In Ronnie Bronstein’s valentine to the immediacy of 16mm independent filmmaking, Frownland takes a look at a small circle of socially retarded individuals living on the fringes of white urban twenty-something life. At the center is Keith, an inarticulate brain aneurysm waiting to happen. As he performs his reverse commute out of the city, feebly attempting to sell coupons door-to-door, Keith is challenged by the simple minutia of life. There is so little this character can actually handle but when he attempts to it is pure heartbreak.

To keep in time with the fractured nature of the film let me quickly segue into the quote that sums it up beautifully from heir director:

More succinctly, Frownland is my own small contribution to the sinking barge of the 16mm indie model; both an overripe tomato lobbed with spazmo inaccuracy at the spotless surface of the silver screen and a mad valentine to the craggy tradition of unadulterated cheap-o-independent expression. Its inelegance is its spirit. – Ronald Bronstein

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the way you sell a film. I’m sorry I can’t describe it better than that but I look at this as a good thing. Films that I have had trouble articulating immediately after seeing them are the ones that have never left me like some chip that’s been embedded under my skin. Bad Lieutenant, Lost Highway and now, Frownland. Props to all involved in making this film, selling out the IFC Center screening last Wednesday night and reminding us what it’s really all about.

I still can’t get the snot bubble out of my mind.