Frownland is like one of those intensely embarrassing situations where you end up laughing out loud at exactly the wrong time; and just at the moment you realize you shouldn't be laughing, you've already reached the pinnacle of voice resoundness; and as you look around you at the ghostly white faces with their gaping wide-open mouths and glazen eyes, you feel a piercing ache beginning in the pit of your stomach and suddenly rushing up your throat and... well, you get the point.

But for all its unpleasantness and punches in the face, Frownland, really is a remarkable piece of work that, after viewing the inarticulate mess of a main character and all his pathetic troubles and mishaps, makes you want to scratch your own eyes out and at the same time, you feel sickenly sorry for him.

It would have been a lot easier for me to simply walk out of Ronald Bronstein's film, but for some insane reason, I felt an unwavering determination to stay the course and experience all the grainy irritation the film has to offer. If someone sets you on fire, you typically want to put it out: Stop! Drop! And Roll! But with this film, you want to watch the flame slowly engulf your entire body. You endure the pain--perhaps out of spite, or some unknown masochistic curiosity I can't even begin to attempt to explain.

Unfortunately, mainstream cinema will never let this film come to a theater near you. But if you get a chance to catch it, prepare yourself: bring a doggie bag.

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