Oh, James Franco. I’m wailing your name but with no pleasure at all. You make me a bad feminist and an irascible queer. Sure, I want to talk about the politics of body bits and their representation (like why erect dicks and female nudity are subject to different rules). But I’m not interested in commenting on particular people’s particularly naked bodies. Mainly because all of the ways that we have these conversations tend either to be just plain mean or they pound home the (quite frankly deeply weird) cultural norms about weight or breast size or how we should tend our bushes (I’m sure those stiff pubic denizens would rather be left in peace).
But then, like a choreographed sequence of lit farts, your Instagrams eclipse the internet and I am faced with your clammy physique. I stay silent, because fine, do what you will, who am I to comment? You’re nude and covered in a thin sheen of who-knows-what (does one secrete smug?) and that is your right. I know you are trolling me anyway, I understood that after reading your poetry (the best thing ever written on the poetry of James Franco, by the way – a truly sublime piece of writing – can be found here.) I don’t take the bait; I let you do your shit.
But now you tell me AND David frigging Letterman that this is what we want? That this is what anyone wants? This isn’t what I want, James Franco! I want universal healthcare to be an uncontroversial aspect of an uncontroversial welfare state; I want a puppy; I want Cecily McMillan not to receive a custodial sentence; and I really want to know why they ended “Friends” with Jefferson Airplane. The only time I want to see you is in a film because acting is literally the one sphere in which you demonstrate genuine talent! And don’t tell me not to follow you on Instagram: I don’t! But every time you do this crap I cannot help but have your mons pubis pumped unceremoniously in my face.
In the words of Letterman “James, honest to God, why?”
Watch the offending interview here: