Actors Anonymous

by James Franco

  “Have you ever had sex before?” he asked. It took her a moment to answer, then she said no. She said that she never had the opportunity.

  “What was the longest relationship that you’ve had?” he asked.

  “Nine months.”

  “And you didn’t have sex? Wow.” They were speaking softly. The room was dark, he was on his side and his face was close to hers. It was the first virgin he had been with since…

  (Section missing)13

  If my knowledge of The Actor’s life story is accurate (I have read many magazine interviews with him),14 the above sentence would have ended with something like, “the first virgin he had been with since his first girlfriend in high school.” He told me all about it that night in Paris. His first girlfriend was named Ariel. He said he called her “my Little Mermaid.” The Actor was never a regular devirginizer; he only started sleeping with women regularly after he became The Actor. But, unfortunately, he cannot tell you this, or finish this piece, because The Actor is dead. He was killed by a crazed fan on the UCLA campus. Well, she was not really a fan anymore, so much as a brokenhearted student whom The Actor slept with and then never spoke to again. She was nineteen years old; her name was Heart, not the Virgin! (Anymore.) The Actor was on campus; he was crossing the old quad, right in front of the library, on his way to the Humanities building to meet with his friend, distinguished professor of English, Professor Crane.* The Actor and Professor Crane were planning to go over Crane’s notes on one of The Actor’s recent stories. This story to be exact. Unfortunately, spurned and disgraced love stepped in the way and prevented The Actor from finishing his story (and his life). Never again would he get to write (or say) lines like, “You know, you are so special to me, Virgin. I just want to have sex because it would mean so much to both of us… The Angel? No, I love you… Yes, I love you.”

  Heart shot him with a .44 she got from a friend. Her friend’s father was a retired UCLA history professor (all these professors!) who had ridden motorcycles with Steve McQueen. The bullet had sprayed chunks of The Actor’s ribs through his back with such force that pieces can still be found speckled in the pillar to the left of the stairs leading up to Powell Library. Maybe tour guides will talk about it in the future.

  “Life is but a walking shadow…”15

  The previous section was written by the young woman that identifies herself as Heart. She is currently incarcerated at an undisclosed psychiatric facility somewhere in Malibu. The Actor is indeed dead, but under what circumstances is not certain. He might have been killed by the young woman that calls herself Heart, which is certainly not her true name, just as “The Actor” was not The Actor’s name (nor was it really Shrimp).

  I knew The Actor. He was my best friend. I went to Paris with him the last summer he was alive. (And yes, I heard Diarrhea’s famous splattering shit in Pamplona. I was in the bed with the three other girls. In fact, I was actually having very slow sex with one of them, in order not to disturb the other two. I was having sex with one of the ugly ones. I think The Actor described her earlier as ugly and brunette, with bad skin.)

  My name is The Villain. I put my name in red because when The Actor used to write about me, he always put my name in red. I am not sure what that says about me. I guess I might be a little sleazy, but not as sleazy as The Actor portrayed me. Granted, I am ten years older than him, and I was in Paris sleeping with college girls literally half my age, but underneath I have a good heart. Just as The Actor had a good heart. Which is why it is so tragic and ridiculous that some little cunt that calls herself Heart would be the one to destroy such a sensitive and unique soul as The Actor.

  The Actor once told me that he hated every movie he had acted in. Even __________ , for which he gained a loyal following of teenage girls. I think he was an incredible actor; unfortunately, he never had a chance or role that allowed him to shine. I always felt like there was a glowing genius inside him, but it never got to come out.

  I suppose that the Virgin had something to do with his death. I am not necessarily saying that the girl he deflowered in Paris is his murderer, as I do not want to give such a disturbed little bitch any more space, but I guess it was her.

  I have done a little investigation of dates, and it seems that the UCLA professor that The Actor was so fond of referencing in his work (namely, me, Professor E. L. Crane, PhD)16 actually emailed The Actor on the night that he devirginized the Virgin. Not that there is any mystery about what happened that night, it is pretty obvious: They fucked. But this little email exchange might shed some light on who The Actor was, or at least on some other dimension of his life.

