弗兰克

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？

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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。

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。
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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.

天才在左疯子在右 而大多数人还是走中间道
在影片开头和结尾，都有类似的场景，喊着”Be careful”骑车的少年，在自己门口擦车的中年男子，手挽手经过的老年夫妇。Jon的家乡或是Frank的家乡，堪萨斯州，布拉夫市，他们分享了类似的童年。Jon一直以为他不及frank是因为frank有悲惨的童年或类似的经历，其实并没有，frank生来就是不同的， he is born to be different。
才华，天赋，热情，善良他都有，他能让素不相识的陌生人通过短暂交流敞开心扉，是，他有这种力量，他也有光洁的容颜，可是他偏要带上头套。他想让世界认可他的音乐，所以站在了Jon的身边，但是在SXSW的音乐节现场，在Jon唱起他的糖水可乐时，Frank终于还是崩溃了，蹦出一句话——“YOUR MUSIC IS SHIT.”
是，Jon is Jon, Frank is Frank.他们想要角色互换，但最后失败了。
——You play C F &G？——yeah？——you’re in. see？这支乐队给予Jon的任务就是这个，keyboard，可以是Don、lucus or Jon，但是主唱FRANK只有一个，he’s the core.
于Jon来说，他是有功利心的，没有音乐的纯粹感和利己的坚持，他要迎合大众做流行感强的音乐，他想要融入队伍，想要在这支乐队中获得地位，他并没有get到这支看似freak的乐队的G点，他搞砸了。
而Frank，他的音乐灵感可以来自自然，来自一切，任何东西都能成歌，地毯上的线头，墙，等等，都可以，但是YouTube上的观众看他和Clara却像是怪胎，他有孩童的天真，clara能懂他，保护他，很赞的乐队呢为什么要靠点击率来证明呢，忠于自己，忠于内心。
好在影片最后，Jon把Frank带到EL madrid，带回乐队，Frank低头拘谨的打招呼，然后逐渐抬头，看着他的朋友，热泪盈眶——I love you all. The chorus. Welcome back, frank.

Frank观影结束
关于这部电影对我的冲击，我看完后这两个小时，在淮海路嘈杂的街道上徘徊了两个小时才理清了思绪，现在一一道来:
1.首先，这并不是一部像《寻找小糖人》或者《醉乡民谣》一样纯粹关于音乐的电影，里面虽然讲的是乐队的故事，但甚至没有一首“像样”的曲子，更多是不知所云的胡闹。但是只有在他们制造着只有他们自己听得懂的诡异声响时，一切都是快乐的，在他们的“音乐”中，我们感受到的是自由奔放的灵魂和生命的跃动。但是当最后他们不得不迎合观众的品味而唱起所谓正常的歌的时候，我们感受到的却只是压抑和痛苦。当然，这部电影也有好的音乐，在影片结束的时候，摘下头套的Frank唱出了对伙伴们最后的感激和爱，他眼中的无助和悲伤、脸上流下的泪水、几乎带着哭腔的动人歌声，响彻了观众的心。然后字幕出现的时候，又是两首动听而伤感的歌，银幕上零落着解体了的Frank头套，告诉我们这是他最后的哀歌。
2.这并不是一部轻松愉快的喜剧，不可否认，它前半段的幽默、无厘头，让在场的人笑得前仰后合，即使在看似严肃悲伤的时刻，也能突然转为笑料。或者说在前半段里，在森林中“隐居”的主角们还有能力驾驭自己的生活，有勇气去嘲讽生活的无常。到当这群怪胎突然闯入了“尘世”，面对世人好奇、嘲弄的注视，这群“精神病院的逃犯”终于不得不回忆起自己的“不正常”，曾经拥有“天马行空的才华”的音乐家，变成了”马戏团里的畸形人”，一个用于满足公众猎奇心理的展览品。在整个世界的嘲笑之下，这群“喜剧演员”变为了真正的悲剧，再也无法保持超然和幽默，满脸都是惶恐。因为世界想看的，不是带着头套的音乐天才，而是头套之下逃避现实的可悲笑柄。
3.这是一部充满了爱的电影，在前半部中，他们为了录制新专辑而在森林中过了一年多与世隔绝的生活。到观众渐渐意识到，所谓的新专辑只是一个借口，这群不能被社会容纳的怪胎只是为了生活在一个可以尽情嬉戏胡闹、不被任何人指摘和评判的理想乡，出专辑、成名、赚钱，对他们来说都是浮云。他们用自己独特的方式赞赏彼此，相互依偎，保护着他们各种执着的怪癖，这种关系非常温暖。甚至为了保护Frank脆弱的内心，他们甚至因为主角擅自将他们的故事发到社交网站、引起了人们的注意而恼羞成怒，拒绝“出世”。
4.这部电影里隐藏着对经典电影的各种致敬。我水平有限，只说说片中直接点名提到的两部。
一部是大卫•林奇的《象人》，讲的是一个善良的医生出于人道主义的目的想要解救马戏团里畸形人“象人”，让他重新融入社会，却弄巧成拙，将“象人”引向了悲剧的命运。Frank中的主角也想要帮助Frank回归社会，但是却揭开了他心中最隐匿的伤痛，从而失去了他作为音乐奇才Frank的身份，不得不直面惨淡的人生和自己的不正常，从伊甸坠落到了残酷的人间。
另一部是维姆•文德斯的《德州•巴黎》，讲述了一个少年跟随父亲去寻找从未谋面的母亲，结果发现母亲已沦为娼妓，对母亲的美好幻想瞬间幻灭。Frank中的主角自己认定完成Frank古怪的行事风格和杰出的音乐灵感的必然是他灰暗悲惨的童年经历和曾进过精神病院的黑历史，整天想方设法要揭穿他头套下的真面目，到等他以撕裂了Frank的梦境为代价获取真相，却发现Frank的出身和外表都极其普通，失望与后悔排山倒海而来，但失去的innocence（天真/无知）已经再也无法挽回了。就如柏拉图所说:人类一旦走出洞穴，见到了光明（被启蒙），就再也无法回到黑暗的洞穴（混沌/无知）中去了。

