Frank starts
in some fucking God-awful British coastal town where the beach is made out of
broken rocks and the sky is constantly threatening to piss down. Life for Jon
is predictably boring with his attempts at writing songs resulting in both
unproductive brain-farts and well... shit. One day when out walking, he spots a
man attempting suicide which, having seen the grottiness of the area, seems
like common sense to me. Being both British and human though, Jon doesn't
really worry and instead watches apathetically from the side in the vain hope
that he'll suddenly be struck by some musical inspiration. Also, watching this
breakdown with understanding nonchalance are the chap’s bandmates who are now
in need of a new keyboard player. Jon plays keyboard. He joins the band... it's
as easy as that. Sadly though, the band he's joined are so musically experimental
that their sound is like listening to somebody angry fuck a dustbin and
everybody except the lead singer hates his ginger guts. Oh, and just because
that's not already enough of a set up for a ninety minute film, the lead singer
is clearly fucking mental having made the common-as-muck life choice of
permanently wearing a giant Frank Sidebottom mask on his head. Yep, it's
another one of them... A film about the creative process as filtered through
the deranged mind of a nutcase, hidden behind a papier-mâché symbol of musical
old Madchester. God, I hate all the fucking clichés!