弗兰克

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

    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。

天才在左疯子在右 而大多数人还是走中间道
在影片开头和结尾，都有类似的场景，喊着”Be careful”骑车的少年，在自己门口擦车的中年男子，手挽手经过的老年夫妇。Jon的家乡或是Frank的家乡，堪萨斯州，布拉夫市，他们分享了类似的童年。Jon一直以为他不及frank是因为frank有悲惨的童年或类似的经历，其实并没有，frank生来就是不同的， he is born to be different。
才华，天赋，热情，善良他都有，他能让素不相识的陌生人通过短暂交流敞开心扉，是，他有这种力量，他也有光洁的容颜，可是他偏要带上头套。他想让世界认可他的音乐，所以站在了Jon的身边，但是在SXSW的音乐节现场，在Jon唱起他的糖水可乐时，Frank终于还是崩溃了，蹦出一句话——“YOUR MUSIC IS SHIT.”
是，Jon is Jon, Frank is Frank.他们想要角色互换，但最后失败了。
——You play C F &G？——yeah？——you’re in. see？这支乐队给予Jon的任务就是这个，keyboard，可以是Don、lucus or Jon，但是主唱FRANK只有一个，he’s the core.
于Jon来说，他是有功利心的，没有音乐的纯粹感和利己的坚持，他要迎合大众做流行感强的音乐，他想要融入队伍，想要在这支乐队中获得地位，他并没有get到这支看似freak的乐队的G点，他搞砸了。
而Frank，他的音乐灵感可以来自自然，来自一切，任何东西都能成歌，地毯上的线头，墙，等等，都可以，但是YouTube上的观众看他和Clara却像是怪胎，他有孩童的天真，clara能懂他，保护他，很赞的乐队呢为什么要靠点击率来证明呢，忠于自己，忠于内心。
好在影片最后，Jon把Frank带到EL madrid，带回乐队，Frank低头拘谨的打招呼，然后逐渐抬头，看着他的朋友，热泪盈眶——I love you all. The chorus. Welcome back, frank.

嗯，其实电影能分成俩。

Jon 刚出现的时候哼的歌其实挺好的，和后面小森林的氛围挺搭，有一瞬间我都觉得爱尔兰的音乐也冰岛了。

森林的时光拍得很美。其实想想，你要问那些大艺术家灵感从哪儿来，他们一定会说：无处不在。我特别喜欢Clara坐在草地上拨弄他那根铁棒子的样子，会真的有一种孤独的归属感。还有当另外的租户来到这所房子，Frank把那个女主人拉出去，两个人拉着转圈圈的场景，一点儿都不奇怪。

电影后半段像是另一个故事了，我不明白一个不顾一切就加入乐队的人怎么会突然在意起知名度，有没有听众这回事儿了。虽然他很帅，可是看他种种，着实烦躁起来。也许真的像Clara说的那样，他就是空虚。他的心里没有一点东西。他不爱自己的家，不爱自己的工作，所以能说走就走。他不爱音乐，所以能说变就变。对于Jon来说，没有重要的东西，没有珍贵的，他枯竭得可怕。他或许不是没有爱的能力，只是，他完全不知道。

电影里很多音乐都好爱。最爱的是i want to marry a lighthouse kepper 。Clara 简直太棒了，最后Frank唱的那首歌加了她的演奏之后才活，我真这么觉得。然后就是那个最后带着Frank头套自杀的键盘手的音乐。他们静静喝着酒时流淌出来的那一段，简直太美了。

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.

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