James Franco is a petty, pompous, incoherent, self-absorbed tool
Oh so I read James Franco’s essay about Lindsay Lohan for you.
Here is what I have gathered:
1) James Franco is bitter that Lindsay Lohan said she slept with him and wants to punish her because he is a childish, petty little jerk.
2) James Franco thinks that he can fool us into thinking he isn’t a terrible writer by being as incoherent as possible. Classic bad writer trick. But he can’t fool us! We are not fooled.
Please do not bother reading his essay. I do not want you to waste any minutes of your life on it. Not a one.
Mostly what you need to know is that Franco’s entire objective is to insult and publicly humiliate Lohan while kind of sort of but not really pretending that he feels sorry for her:
I ran my fingers through her hair and thought about this girl sleeping on my chest, our fictional Hollywood girl, Lindsay. What will she do? I hope she gets better. You see, she is famous. She was famous because she was a talented child actress, and now she’s famous because she gets into trouble. She is damaged. For a while, after her high hellion days, she couldn’t get work because she couldn’t get insured. They thought she would run off the sets to party. Her career suffered, and she started getting arrested (stealing, DUIs, car accidents, other things). But the arrests, even as they added up, were never going to be an emotional bottom for her, because she got just as much attention for them as she used to get for her film performances. She would get money offers for her jailhouse memoirs, crazy offers. So how would she ever stop the craziness when the response to her work and the response to her life had converged into one? Two kinds of performance, in film and in life, had melted into one.
Oh you hope she gets better, huh. Oh she’s so damaged, huh. You know everything about her, huh. You understand her. And it’s just soooo sad, huh Franco. You’re so fucking sensitive.
Of course his concern is feigned. What’s incredible is how transparent he managed to be about that.
Painting Lohan as a sad, desperate, damaged victim in a rambling essay you kind of sort of but not really pretend isn’t only intended to embarrass and punish her isn’t what you do to help people you are worried about. It’s what you do when you have an ego the size of house made out of tissue paper.
I dreamed about vampires, and a voice came to me. It was a demon. The demon said, ‘I live on the power of celebrity, and I am celebrity. I am the power bestowed on people like you by all the myriad reflectors of your celebrity: the tabloids, the blogs, the fan pages, the way we sit in fans’ minds, the way people read us through your roles in films, etc. This is our public persona, partly created by you and your actions, and partly by these reflectors that act in concert and become me.’ It was a voice of permission, a voice of castigation, a voice of supreme supreme.
Yeah you know what else that demon does, James? It tells you that you should write things for magazines.
Every night Lindsay looked for me. My Russian friend, Drew, was always around like a wraith. He, like the blond painting, was my doppelgänger, writing scripts about rape and murder. A Hollywood Dostoyevsky, he had gambled his money away. We played a ton of ping-pong. My room was on the second level, the exterior walls hugged by vines. Every night Lindsay looked for me, and I hid. Out the window was Hollywood.
She looked for him every night. She was obsessed with him. He wouldn’t sleep with her because she’s oh-so-sad. She looked for him and he hid. She’s desperate, he’s not. He’s just a nice guy trying to hide from this crazy cray.
Go away, Franco. You’re gross.