The Poetry Reading

September 2020

I met James Franco in 2014 at the Bowery Poetry Club NYC. He was there to do a night of readings alongside the poet - and his mentor - Frank Bidart. (I sheepishly admit I was a bit of a Franco apologist back in the day; he appeared to be a genuine oddball who suffered from pretty boy syndrome, which made it difficult for people to take his eccentricities seriously. When news eventually hit of him sliding into the DM accounts of underage girls on social media it became virtually impossible to defend him.)

The crowd at the Club that night was wacky; a mix of LES Bohemian stalwarts and manic Jersey girls clamouring to gawk at a movie star.

Spring Break Y’all.

Everyone in attendance received a copy of Franco’s photography book from his art show “New Film Stills” — recreating Cindy Sherman’s “Untitled Film Stills” (already a spotty undertaking) — along with an original painting consisting of a page torn out from an old issue of Art Forum Magazine haphazardly splashed with acrylic.

Hearing Frank Bidart read his work was captivating. I had not known of him before that night.

A book signing was held after the event. I bought a copy of Bidart’s poetry and stood in his small queue while the line next to us swelled to meet Franco. Bidart was approachable and friendly. I thanked him for a lovely evening. I was going to leave after that. But I had this idea...

I watched people in the line beside me buzz excitedly around Franco taking selfies. I waited until I was the last attendee in the room before walking up to his table. He was sitting there with a publicist. As I handed over his photography book for signing, I commented on how much I had enjoyed the evening. Both he and the publicist saw me fiddle with my phone at the same time. I gathered my courage and asked:

“Mr. Franco, I wanted to ask…if you would take my photo?”

I still recall the publicist’s face; eyes wide as she snapped her head around to look at him for his reaction. I could tell I caught him off guard, but he recovered quickly, I mean he’s a pro. Now he was completely on guard. He squinted at me and shook his head slowly:

“Yeeeahh...I don’t think so.”

Busted. He knew what I was up to, but instead of applauding my moxie he was annoyed. The peculiar thing is I think what irritated him most was the focus would not be on him. Up until the last moment he appeared amiable - or at least resigned - to taking a selfie with me.

That’s what disappointed me most. He was no longer the oddball eccentric I liked. Instead, he shape-shifted into a pretty boy movie star.

And that’s not really my scene