James Franco : