Showing posts with label James Franco. Show all posts
Showing posts with label James Franco. Show all posts

August 13, 2014

James Franco in the gay role as Michael Glatze


                                                                              

James Franco revealed, via Instagram (how else?), the first image of himself as Michael Glatze, a gay activist and co-founder of Young Gay America magazine who became an anti-gay Christian pastor (see below). The movie, which is slated for release next year, also stars Zachary Quinto as Glatze’s boyfriend, and Emma Roberts as his future wife.
The role marks a stark change from Franco’s recent star turn in the art world as Cindy Sherman. 
2014-august-12-james-franco-glatze
James Franco as Michael Glatze.
Photo: James Franco/Instagram.
Glatze publicly renounced his homosexuality, married a woman, and became an outspoken anti-gay speaker in 2007. In a personal essay published that year, he wrote:
I was repulsive for quite some time; I am still dealing with all of my guilt.
As a leader in the “gay rights” movement, I was given the opportunity to address the public many times. If I could take back some of the things I said, I would. Now I know that homosexuality is lust and pornography wrapped into one. I’ll never let anybody try to convince me otherwise, no matter how slick their tongues or how sad their story. I have seen it. I know the truth.
Franco is also a producer for Michael, which will be director Justin Kelly’s first feature film. Franco’s participation in films about gay activists—he co-starred in the Harvey Milk biopic Milk—and the recent revelation that he lives with another man has fueled speculation that the artist-actor-essayist-instructor is gay, which he denies
Benjamin Sutton