其实 我只是很单纯的想起了我悲催的乐队时光，像是男主角一样，想成为一个可以活在排练室或者舞台的人，排练流行歌让我觉得是狗屎，排练自己的歌被别人认为是狗屎，想了很多却仍然没有提升自己的水平，仍然找不到自己的一丁点才华，乐队成员都是正常人，就想我一样，成员走了又走，最后剩下我一个。

其实 最后反而释然了起来，回到现实世界的感觉很好，其实每个普通人都可以因为喜欢拾起吉他，拨弄大三和弦。

其实 你不能把它当做你的梦想，充其量是一个爱好罢了，一个你保持妄想的泳池，一个让你短时间内带上头套的排练室。

其实 很简单，我只要唱给我自己听就可以了

电影一开始的时候第二任Keyboard自杀。
我们不知道第二任keybord为什么自杀，但是DON为什么自杀导演却给了我们完整的过程。
DON最开始在天台上问JON觉得弗兰克如何的时候，DON的眼睛是闪闪发亮的，他真心的崇拜弗兰克，觉得弗兰克是天才，弗兰克的才华让人无可企及。
后来他和JON散步的时候，他又一次感叹弗兰克的天才。
然后是JON作曲的时候，DON觉得JON的曲子不行，说他特别明白想作出好曲子结果却作出shit的心情，然后弹了自己的曲子。JON说他觉得自己的曲子和DON的曲子都很棒，但是DON说很糟，他们都无法成为弗兰克。
DON想成为弗兰克那样天才的人，但是他知道自己永远无法成为弗兰克。

我觉得这个乐队在电影一开始就有四类人。
弗兰克，Clara。
DON和第二任键盘手
鼓手和贝斯
JON

弗兰克和Clara是不同寻常的天才，他们有着让人惊艳的才华，却也有着致命的缺陷——他们无法迎合世界，无法融于普通的世界。区别是Clara明白他们就是如此不再强求与世界对接，而弗兰克努力想要让世界接受他们喜爱他们。
DON和第二任键盘手，他们能够触及天才的世界，也有着自己的缺陷，能够融入天才的世界里，也能在伪装之后融于普通人的世界（电影里弗兰克有说，DON现在和普通人谈恋爱，只是得想办法让他的那些恋人不要动），但是正因为能游走于两个世界，所以更明白弗兰克这些人的惊才绝艳和与众不同，也更清楚他自己永远无法成为弗兰克那样的人。
鼓手和贝斯，其实感觉这两个才是看的最清楚的人。
JON，就是normal。在普通人的眼里这些天才是因为有着各种各样的原因才会成为天才——我不像他那样genius，是因为我不曾经历过那些痛苦。我们自视甚高自以为是总认为自己无法出名是因为没有机会，但其实内心里很清楚，并不是如此，我们默默无闻，不是因为不努力，其实就是因为自己没有足够的才能。

JON从一开始就想寻求在乐队里的地位，但是他慢慢便明白了DON的话，弗兰克是天才；但是他不认同DON的“我们无法成为弗兰克”，因为他从一开始就没想成为弗兰克而是想让自己成功——这也是他与DON的不同，他和DON看到的不同，追求的也不同。DON在弗兰克身上看到的是难以企及的才能；而作为普通人的JON，他也爱音乐，想要得到别人的认同，但他同时也看到了由这才华可以在普通社会里得到的东西。他发推特，发YouTube，极力鼓动大家去参加音乐节，都是因为如此。他想要乐队出名，但是他想要的与弗兰克想要的不同。JON的眼里YouTube播放量和弗兰克眼里的YouTube播放量本身就代表这两种东西，JON眼里播放量代表着知名，而弗兰克眼里这代表着“有多少人喜欢他们的音乐，爱着他们”——他们从一开始，就不在一个世界里。
在最后音乐节上台的时候JON很激动的唱了自己的歌，直到这个时刻他追求的依旧是自己能够被众人承认，能够被众人看到，借着因由弗兰克而得到机会……JON从Clara手里抢夺弗兰克，大概是他自己心里一直清楚，没有弗兰克，他走不了那么远，到不了这里。他始终不明白，弗兰克和他不同，就像他一直在意弗兰克的头套，想摘掉弗兰克的头套，而不是像Clara和DON一样不在意弗兰究竟如何，与弗兰克普通的相处。
电影里在台上弗兰克倒下，JON停止唱歌时，有一个细节，弗兰克说这个真的太烂了，而JON在他们搞砸一切后，回头看了一眼后台的他觉得心仪的女生。他们关心的、所处的世界，从来不同。


但是，弗兰克所代表的天才们并不是真的不想融于这个世界，他们并非没有尝试过，但他们与生俱来就是不同于常人。不是不想，而是无法。
弗兰克试过，然后失败了。