The indie genre ““ that refuge of hipsters and creative souls, defined by lo-fi production and defiantly unconventional content ““ is in dire need of a savior.
Having lost its name to slightly quirky mainstream movies, it must either spark a resurgence or retreat into the recesses of film history classrooms. Instead of a savior, though, indie got “Frownland,” the truly strange debut film from Ronald Bronstein, and a glaring reminder of why the genre needs saving.
Not that “Frownland” isn’t an intriguing film, and it’s worth noting that it has managed to gain the approval of both The New Yorker and Entertainment Weekly for its adherence to the classic incarnation of the indie aesthetic. It is unavoidable, however, that a movie entrenched in a theme of severe incompetence is going to be a tough sell.
“Frownland” follows the astonishingly pathetic life of Keith Sontag, a door-to-door coupon salesman whose situational bad fortunes would be pitiable if he weren’t so hopelessly unable to deal with them. Played with frightening conviction by first-time actor Dore Mann, Keith spends half the movie sputtering and mumbling incoherently as he tries to relate his thoughts to the marginally more functional people around him. If there is any kind of story arc, it might be called the dissolution of Keith’s life. The problem is, as he gets kicked out of his apartment and ends up bloodied and confused at a party with no one he knows, you get the feeling this is somewhat typical for him.
The film begins by establishing a tense relationship between Keith and an emotionally distraught young woman named Laura ““ played by Bronstein’s wife Mary ““ but the prospect of a romantic plotline is quickly abandoned as Laura morbidly exploits her down-feather allergy and Keith fails to cheer her up with the most boring sock puppet show ever performed. This is the way of all relationships in “Frownland”: pointless, unfulfilling and psychologically unhealthy. Just when two characters seem to make a connection, it’s as if one of them realizes their cooperation is in violation of some universal law, and they quickly turn hostile.
“Frownland” relishes in every bit of its epic, all-encompassing awfulness, so fully and authentically inhabiting the ninth circle of loserdom that it makes Napoleon Dynamite look like one of the cool kids dressed up in suspenders and a pocket protector and passed off as a nerd. Whereas that movie placed its main characters amid relatively normal people who were repulsed by all the weirdness, “Frownland” immerses itself in a place of unrelenting ineptitude.
There is no stepping back for reflection. In this world, the closest approximations of sanity are Charles ““ Keith’s condescending roommate who would rather play cheap techno than pay the electric bill ““ and Sandy, who thinks he has better things to do than stay up watching old VHS tapes.
This celebration of underachievement is echoed in the filmmaking itself; shot originally on 16mm film, “Frownland” looks terrible even when the cameras are in focus.
The cinematography is awkward, the close-ups are often too close and barely musical basement-quality electronica serves as a mercifully infrequent soundtrack. Several stretches of the film, seemingly intended as meditations on Keith’s inescapable wasteland of a life, instead drone on to frustrating lengths without provoking any meaningful response other than a strong surge of self-appreciation. Consequently, the movie seems drastically overlong at 106 minutes.
It seems possible that Ronald Bronstein made “Frownland” as a kind of cinematic challenge, trying to win over audiences after stacking the odds against himself in every way possible. Or perhaps it was exactly the opposite; maybe the point was to not win anyone over. Maybe he just wanted to make a genuinely unappealing movie. The result is undeniably unique, but it certainly is not enjoyable. It may be worth considering that if “Frownland” truly embodies the spirit of indie, then maybe there’s a good reason it’s dying.