弗兰克

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.

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！

ps. 出来以后简直不能直视电影院宣传屏幕上dofp的老万

pps. 我还有两篇论文没写居然来写这个，简直作死，明天还要刷locke，活不成了_(:з」∠)_

说弗兰克之前，先要说梵高。梵高是个天才，或者说，梵高最终被炒作成了天才。但是，大部分艺术史学者都会告诉你，梵高的心理疾病阻碍了他的艺术创作。换句话说，梵高的绘画能力和他的心理问题没有因果关系。不是说，因为梵高得了焦躁抑郁症（或者癫痫，或者美尼尔。。。看你相信哪种理论），才成就了他的绘画天赋。恰恰相反，梵高本来就对色彩表现很有灵感，心理疾病让他无法专注创作，甚至英年早逝（自杀）。

弗兰克跟梵高的处境差不多，唯一不同的是，我并不认为他是一个梵高级别的天才（如果梵高真的是天才的话。。。这一点上我有所保留）。说实话，电影也根本没有把他当成一个天才来表现。电影里有些人物把他当成天才，但是他本身到底是不是天才，其实电影本身并没有定论。但是很多人在看完弗兰克之后，理所应当的就把这个电影理解成“不被世俗理解充满童真的天才，改变自我去迎合世俗，最终返璞归真”的文青故事。而在我看来，这其实是一个“本来有希望成为天才的人如何被心理疾病毁掉音乐前途，最终只能自得其乐，但其实也不错”的故事。

我没看之前也一直以为这是一个“不被世俗理解的天才”的故事，一个神经质，不愿意长大的彼得潘，不愿意承担责任，却以一种童真吸引周围失去童真的人，在他身上获得一种满足感。电影前半段也的确是这样一个故事，一群不用工作，神奇的有吃有穿，整天被一些形而上的“first world problem”折磨的hipster 的故事。但是电影后半段慢慢开始把这个只存在于乐队视角中的独立王国跟现实世界结合在一起。

我想大部分人会同情特立独行的弗兰克和他同伴，也有人会对乔恩心怀怨念。但是乔恩又有何过错？弗兰克的伙伴们以不知所以然的弗兰克为中心搭建了一个虚构世界，而外来的乔恩不过是捅破了这层含情脉脉的窗户纸而已。

于是摘掉头套的弗兰克只能投奔父母，失去弗兰克的乐团只能在空无一人的酒吧演唱，乔恩则面对真正的弗兰克，一个家庭幸福的精神病人，一个本来很有前途但是却被精神病拖累的伪天才。大家都从乔恩的镜子里看到了真正的自己：没有才华，毛病大把，根本没有独立生存能力，对自己的价值存在不切实际幻想的几个音乐票友。

最终，弗兰克和伙伴们又回到了自己建造的空中楼阁。但是，如果不考虑生计问题（电影人物大多不会考虑这些），只要自己过得开心又有什么不好呢？

===

我忍不住要冒天下之大不讳说一句：这个电影的音乐真的是非常难听。不好意思，说我是俗人也好，不懂独立音乐的精神也好，我当真是无法欣赏这种连调子都没有的音乐，配乐也各种吱哇乱叫。。。拜托，并不是说把风马牛不相及的音效混在一起就叫天才的好吗。

(好吧,如果给了五分就假定为法鲨的脑残粉,那我就是怎样?你来打我啊~~~→_→)

这是以乐队为主题的电影,
那首先音乐要过关,
结果不仅过关还大大超乎意料之外的好!
看着法鲨平时哼哼的水平没想到在frank中表现大有长进(或是平常隐藏能力?)
低沉磁性的声音+神经质的肢体语言+逗逼的头套
把带有实验性电子性迷幻性的乐队特点表露无遗
不愧自己宣传时也桥说要跟昆导拍歌舞片(这是在走伊万的路线么...)
其次电影有萌点有笑点有泪点有爆点就是没有尿点
故事轻重缓急控制还算可以
突发事件层出不穷的同时主线没掉也是关键得分
如果说音乐+2
故事+2
那最后的一分就是我自己的心情原因了

这部片子让我想起了00年之后有段独立电影大爆发的时期
圣丹斯也是在那个时候慢慢走进大家眼帘成为了每年必须关注的电影节其中之一
而就是这些独立小制作,可能也带有一些小清新小文艺色彩吧?的作品又带来了一批优秀的演员,其中不乏现在在好莱坞混迹很好的一些同学.
看完这部电影之后
我回到家,翻出了JUNO,
THUMBSUCKER,
LARS AND THE REAL GIRL,
LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE,
TRANSAMERICA等很多电影开始重温
是的,他们都是逗逼的小人物
但是他们都在做自己

btw,一美那filth里还有frank节目的镜头......

整个影片是以jon的第一人称视角展开的，乐队各成员被拔高到才华横溢必须与世隔绝的程度，而jon却被描绘为才能平庸的配角。

也许导演本人是这个原型乐队的脑残粉，才会把jon这个角色不遗余力的一黑到底，尽管他才华平庸，但是他毕竟真诚付出了很多，为乐队，为音乐，何至于这样黑他，黑他真的很有快感？

没听过原型乐队的音乐，但是从影片中所能听到的，我个人觉得也很平庸，有点故作怪异哗众取宠之感（也许他们本人觉得是曲高和寡）。乐队成员一个个也都不正常吧？神经病啊，精神病史啊，暴力倾向啊，抑郁倾向啊，自杀啊什么的，难道你们有病你们就酷？可笑。

对主角Frank的偶像崇拜简直是登峰造极。

本来就是个怪胎乐队，成员都是怪胎，jon一个正常人进去，想按照正常人的路子发展乐队，结果搞砸了，于是导演说，怪胎大法好，怪胎万岁！

致敬影片。非粉勿看。

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。