  The following was communicated through a brief exchange of emails between The Actor and myself. The Actor owned an iPhone and read the following email and wrote his response at 1:25 a.m. Paris time, apparently walking the streets of Paris:

  On Wed, Jul 23, 2008 at 5:47 p.m. (Pacific Time), Professor Crane wrote:

  Shrimp,

  I know you were a special friend of Joe Donuts and would appreciate hearing his daughter’s account of his recent, quick death. (Read below.)

  E.L.C.

  On Wed, Jul 23, 2008 at 4:31 p.m. (Pacific Time), Sarah Donuts wrote:

  Ernie

  I just wanted to let you know that my father died Sunday at UCLA Medical Center. As you know he had been shot in the head and was not in his right mind at the end. He had a rapid decline after being taken to the emergency room, and died six days after being administered. I saw him in the hospital on Saturday. This was the last day he recognized anyone. The following Monday he was in critical condition and from there I had a series of decisions to honor my father’s wish for no extraordinary measures. He kept calling me his angel, I guess he was already on his way to heaven.

  If you would please pass the word of his death. I would appreciate it.

  The service is this Saturday at 11 a.m. at St. Mary’s in Boston. I doubt anyone will travel, but that’s the info for anyone who asks. In lieu of flowers, anyone wishing to may donate to the UCLA Rape Crisis Center.

  Best,

  Sarah

  On Wed, Jul 23, 2008 at 4:39 p.m. (Pacific Time), Professor Crane wrote:

  Dear Sarah,

  I’m sorry to hear about your father’s death. I think of him often, sometimes with fear, often with a laugh. I am glad he didn’t suffer much and that the end came quickly. Joe Donuts was one of our old men, one of our old-timers, and was precious to lots of us. His recent relapse into alcohol and drugs was disturbing, but it does nothing to supplant the legacy of guidance and love he handed on to so many. Unfortunately, many of us that go out never come back. I know under normal circumstances Joe would have never been involved in the kind of situation that ultimately took his life, but that is where the disease can take us. I loved Joe and remember crucial parts of his life—the disastrous effect of reading the Belgian mystery novelist Simenon. Rumi, an ancient mystical poet he grew to love later, was a much better choice for him. Please give all my best wishes to your family, and let them know he’ll be remembered by some of us for a long time. I’m glad to hear he was already with the angels.

  Yours,

  E.L.C.

  On Wed, Jul 24, 2008 at 1:25 a.m. (Paris time), The Actor wrote on his iPhone:

  I am walking through Paris at 1:30 a.m. As I type, I am passing the Pompidou, which makes me think of the MOCA in downtown LA.

  Joe and I used to go there when I first got sober and had no friends my age. (Before I was an actor, and was just a young fuck-up.) We’d look at the permanent collection (Pollock, Warhol), and then talk in the cafe. That was the best-tasting coffee I ever had.

  He was so great with me. He treated me like a son and a brother. He was one of the people that made me excited about writing.

  I loved the mix of experience, his hard edge, and Boston thug insouciance. He had no qualms about letting loud farts fly, and he loved to talk about women. Like they were life’s big mystery. Those are thoughts that immediately come
to mind.

  I cried a little. He was really good to me. I’ll miss him. Thanks for telling me.

  How do I send a donation to the Rape Crisis Center?

  As you can see, The Actor had a long night the night he took The Virgin’s virginity. I assume he was walking by the Pompidou after seeing the young lady home. I was a friend and guide to The Actor as was the above-mentioned Joe Donuts.

  Before Joe’s demise, he and I took The Actor under our wings and helped him put his life together. Joe and I did encourage him to start writing because we thought it would be a good outlet for The Devil inside him. The Actor was definitely tormented.

  Unfortunately, I don’t think his writing is up to scratch. His intention was stronger than the result. He turned in several stories that were basically admissions of all his shameful acts. Although I think these stories served a purgative function, I don’t think they are fit for public consumption. For several reasons. I have told him this on many occasions. I would have told him one final time at our last meeting, but he was killed. It was sad to lose Joe and The Actor so close to each other. An older rogue and a young, confused miscreant.