June 14, 2014

Sex According to James Franco

james-francoJames Franco wrote a short story for Vice this week that may or may not reveal how he did or did not have sex with Lindsay Lohan. Below is a step-by-step guide to how Franco puts the moves (or non-moves) on hot Hollywood girls.
1. Find yourself a Hollywood starlet. She will serve as the receptacle for your meditations on Life, Meaning, Fame, and whether or not billboards are vampires and if a billboard bites you, do you become a billboard? This is all good shit that she should be very grateful for receiving. UCLA students pay more than $25,000 a year to hear this type of shit while surreptitiously Snapchatting photos of you to their friends back home whose idea of a celebrity encounter is running into Lee “Spirals” Alston, quarterback of the 1999 pee wee football team, at the local Cracker Barrel. Besides, your musings are just as satisfying as your flesh-penis, if not better because musings can’t transmit HPV. Call your Hollywood girl “Hollywood girl” because she’s a metaphor and personhood gets in the way of literary devices.
2. Your sexscape should be an iconic symbol of Hollywood’s glitz and degradation. Try the second “O” in the Hollywood Sign, Herbie the Love Bug’s footprints outside the TCL Chinese Theatre, or Tobey Maguire’s ottoman.
3. Think about American film director/sentient Lego man Gus Van Sant. Think about how he kind of vaguely offered you a role in one of his movies while sitting in your living room playing a little red guitar as if he were a character in a Gus Van Sant movie. Insult the actor who landed the role by pointing out that his gay sex scene was left on the cutting room floor. Your gay sex scene would’ve made it in — hell, your gay sex scene would’ve been made into its own short. It would’ve won the Palme D’or, a GLAAD award, and a hearty BuzzFeed “YAAASSSS”. It would’ve been the gay sex scene that launch’d a thousand ships.
4. Tell your Hollywood girl that she has to pull a quick lil’, cute lil’ B and E. When she informs you that she doesn’t feel comfortable breaking in to someone’s home, that she doesn’t understand why the two of you can’t just watch the DVD of My Neighbor Totoro that she brought along or why you keep mumbling about River Phoenix’s crotch holes, quiet her protestations by spritzing Gucci cologne directly into her mouth or hiding behind your GusVanSantchair (which still smells like Van Sant: baby powder and wet leaves) until she stops talking. Lay a floppy palm on her forehead and tell her you’re not a fool, you’ve made Art with Marina Abramović fer jamesdeanssakes — she’s going to break into your room. Use your Teen Choice Award for Choice Sleazebag to push her out of your bungalow. Whisper through the doorjamb that she should use a homophobic slur. This is foreplay. All women need it. Without proper foreplay, a woman’s vagina will trap your penis like a boulder in a slot canyon and then you would have to cut your penis off using a multitool or the pages of your copy of In Search Of Lost Time, whatever’s handy.
5. Think about your brother.
6. While Hollywood girl talks outside to the hotel manger about how you locked yourself in your bungalow and keep talking to a painting of a boy sailor, referring to it as “Other Me”, open up Leonardo DiCaprio’s Wikipedia page on the iPad that Ridley Scott (producer of 2006′s epic romantic drama Tristan & Isolde) gave you. Run through Leo’s casting history. Think about all his Hollywood shenanigans, the ones he participated in right after Titanic‘s release, when he was still just a radiant lute song encased in human skin. Like, you bet Leonardo DiCaprio once got really drunk on rosé (of course he drinks rosé; he doesn’t have to prove anything to you) and sent a few strippers to Kirk Cameron’s house but immediately felt remorseful so he took the entire Cameron family, even Candace, to a Sandals resort. Because that’s just the kind of guy Leo is.
7. Call your Hollywood girl and ask if she has Anytime Minutes because this is going to be one long, hard, and hot exploration of subjectivity and identity. Say her name — her real name — over and over again until it doesn’t sound like a name anymore. You know what I mean: like if I were to type “squish” a bunch of times, it wouldn’t look like a word. Squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish. Now it looks weird, damn! Oh, okay — since you’re both all hot and bothered, tell Hollywood girl that you’re going to read her a story, but be super sexy about it. Tell her in that voice you used in Pineapple Express that sounds like a jackhammer was given a fistful of quaaludes and thrown down a well. By now she’ll be practically begging to critically interrogate a text. Call her a demon, but don’t say the demon’s name because that will send her back to her day job waiting tables at the P.F. Chang’s on La Cienega Boulevard.
8. Think about Gus Van Sant again. Van Sant leading My Private Idaho tours around Portland. Van Sant sitting in one of those red sightseeing buses in New York, asking where he can find the restaurant that hosted Carrie and Big’s rehearsal dinner. A retired Van Sant in an oversized blazer leading high school teens around a museum, his joints sick with inflammation, trying to disregard his audience’s downcast eyes and phone-lit faces during his moving speech on tripod vessels from Teotihuacán. You should be having non-sex with Gus Van Sant.
9. Look at a giant billboard of your face.
10. Finally let Hollywood girl into your room. If she’s not in jim-jams, lend her a pair. Make sure her feet are bare — that’s a nice detail that suggests vulnerability and girlishness and innocence and fragility. Also you have a foot fetish.
11. Read to your damaged Hollywood girl. Most women love J.D. Salinger. There’s no one women identify with more than a white man who wrote a bunch of short stories about suicide and created the #1 Nice Guy of American Literature before becoming an utter recluse. Science fact.
12. Think about River Phoenix and your billboard and Gus Van Sant and that one time you fucked up the Oscars but don’t think about your co-host Anne Hathaway because she is a driven and self-possessed Hollywood girl who survived a childhood in the spotlight with grace and girls like that kill your boner. And her mouth is terrifying.
13. Immortality, man.
14. Dream about vampires and demons who sound like an episode of True Detective that was dubbed into Spanish and then retranslated into English by a ten-year-old who used Dora the Explorer as her dictionary. Forget all about the human person who is sleeping in your bed, the one you didn’t have sex with, the one you read to like some Audible free trial that gained sentience and wants to punish the world for skipping its ads before Radiolab.
15. Call your Russian friend and tell him to set up the ping pong table: you did it! Well you didn’t do It but you did it by not doing It! We know it’s confusing but so is LIFE. Or Celebrity. Or was it mirrors? Gucci? Whatever. Out the window is Hollywood and inside your room is a sad actor with a self-regard that far exceeds his abilities who just came on a copy of Nine Stories.
[Image via Featureflash / Shutterstock.com]

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