I was meaning to write something on Frownland when I saw it a few weeks back, but didn't. Anyway, I definitely admire it and have been thinking about it nonstop, but there are certain elements that rub me in the wrong way - in theory, I can dig that Bronstein is trying to reconcile the disparate extremes of no-budget B-horror and the emotional exploration of Cassavetes or Mike Leigh (it's something like Driller Killer combined with Bleak Moments, to reduce it to a sell-line), but I think Bronstein shoots himself in the foot with his self-conscious attempt at creating a sui generis art object. The Beefheart-inspired title rings a few warning bells, but more egregious are the faux-audactions narrative digressions with the supporting characters, including the obnoxious hipster roommate, which feel especially glib and schematic. I mean, if you're gonna rupture the film's rigorously maintained subjective assault, it should be for a better purpose than the hackneyed insight that a sidebar character's 'cool' veneer is a flimsy defense mechanism. But fortunately, Bronstein's flawed approach results in a haunting mood and some really exceptional performances (esp. Dore Mann) that probe the depths of self-loathing and alienation in a way that few recent films have.