James Franco has penned a bizarre work of fiction about not having sex with Lindsay Lohan. But, after THAT Lohan List, me thinks the Franco doth protest too much...
The short story which was written for Vice Magazine tells how a 'damaged' young Hollywood starlet - who happens to be named Lindsay Lohan - came to Franco's room in the dead of night. Being the noble sort of guy who would never think of sending an indecent proposal to a 17-year-old, or anything like that, Franco let her in, but read her some Salinger instead of giving her a good seeing to. He's like the Messiah or something, man.
Although the story is masquerading as fiction, it contains a large number of sneaky autobiographical details including this staggeringly pretentious description of a billboard;
And out my window, above the red ceramic tiles of the Spanish roofs, just to the left, was the billboard owned by Gucci, so close it was essentially part of the hotel, and on it was my oversize face, for, you see, I was a model for their fragrances, clothes, and eyewear. In this particular ad I am sitting, with a goatee, in an old-fashioned blue Ferrari, looking out into the night: a concept designed by Nicolas Winding Refn, of Drive fame, of The Pusher Trilogy fame.
The whole affair reads like Franco is attempting a deeply artistic avant garde stream of conciousness, but instead managed to write a deeply naval gazing, overly long description of how he didn't bone Lilo, despite what that shameless hussy might say.
You can read the whole thing here, or just check out some choice tidbits I have hand picked for you. You're welcome.
Once upon a time a guy, a Hollywood guy, read some Salinger to a young woman who hadn't read him before. Let's call this girl Lindsay. She was a Hollywood girl, but a damaged one. I knew that she would like Salinger, because most young women do. I read her two of the Nine Stories, "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" and "For Esmé—with Love and Squalor." "Bananafish" was great because it has a nagging mother on the other end of the phone line, nothing like Lindsay's real mother, but still, the mother-daughter thing was good for her to hear. And there's the little girl in the story, Sibyl, and the pale suicide, Seymour, who kisses her foot and talks about bananafish with her, those fantastic phallic fish who stick their heads in holes and gorge themselves—it should be called "A Perfect Day for Dickfish"—and then, bam, he shoots himself.
How kindly of you to educate the young lady with your scholarly ways, babes!
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.
Hmmmm, I don't think you are really getting what the word fiction means, Franco. It definitely isn't all about jazzing up somebody's Wikipedia page by whipping it into some dodgy prose. Just sayin'!
Oh, and in case you didn't get the message, JAMES FRANCO WOULD NOT SLEEP WITH LINDSAY LOHAN. But, he totally did.
What do you think of James Franco's short story? Is it about time he quit his day job?
What grade would you give Franco's short story?