James Franco is one pretentious jackwagon. I know this because it takes one to know one. Here's a recent interview with him where he discusses Allen Ginsberg (whom he's playing in an upcoming biopic), his master's degree and things like the state of poetry today:
"The fact that Ginsberg became such a public figure is an anomaly. It jut doesn't happen that often that a poet becomes that big. It's the nature of poetry. Compared to fiction people don't read much poetry and compared to movies people just don't read much fiction and compared to television people don't watch that many movies."
Then you've got projects like "Erased James Franco" where he re-enacts all of his film and TV roles, but minus any music, costars, sets, costumes or context.
So basically, what's not to like? He's the second coming of Ethan Hawke, who's shown plenty of similar glimmers of promise throughout his career. Except I can't get past the idea that choosing an actor to be your standard-bearer for literature and intelligence in pop culture is a fool's errand. After all, this is the guy in Spandex on a hoverboard in Spider-Man 3.
Yeah, about that....
So basically what I'm saying is that it's not a good idea to find a Surrogate Me to root for at the movies. Your nemeses may deliver something that pleasantly surprises you. (I'm still trying to get over how little I hated Matt Dillon in "The Outsiders.")
And your heroes will always let you down. And on that note, here's the ultimate put-down for a fallen hero: in this case, the man my high-school humanities teacher nicknamed "Wordswords."
The Lost Leader
Robert Browning
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat—
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, dol’d him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allow’d;
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had lov’d him so, follow’d him, honor’d him,
Liv’d in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learn’d his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
We shall march prospering,—not thro’ his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,
Still crouch whom the rest bade aspire.
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declin’d, one more foot-path untrod,
One more devil’s-triumph and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life’s night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain,
Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardon’d in heaven, the first by the throne!
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