Is there no end to James Franco’s talents—actor, artist, director, screenwriter, producer, teacher, poet and author.
Franco is flexing his literary skills in a grandiose, turgid, short story about Lindsay Lohan titled Bungalo 89 published today on Vice.
The piece centers on Franco living at the famed Chateau Marmont during house renovations and features Lohan throughout—and not in a very flattering light—to say the least.
As Popdust previously reported, Franco’s named cropped up on a list of sexual conquests, purportedly penned by LiLo.
The 36-year-old has vehemently denied ever having sex with Lohan, telling Howard Stern during a recent interview that the actress is “delusional” and claiming she once broke into his hotel room and attempted to seduce him.
So, we’ve got to ask.. how much of Franco’s story is fictional—and how much is fact?
Check out the excerpts below and read the full yarn here
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.
Now we were lying in bed. I wasn’t going to fuck her. She had her head on my shoulder. She started to talk. I let her.
“Before things got bad, I was in New York for the premiere of a film I did with Robert Altman and Meryl Streep. After the movie I took James Franco and Meryl’s two young daughters to the club du jour, Bungalow 8, in the Meatpacking District. It was my place. All my friends were there: school friends, my mother looking her slutty best, bodyguards, and Greeks. We had our own table in the corner, our own bottle.
“I took two Oxycontins and things got bad. The DJ was this bearded dude named Paul. I remember requesting Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’ I remember sitting back down, and I remember trying to speak up, to talk to that cute boy in a red gingham shirt, James.
“I was slurring. My words rolled around and got sticky and didn’t come out.
“My friend from school kept talking to him, trying to be cute, but she was only there because of me. I told Barry, my bodyguard, to take her away from our table. And he banished her.
“I took James back to the bathroom. ‘You know why Amy put mirrors all around in here?’ I said.
“‘So that you can watch yourself fuck.’
“He didn’t fuck me, that shit. And what was he doing there anyway? On my night. My night with Meryl, my night when everything was right, when I got everything I wanted. Almost.
“I fucked one of the Greeks instead: a big-schnozzed, big-dicked, drunk motherfucker. We did it in the bath. That was the best night of my life.”
Then she fell asleep.
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.