不是那个世界的人，他对音乐天才的创作源泉，总是和童年不幸、痛苦经历连在一起，他想象Frank来自不幸的家庭，想象Frank有一张残破的脸，直到后来他意识到，从来就没有什么痛苦意外什么家庭不幸。
　　Frank，就只是Frank而已，他的音乐才华，他的精神疾病，都是天赋，都是一开始就存在的客观事实，没有办法凭空而出，也没有办法被创造或者中断。
　　
　　
　　才华有就有，没有就没有。你是这样的人，或是那样的人，都一样，都是早已定下的客观事实。
　　
　　怪异的边缘分子如Frank或者Don，他们没办法融入社会的主流，不是因为他们选择如此，而是因为他们就是这样的人。
　　正常的人如Jon，没有办法融入那个他所梦想并为之不懈努力的世界，不是因为他没有苦难的经历，而是因为他就不是那样的人。
　　他们各自属于各自的世界，两个世界在那山里的一年，短暂地彼此融合妥协，但很快就会分崩离析，分道扬镳。
　　
　　这也是为什么要以Jon的视角展开电影的原因，观众跟随着他，就是在经历和他一样，做梦和梦醒的过程。
　　
　　所有现实里看上去似乎可以实现的梦想，终究不过是自欺欺人的一场幻觉，你以为抓住了它，其实它从来都不属于你。
　　
　　就像Don说的，终有一天你会意识到，你成为不了Frank。Jon成为不了Frank，Frank其实也成为不了Jon。
　　
　　
　　能怎么办呢？
　　
　　不怎么办，Frank终于还是回到了伙伴们的身边，他没有戴面具，唱着I love you all。
　　
　　他胸腔里那种纯真的对世界的爱，有这几个人能懂就已经够好，世界不必要知道。
　　
　　而Jon离开了他的梦想，他对音乐的热诚，他自己明白就好，音乐不必要知道。
　　
　　
　　
　　所以你们能懂这种心塞的感觉了吗？因为这是一个再现实不过的故事，但没有什么结局可以比现实更让人无力，虽然这部电影有种种荒诞和冷幽默包裹着，但其实不过是绵里藏针，它带着笑容告诉你。
　　
　　
　　承认吧，一切就这样了。
　　
　　到头来，对生活，对梦想，不过一场结局注定的单相思，I love you，and you don't care at all.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　——————8.16——————
　　　
　　好像出中字了……看到大家都很心塞，莫名有种奇怪的安慰感——啊终于有人陪我了【等等
　　
　　其实回头来看这篇评论，也觉得太悲观抑郁了一点
　　当时写这篇的时候就这样自我驳斥过，所以才把标题和最后一句故意反过来写 （也不知道有没有人能get到）
　　标题是我对自己写的最后一句的消极抗议，也是Frank最后在小酒馆里独唱时，电影想要传达给我们的尾音
　　——这个世界不在乎，但那有什么关系，我还是爱着它所有的一切
　　　　
　　是啊，生活的结局虽注定，但这并不能否定它的过程
　　
　　单相思虽无果，但心中有爱本身就是可贵的事，不是吗

　　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。

　　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
　　
　　这部片子前面一个半小时笑料都挺多，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！
　　
　　从大学实习算起，这几年我刚刚接触社会接触职场，很不适应，几乎每年都会有那么一段时间满脑子想的都是辞职，早上一睁开眼就感到郁闷，总要耐心开导自己很久、鼓足十分勇气才能迈出家门。一路上如行尸走肉般前行，来到单位大楼时双腿已如注了水泥般沉重。
　　
　　有人说：你想要过什么样的生活就去过，想做什么事就去做。
　　
　　但是，我都不知道自己想过什么样的生活，怎么办？最怕是，对现状的厌恶源于自己内心的虚弱，而梦想则成了一个偶尔出格却终究逃不出条框的借口。
　　
　　追梦的电影有很多，但是“好莱坞”式的结局我却越来越受不了。《弗兰克》这部影片有着追梦电影的氛围，但我却觉得从一开始影片就不会给我们一个典型结局。
　　
　　Jon，一个小镇青年，每日坐在格子间里对着电脑屏幕中的表格和数据，内心却对音乐充满热爱。多么典型的追梦电影开篇。可是Jon一边走在回家的路上一边写歌时，却发现他确实才华有限。
　　
　　当然，这类影片通常需要一个契机，让主角摆脱束缚，释放自身的能量和才华。影片也在朝这个套路发展。
　　
　　在海边，Jon遇到了乐队成员，梦幻地加入他们。于是，一群追梦人坐上一辆面包车启程了。
　　
　　我以为尽管弗兰克行为怪异，但他将是一个导师一样的人物，成功激发出Jon身上的创作潜能。
　　
　　几个人在与世隔绝的小屋内尝试着新音乐创作，互相磨合与适应，互相激发彼此的潜力，直到他们获得音乐节的演出机会。这大概是一支独立乐队获得大众认可的快捷途径之一，而写一些人们爱听的歌曲则是流行于世的硬通货。
　　
　　但是，他们终于碰上了我们也都遇到过的现实问题——你怎么知道这个世界到底喜欢什么呢？他们把你的严肃当滑稽，把你的真诚当反讽，把你的愤怒当笑话，把你的痛苦当行为艺术。那个你赖以生存的“头套”，他们喜欢它，是因为他们在考虑未来能不能在消费市场中进行推广。
　　
　　于是我看到，年轻的人们手臂高高举起，却不知道在为什么挥舞；貌美的姑娘们目送秋波，却不知道在为什么发情；唱歌的人们在舞台中央一跃而起，却不知道在为什么嘶吼。
　　
　　直到Jon站到舞台上唱起他写的烂歌，他作为追梦人也就到此为止了，就像刚刚加入乐队时，他带着简单的行李问Don我们什么时候回去，因为周一还要上班。
　　
　　如果说Jon的才华有限，那么作为乐队灵魂的弗兰克应该有着追梦成功的希望。但是弗兰克被自己困住了，他向我们展露的才华连Don嘴上说的万分之一都不到。
　　
　　这个世界需要的是包装出来的可以被消费的病态，而不是你那天生的无可奈何的病态。
　　
　　弗兰克最终还是倒在了舞台上。
　　
　　我以为事情还会有转机。Jon不死心，这回是他帮助弗兰克。
　　
　　在你为梦想坚持不懈的时候，世界只是冷眼旁观。你看他们发起了“随手拍寻找弗兰克”的Twitter话题，掀起一轮社交媒体的猎奇围观潮，就像追踪外星人一样兴高采烈、呼朋唤友。
　　
　　然而就算找到了弗兰克又怎样？你发现他根本没有像历史上那些传奇人物一样的过去，他就是被自己困住了，甚至你都不知道他到底是不是像Don口中说的那样才华横溢。
　　
　　这就是此类追梦电影我可以看下去的原因，我们总要折腾一番才知道自己的边界在哪儿。谁还没有个梦想，可现实是，我们最终还是没有成功。
　　
　　每个人对待梦想的态度都不一样。我看不下去那些“说走就走”的言语，也许是因为内心软弱，也许是因为过完周末，我们终究还是要滚回去上班。

　　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。
　　--------
　　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.  观后感 http://www.guanhougan.cc/yingping/2868.html
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