The Fringe

FRANK (A-minus) - There are those who kneel before the troubled genius of the holy trinity of mentally damaged musicians: Syd Barrett, Roky Erickson and Daniel Johnston. Whether it was an over-indulgence in the acid of the '60s or debilitating schizophrenia, those men (especially Barrett and Johnson) suffered for their art and have left us with pop gems mined from their tortured souls.

"Frank" takes that idea (and borrows from the bios of other eccentrics like Captain Beefheart's Don van Vliet) and finds inspiration in the true-life story of Chris Sievey, a Brit who performed comically as Frank Sidebottom while wearing a giant papier-mache head. Here, Michael Fassbender stars as the bizarre leader of a rag-tag band of avant-garde musicians. Fate brings them in touch with struggling songwriter and keyboardist Jon Burroughs (an electric Domhnall Gleason), a rather straight arrow who ends up being quasi-kidnapped by these freaks as they hole up in the Irish countryside to lay down tracks for an album. Burroughs (standing in for Jon Ronson, who wrote the screenplay based on his experience with Sievey/Sidebottom) is essentially a marginally talented jingle writer, but he is seduced by the edginess of his new bandmates (who go by the artsy name Soronprfbs). Fassbender keeps that fake head on for nearly the entire movie (even in the shower, as the trailer reveals), an inspired bit of casting of an actor whose mug makes women melt.

The other bandmates include Maggie Gyllenhaal as Clara, a theremin aficionado and a crank; Francois Civil ("Elles" and the recent TV adaptation of "Rosemary's Baby") as Baraque, and American Carla Azar (the drummer for the experimental trio Autolux) as the French rhythm section; and journeyman Scoot McNairy as Don, their producer, yet another tortured soul who stands as Frank's protector.

Irish director Lenny Abrahamson shows a deft touch with the material, letting the story unfold leisurely and organically. Gleason, holding the center, carries the narrative, as Jon quietly records the band's unorthodox rehearsing process (it takes nearly a year before they actually start rolling tape) and uploads them to YouTube. His Twitter account slowly gains followers until the band gains low-level cult status and a coveted invitation to South by Southwest in Austin. The oddballs reluctantly agree to cross back over the Atlantic to venture into the hipster mainstream, but you can sense a meltdown coming.

"Frank" grabs you from the start with Gleason's Jon haplessly trying to write songs in his head as he goes about his day. His bubblegum sensibilities alternatively clash and merge with the style of his mopey mates. The quirkiness of the band is not played for broad laughs; these are talented people earnestly engaged in the creative process. (The cast produced actual tracks during the course of filming, and a couple of engaging ones play over the end credits.) The movie also squarely faces the issue of mental illness without backing down or slipping into sappy sentimentality. This culminates in the final reel, in which the band members reconnect and improvise a song that feels painfully real.

As a final note, I can't remember the last time an audience (about 50 or so in a small theater) sat so still as the end credits started to roll. Nearly all of them stayed until the credits were complete. It was as if they were trying to compute what just happened, overwhelmed by those final images. "Frank," which is quite funny at times, sneaks up on you, leaving the viewer a bit devastated at the end, bowled over by a powerful story.