James Franco: Keeping it Real

Franco is so open and relaxed now I forget about his "Nah"s in the beginning of the interview. But then I realize we're getting close to the end of our allotted time. "What time is it?" Franco asks.

My watch says 7:25. "Just past seven," I say. He only wanted to talk until seven. Hell, if he doesn't want to wear a watch, why should I be exact?

"I've got to go," he says. He lives in the Valley. Maria and her cats are waiting for him.

"What time's your flight tomorrow?"

"11:45 at night."

"Oh, so you have a few more minutes to talk. Let me ask you about Sonny. Were you Nicolas Cage's first choice?"

"No, he wanted Mark Ruffalo."

"You play a gay prostitute--how much of a stretch was that?"

"Not gay."

"But he's a hustler?"

"Yeah, he's a prostitute."

"Is he hired by men or women?"

"Most people who solicit prostitutes are men. So most male prostitutes, if they're not gay, at least have gay relations."

"So that's the character you play?"

"In this movie I'm one of the rare prostitutes who is male and services women."

"So you're like Joe Buck, Jon Voight's character in Midnight Cowboy?"

"I'm like a more successful Joe Buck. And it's based on a true story, so it's not like we're living in fantasy land."

"How did you study to get into character?"

"Meeting with male prostitutes in New Orleans. I went out on my own and met with them. We'd talk in restaurants and bars."

"And you'd pay them for their time?"

"Sure."

"What did they charge, like between $50 and $200?"

"Yeah."

"Were you a good tipper?"

"We just talked!"

"How was Cage as a first-time director?"

"Great. He was kind of similar to Mark Rydell, both have acted, so they understood that. They didn't compromise me as an actor for the sake of the movie. Nic is darker, with a more eccentric sensibility. We were in tune creatively. He would let me do anything I wanted."

Franco thanks me for the interview and says goodbye. When I get in my car and drive a half-mile away from the studio, I see a sleek blue luxury car with a splattering of white bird shit along the front fender and hood. The car pulls up next to me. It's Franco, talking on a cell phone. He looks over. I wave, he smiles. Then he honks, and we both open our windows. "Hey, don't write about my car," he says with that off-center smile.

"You got it," I say, as he turns left and I go straight. Far be it for me to blow his mystique.

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