LET ME BE FRANK

Last night, we met Frank.

Our apartment gets brutally hot if there's no breeze during the day, and yesterday was as still as can be. We wanted to go see a movie to take advantage of the A/C, but it had to be a good movie - we've been burned more than once on Netflix recently, which is probably why we keep re-watching great TV shows instead (but BoJack Horseman is very enjoyable and you should watch it!). Luckily, Frank was at the Nuart.

Frank is the tale of that guy who was in that time travel movie with Rachel McAdams (she's the star of our blog now), Michael Fassbender, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and their assorted bandmates as they navigate mental illness, minor celebrity, and the farthest corners of their musicality. Fassbender generally stars as a Very Handsome Man Who Also Does Other Stuff Maybe. I mean, he even made Jane Eyre's Rochester into a hunk of burnin' love - and Dear Reader, NOPE that is not the story. But in Frank, he's got a big ole paper maché head on, and that's where the magic lies.

This movie is all about the dichotomy of who you display yourself as to the world and what happens when you take that away or disguise it, a point made very clear by a poignant moment in the film that drew audible, repeating gasps from the audience. I want to say more about how great Frank is, and how all these weird characters and little, delicate moments come together to make a very sad but ultimately uplifting story. But I'd rather you just go see it instead.


This is the most likable movie ever. People will love it.