Just so Franc–tastic

By Leah Steinberg Just because you don’t understand James Franco doesn’t mean he's not an artist. Mainstream film audiences first met the actor as Spiderman’s sexy frenemy. He was kind of mean, and while most people never made it past the first movie, you can be sure that his talented rendition of a sulky scowl carried over to the sequels. Upon scanning Franco’s IMDB page, it becomes clear that many of the characters he’s played are himself. Franco appears in General Hospital as “Franco.” In a piece he wrote for the Wall Street Journal, the actor explained, “My hope was for people to ask themselves if soap operas are really that far from entertainment that is considered critically legitimate. Whether they did was out of my hands.” Yes, there’s something egotistical when an actor says that his willingness to show up in a soap opera transforms the program into art. But if the move appears a bit self–involved, that’s only because Franco is honest about the narcissism of fame. The actor has taken that frankness to another level, using his life as a commentary on celebrity. His film roles and educational background are an elaborate exaggeration of the search for artistic meaning, or the search for himself, or the meaning of celebrity — or something else sophisticated that fans don’t quite understand yet. Just don’t say that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, or that his artistic choices are incidental. Franco has studied at just about every college or university in New York City, and now he’s earning his Ph.D. at Yale. Sure, on the surface it seems like an attention–grabbing tactic, but you try actually being enrolled in a university. Oh wait, you have. Not easy. Those around him say that Franco has an almost superhuman ability to concentrate and is most productive when he’s working too hard. Clearly any resentment of that work ethic stems from jealousy. With all of his extracurriculars, Franco still manages to be a great actor. He was dull–eyed yet brilliant in Pineapple Express and has pulled down nomination after nomination for his performance in 127 Hours. Above all, Franco has us talking. His every move is analyzed for its artistic value, and isn’t that what makes it art?

Franc–ly, We Don't Give a Damn

By Elizabeth Horkley

There’s a scene in 127 Hours in which James Franco, playing real–life hiker Aron Ralston, turns a video camera on himself and conducts a one–man show, complete with a hallucinatory laugh–track and plenty of mugging for the camera. It’s a humorous enough sequence, but it feels like a video that could surface on the Internet depicting one of Franco’s latest stunts. The remarkable man upon whom the film is based is forgotten as Franco’s ubiquitous off–screen persona surfaces. When it was announced that Franco would be joining the cast of General Hospital, Franco proclaimed that the endeavor was “an experiment,” upon which viewers’ suspension of belief would be tested with the addition of a recognizable face to a familiar program. What bothers us isn’t Franco’s use of his celebrity to successfully enter into art forms held sacred by plenty of struggling unknowns — it’s the smugness with which he receives his success despite not having proved himself in any area besides his acting — which already seems to have regressed since his breakout role in 2001’s James Dean. As evidenced by the self–satisfied, tongue–in–cheek humor with which he explains his career as a “performance artist,” it’s clear that part of Franco’s objective is to see how far he can push the public’s perception of him. And from what we can gather based on that perpetual, shit–eating grin, he seems pretty satisfied with the results so far. We get it, James Franco. You think you’re clever because you have the entire world thinking you’re an eccentric genius — a man for all seasons to rival Sir Thomas More. But we read your Esquire short story, and in the kindest possible terms, it’s a piece of work equivalent in quality to the subpar essays we peer reviewed in writing seminars (sample line: “Joe and I sit and stare at the wall of the building. The building is beige, but the shadows make it shadow–color”). Seeing Franco play with the public’s perception of him was interesting for a while, if only because it was an unconventional move for a rising young actor. But now that the ruse has crossed over into self–parody, it seems like the only person still laughing is Franco, tickled at the joke he thinks he’s playing on the world. But you’re not fooling anyone anymore, Mr. Franco. Now please go back to faithfully embodying another writer's characters on screen, rather than your own aims as a “performance artist.” And while you’re at it, apologize to the cast and crew of General Hospital for making a mockery of their careers.