  I have nothing to do but turn to the master, William S. for guidance. He always teaches the way.

  “They are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time: After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.”

  17

  !!!!!(This is the real E. L. Crane! Shrimp, I don’t appreciate you putting me in this story and using me as a mouthpiece to praise your own tattered glory. Besides, the fact that what you have written sounds nothing like me! Aside from the very personal emails that you have taken the liberty of inserting whole, I sound nothing like a distinguished professor of English. I sound like you, a vulgar, uneducated mouther of other people’s lines, namely an actor!

  I have several issues with the use of the emails, that I hope you will seriously consider before using them as fodder: 1) It is an infringement on my privacy, and on Sarah Donut’s privacy, and an abasement of Joe Donut’s memory. The man died! And what? You just want to throw it in your story because you think it’s dramatic? Fuck that. 2) Addiction recovery is anonymous for a fucking reason! Don’t put it in your stories. That is real-life shit that goes on in those meetings, and if you treat it lightly, it will come back and bite you. Joe went out. That is real; you saw what happened to him, a quick downward spiral. I strongly suggest you check your priorities, messing with your sobriety is not worth writing a piece of shit, melodramatic story. You are supposed to be living a spiritual life.

  In addition (these are the notes I would have given you had you shown up to our meeting): I HATE that The Actor dies. What a silly end to the story. Why do you kill off your character like this? To avoid having to write the rest of the Virgin scene?

  James, I am going to be as frank as I can be:

  Stop writing. You don’t have the facility for it. You have the love, but not the skill. As I have said innumerable times, you throw in a lot of flash, to hide a lack of substance. I think this comes from your deep fear that readers won’t accept you as an actor and a writer. Well, if you continue writing about a character called “The Actor,” of course they won’t accept you as a writer!

  You need to either buckle down and learn to tell a story, or just stop writing. This material is like a combination of National Enquirer gossip, MTV-style quick cuts, and experimental fiction schlock. Of course I am a scholar of the English Renaissance, and you could say I know nothing about what is current, but I also know that Shakespeare has been read for 400 years. Can you see this mess being read even two weeks from now?

  Basically, don’t kill The Actor in your story. But more than that, don’t write this story. Just write about people with regular names (no “The Actor,” “the Virgin,” “Diarrhea,” etc.), and then reveal a few artistic truths for us, instead of showing us your (and Joe’s!) dirty laundry. If you can’t do that, just stop.

  (Final sections)18

  When the Angel was eighteen, before she knew The Actor, she was raped. She had been a freshman at Ohio University and one night she got drunk. Her small frame could not handle much alcohol, and because she didn’t drink much in high school, she didn’t know her limit. She had passed out on a bed at a party, and when she woke up, she was being fucked by a boy from her dorm. She knew him a little; we’ll call him Ben. He was a foolish boy who was in a fraternity at the time—he was later expelled from the frat for undisclosed reasons and moved to LA to try his hand at acting. When the Angel woke and realized what was happening, she just lay there. She was too scared. She let him do it.

  After, she didn’t tell anyone because she was afraid that she would be blamed for being drunk. She dropped out of school at the end of the year and moved back to LA.

  After she had been dating The Actor for two years, she told him the story of her rape while sitting in his car in the ArcLight parking lot, after going to see There Will Be Blood. She cried through the whole telling.

  Up to that point, The Actor had been a good boyfriend, to the Angel and all his previous girlfriends. He had had several long-term relationships, beginning with his high-school girlfriend, Ariel, and had been faithful to all of them. Learning that the Angel had been raped was a heavy blow. And the fact that it had happened two years prior made revenge less tangible, while the pain was hot and present. Even though she had kept it inside, the rape was old news for the Angel and Ben the rapist, but for The Actor, it was like it had happened the day before.

