â€‹Sure, James Franco is hot. Super hot. And hey, when an actor’s been involved with projects like Freaks and Geeks, Spider Man, Milk, Howl, and Pineapple Express (we’ll just pretend like Eat, Pray, Love and Tristan & Isolde never happened), it’s easy to like them. Because those are all cool movies and whenever Franco gives his squinty, puppy dog smile that has the rare power to make crows’ feet look sexy, it’s hard to even remember what the point of this sentence was supposed to be because drooooooool, tee hee, uh, cheese?
Not to mention, he went to fancy, smarty-pants schools like Columbia, Yale, and Tisch, is part of Judd Apatow‘s bromance crew, guest stars on General Hospital for shits and giggles, writes poetry and short fiction, and paints. He’s a hipster girl’s dream come true, including his almost nauseating pretentiousness.
We, (Franco included) in our attempts to connect reality with fantasy, sometimes get an actor confused with the characters he plays. For instance, just because Franco played Allen Ginsberg, doesn’t make him a poet. Just because he was in Milk, doesn’t mean he’s gay (sorry Fire Island). Just because he was 127 Hours (AKA a really long episode of I Shouldn’t Be Alive) doesn’t mean he has this amazing strength of character. And just because he played James Dean, doesn’t mean his personality is pumped full of charisma.
Speaking of charisma, remember the Oscars? Oh wait, that’s right, no one watched them because Franco waltzed up on stage and acted like all of it was a joke. Like he had much more profound things to do like go home, light a joint, and write a symphony using only a kazoo and a Casio keyboard while simultaneously learning how to sing all of David Bowie’s songs in Mandarin Chinese.
Then he pulls silliness like this — taking a photo of him and someone he was unprofessional with (coughcoughBruceVilanchcough) after he thought that someone called him out for being unprofessional, plops that photo into MS paint like he’s Perez Hilton, and writes something lame (in magenta, no less) like:
“James fucked up the Oscars. Trust me, I KNOW comedy. I mean, come on, I wrote for Bette Midler!”
Hmm…is the joke that Bette Midler is old hat (like a fabulous, vintage teardrop hat) and YOU are new hat (with a propeller) and that someone like Bruce Vilanch who’s been writing comedy for years is too old and unhip to get your sophisticated sense of humor/intellect/GENIUS(Three’s Company The Drama, anyone)?
Ends up that Vilanch wasn’t trying to diss Franco at all. Rather he was defending Franco against hater-humping, nay-sayers blogs like ourselves for saying he was about as exciting as a roach clip while hosting the Oscars. Vilanch made light of the situation, saying he would forever cherish Franco’s rage-fueled magenta photo.
Both men kissed and made up but Franco’s bratty, entitled moment of true character remains on the interwebs forever, making him slightly less cute, Vilanch and Midler slightly more hot, and leaving this blogger with a desire to buy a fabulous, vintage teardrop hat, take a picture of it, upload it into MS Paint, write FUCK YOU FRANCO (in magenta) across it, print it, and try to sell it to a local gallery. Hey, it’s art, right?