Dear Anyone Who Wrote Articles this Week with Headlines Like “Where Does James Franco Go From Here?” and “James Franco: Will He Ever Act Again?”:
Take a cue from JF. Hang loose. Calm down. Relax. Reeeee-lax. Seriously. Will James Franco ever work again? Really. “Will we be able to take him seriously as an action star in the Planet of the Apes prequel?” Go ahead and read that sentence again. To everyone talking this week about how his primary occupation these days is the deconstruction of his own celebrity, thanks for the update. “His stint on General Hospital was performance art.” Guess what? Any decent art is. And performance anxiety keeps a lot of people from doing their own creative thing. The fear of being defined by someone else, by a critic, a genre, a style, whatever. Most interesting artists have been there. At some point, you realize how silly it is. You get over it, you grow up. It turns out you can write serious essays and fiction some days and blogs about James Franco and how Netflix is like NATO others.
All the media writers dumping on Franco and asking these puffed up questions about gravitas and believability (verisimilitude, to you writer friends) are outing themselves either as silly, members of the Academy, or both. Talk about self-important. Talk about out of touch. I’m not saying Franco’s particular brand of awesome plays in the mainstream the same way it does in the post-ironic haunts I like to pretend exist in all parts of the grown-up world. But it’s still awesome. It’s still about perspective. It’s still just the Oscars. It’s still just movies. Relax, friends. Reeee-lax.
Judd Apatow, if you’re reading: how about a script for Freaks And Geeks: 10 Year Reunion. It’s 1991. Nick Andopolous opened once for the Melvins. Sam is an FBI psychologist. Karen works for a paper company in Pennsylvania. Daniel is exactly the same, except famous. I’d watch that every day.