[yasr_overall_rating]
A young woman returns to a small, murky New England community where she grew up, to uncover the mystery behind her mother’s untimely death. Some of the locals intend to stop her, and a conspiracy unravels.
At the screening I attended, “Frank the Bastard” was introduced as a “gothic regional noir,” which got me both excited and confused, as I had studied, reviewed and made films for years, and yet never heard of such a genre. The lights dimmed, and the film’s title wedged onto the screen in a grisly, menacing font, suggesting a dark and intense journey into the human psyche. As the film progressed, my excitement quickly waned. Calling “Frank the Bastard” a “gothic regional noir” is as misleading as calling “Drive” a “non-stop throwback action thriller;” though both films contain references and brief flashes that could be described as such, those are certainly not their genres.
The reason why I brought up “Drive,” a much-disputed film, is because I happen to fall under the category of disappointed folks, who expected it to live up to the hype (“award-winner that redefined modern cinema,” blah-blah), but instead were met by an overly-rigid slog through a neon-lit, pseudo-1980s non-plot, which, granted, was beautifully shot, but featured characters so boilerplate you almost wondered if it was all a joke, an elaborate prank Nicolas Winding Refn pulled to test our gullibility. “Frank the Bastard,” I’m afraid, will not provoke a comparable debate.
There’s nothing technically wrong with its production values – it’s decently shot, edited and lit. Brad Coley’s sophomore effort’s heart is in the right place, but his story of a young woman, Clair (Rachel Miner), who reluctantly responds to the unexplained urges from her shallow best friend and revisits her childhood commune to uncover hidden truths, follows all the well-worn tropes of hundreds of similar films. Tortured protagonist? Check. A “David vs. Goliath” story of a community uprising against evil corporate forces? Check. Clumsy, expository dialogue? Double-check. Tie in a little murder mystery, and you got all the ingredients of the most bland soup at a drive-through deli. The most fundamental issue is that “Frank” lacks a novel hook, which is sadly ironic, considering the film’s pre-screening “pitch.”
And Lord, does it move slow. The somnambulant pacing gets livened up from time to time by touches of relatively interesting themes, such as reliving your past in order to embrace it, but the film never has anything truly profound to say. Clichés abound: in this town, everyone knows everyone, and everyone is incredibly sinister; there is a bar fight, with racist hicks spewing out slurs; and it all ultimately comes down to the ownership of Clair’s farm, as well as a pipeline coming through and polluting the crap out of everyone. There are so many stories of family trees and town histories, told in a monotone by so many characters, the film is both derivative and needlessly complex. The experience is like sifting through an old small-town newspaper. Oh, and William Sadler’s sketchy New England accent doesn’t help matters much, either.
As for the title character, Frank? What’s his role? His schizophrenic so-called protagonist (he’s on-screen for all of ten minutes) seems to function as some sort of metaphor, personifying the Christ-like nature for which we should all strive; he’s an uncomfortable, under-developed blend of every similar character in film history, from Michael Fassbender’s titular “Frank” (coincidence?) to Juliette Lewis’s Carla in “The Other Sister.” Regardless, Frank obviously – spoiler alert – saves the day, in a jarring, almost-rape sequence that implausibly takes place in a jail-cell. The ending is downright silly, involving improbable coincidences, hallucinogens (!) and an extended fiery flashback.
Some of the supporting players effortlessly steal scenes from the two leads, particularly Chris Sarandon (Academy Award Nominee for “Dog Day Afternoon”), who has way too little screen time, but makes the most use out of it, and the wonderful theater actress Wendy Vanden Heuvel, who, if there is any justice in this world, will be a prominent screen presence in the near future (her grief-stricken Alice is by far the film’s highlight). Next to those two pros, Rachel Miner’s spaced-out vapidity, which worked to her advantage in Larry Clark’s cult classic “Bully,” becomes that much more of a detriment, as does Shamika Cotton’s amateurish line readings, especially in the few scenes she shares with Sarandon.
“Frank the Bastard” comes off as a low-rent “Erin Brockovich,” with Miner instead of Julia Roberts, and Brad Coley instead of Steven Soderbergh; or call it “Promised Land,” without Matt Damon or Gus Van Sant. Both of those films were flawed in their own ways, but the filmmakers brought years of experience and truly committed to their “underdog on a crusade” stories. Brad Coley, despite the earnestness and evident effort he displays in “Frank,” still has a long way to go.
“Frank The Bastard” opens in New York (Cinema Village), Los Angeles (Laemmle Noho 7) and digitally on July 24th, with expansion into the additional markets