  The Actor didn’t know what to do, so he went to his addiction recovery friend, Joe Donuts, for advice. Joe was in his fifties. When he was younger, he did muscle work for Irish heavies in Boston in order to support his drug habit. He got cleaned up when he was forty-two and moved to LA. In LA, he did extra work in films and occasionally got a small speaking role. Eventually he got in with the Teamsters and made his way to the top. He had been sober for fifteen years and was a mentor to many young men trying to get clean, especially the ones that were rough around the edges. He always had good advice for The Actor, and kept him diligent about his commitment to recovery and living sober.

  The day after watching There Will Be Blood and hearing the rape story in the parking lot, The Actor met Joe Donuts at the Griddle on Sunset, and told him about the Angel’s rape. Joe was usually very collected, cool and unshakeable. But after hearing the rape story, he showed a new side. He was no longer the calm, grounded Joe; he was the old Joe. His eyes got teary and his mouth flattened into a hard straight line. Joe told The Actor what they were going to do.

  Joe was going to call a guy he knew in Boston named Vance. Vance would drive out to Ohio and wait outside the ________ fraternity for Ben to come out and then kick the shit out of him. The Actor told him that Ben had moved to LA to be an actor. Even better, Vance would drive to LA and do the job; all they had to do was find him. The Actor told him that he knew Ben was enrolled at his old acting school, Valley Playhouse. Perfect, Vance would get him there. There would be no connection to The Actor, and Ben would get what he deserved. He certainly wouldn’t have a chance at a career after Vance got through with his face; it was the least he deserved after mangling the Angel’s life.

  This part is all real. It was so disturbing that The Actor had to write a play about it.19

  [Note: Sorry for leaving the footnotes momentarily and intruding on the main body of the text here, but I need to set up the scene you’re about to read. Here is the scene from The Actor’s play that Missy gave me. Just pretend that that character “Saul” isn’t an old man talking about his daughter, but is actually The Actor talking about the Angel. I changed the name of the other guy to “Donuts” so we could all understand the connections to The Actor’s life better. (His name wasn’t Donuts in the original script)]:

  Ext. (The Griddle)20 Café

  [Two men sit at a table outside and talk in confidence. They are SAUL and DONUTS. Saul is in his sixties. Donuts is in his fifties.]


  SAUL: I don’t know how to thank you, Donuts.

  DONUTS: It’s fine.

  SAUL: I can’t say it made anything better, but it is still somewhat satisfying.

  DONUTS: Well, he deserved it.

  SAUL: And Vance made it back all right?

  DONUTS: Yeah, Vance’s fine. Called me from Boston. I’m telling you, he’s a guy who enjoys that sort of thing. He’s got a lot of anger, you know?

  SAUL: I hope doing all this was okay for you. I know we’re supposed to be sober and spiritual and not do this kind of thing.

  DONUTS: Hey, yeah, it’s part of my old life. I don’t like to do that sort of thing anymore; I’m just an actor now. But that kid deserved to get a message.

  SAUL: Yeah… Yeah he did.

  [They eat for a second.]

  DONUTS: You know he’s been in a coma for three days.

  SAUL: What?

  DONUTS: They had a story in the paper yesterday.

  SAUL: Fuck!

  DONUTS: I don’t think it’s going to turn out well.

  SAUL: What do you mean?

  DONUTS: He’s either going to die or he’ll wake up a vegetable or some shit.

  [End of Scene]21

  1 This story is a compilation of various pages I found in The Actor’s former Los Angeles apartment last summer. In July of this year I moved into _____ Havenhurst Drive, apartment #_____ , the unit The Actor used to rent. It is a fairly spacious one-bedroom in an old colonial style building. The apartment came furnished, and thus, I now lounge on the couches and sleep on the bed that The Actor once lounged and slept on. After living here for a week, I found several typed pages under one of the couches. There were coffee stains and other undefined markings on the papers. Some were torn, excising sequences in midsentence (as in the above sequence) and on further inspection, I found that, according to the interrupted chronology of page numbers, some pages were missing. In addition, some pages were numbered and others were not. I was not sure if everything was from the same story, but I tried to put everything back in as logical an order as I could manage.