Frownland
Directed by Ronald Bronstein
at IFC Center
If David Lynch remade Taxi Driver with equal doses of Eraserhead and The Elephant Man, the result might look something like the drab existential loneliness of Ronald Bronstein’s Frownland. Shot on scruffy 16mm film throughout the grungiest urban wastelands of New York City, Bronstein’s provocatively discomfiting first feature embraces the philosophy of “no”: no budget, no name actors, no art direction, no soundtrack and no happy endings. It’s a consistently downbeat logic that fits the context, because Frownland primarily focuses on coming to grips with being a nobody.
Bronstein’s unpolished style isn’t immediately compelling. In fact, the unfocused shaky-cam aesthetic, coupled with a jagged pace that has no clear forward motion, quickly grows frustrating—but so does Keith Sontag (Dore Mann), the stuttering, muttering, bafflingly incoherent protagonist whose miserable plights justify Frownland’s title (although it’s technically culled from a Captain Beefheart song). A well-meaning recluse who spurts out half-formed notions as though constantly battling to jumpstart his vocal cords, Keith spends his stultifying days hawking coupons for a shady door-to-door service, attempting to console his suicide-prone friend and making depressingly vain attempts to grab the world’s attention.
The setting is his greatest opposition. From the droll suburbia that functions as his expansive cubicle to the city exteriors where street sounds morph into blaring vulgarities, Keith’s claustrophobic reality (enhanced by Paul Grimstad’s eerie score) leaves no space for respite. Some have said that Taxi Driver has lost its immediacy because the city no longer carries an overtly dour impact; but Frownland finds it again.
Keith himself, however, symbolizes the anti–Travis Bickle. He’s relentlessly good-natured, woefully aware of his unpleasant appearance and clearly full of bright ideas. “I really appreciate this,” he says again and again, like it’s some kind of mantra, acknowledging patience when others tolerate his presence. That sincerity gives the movie an appreciable pulse, allowing Keith to emerge from his ambiguous void and become an object of sympathy. “I genuinely think there’s value in getting an audience to chew a person over and swallow them and regurgitate them and maybe chew them over some more before arriving at some kind of assessment,” Bronstein told one interviewer. Indeed, there’s no clear-cut verdict regarding Keith’s haphazard intentions, but you definitely end up feeling sorry for the guy.
He’s not the only one conveying bursts of gravity. In its later scenes, Frownland ambitiously shifts to the perspective of Keith’s good-for-nothing roommate (Grimstad), whose indolent lifestyle almost gets turned around when Keith tries to confront him about it. With the oscillating point of view, Frownland aspires to be a generational statement. It’s not quite that, but Bronstein’s refreshingly unique take on the fragility of an aimless routine has a resolutely modern spirit.
Directed by Ronald Bronstein
at IFC Center
If David Lynch remade Taxi Driver with equal doses of Eraserhead and The Elephant Man, the result might look something like the drab existential loneliness of Ronald Bronstein’s Frownland. Shot on scruffy 16mm film throughout the grungiest urban wastelands of New York City, Bronstein’s provocatively discomfiting first feature embraces the philosophy of “no”: no budget, no name actors, no art direction, no soundtrack and no happy endings. It’s a consistently downbeat logic that fits the context, because Frownland primarily focuses on coming to grips with being a nobody.
Bronstein’s unpolished style isn’t immediately compelling. In fact, the unfocused shaky-cam aesthetic, coupled with a jagged pace that has no clear forward motion, quickly grows frustrating—but so does Keith Sontag (Dore Mann), the stuttering, muttering, bafflingly incoherent protagonist whose miserable plights justify Frownland’s title (although it’s technically culled from a Captain Beefheart song). A well-meaning recluse who spurts out half-formed notions as though constantly battling to jumpstart his vocal cords, Keith spends his stultifying days hawking coupons for a shady door-to-door service, attempting to console his suicide-prone friend and making depressingly vain attempts to grab the world’s attention.
The setting is his greatest opposition. From the droll suburbia that functions as his expansive cubicle to the city exteriors where street sounds morph into blaring vulgarities, Keith’s claustrophobic reality (enhanced by Paul Grimstad’s eerie score) leaves no space for respite. Some have said that Taxi Driver has lost its immediacy because the city no longer carries an overtly dour impact; but Frownland finds it again.
Keith himself, however, symbolizes the anti–Travis Bickle. He’s relentlessly good-natured, woefully aware of his unpleasant appearance and clearly full of bright ideas. “I really appreciate this,” he says again and again, like it’s some kind of mantra, acknowledging patience when others tolerate his presence. That sincerity gives the movie an appreciable pulse, allowing Keith to emerge from his ambiguous void and become an object of sympathy. “I genuinely think there’s value in getting an audience to chew a person over and swallow them and regurgitate them and maybe chew them over some more before arriving at some kind of assessment,” Bronstein told one interviewer. Indeed, there’s no clear-cut verdict regarding Keith’s haphazard intentions, but you definitely end up feeling sorry for the guy.
He’s not the only one conveying bursts of gravity. In its later scenes, Frownland ambitiously shifts to the perspective of Keith’s good-for-nothing roommate (Grimstad), whose indolent lifestyle almost gets turned around when Keith tries to confront him about it. With the oscillating point of view, Frownland aspires to be a generational statement. It’s not quite that, but Bronstein’s refreshingly unique take on the fragility of an aimless routine has a resolutely modern spirit.
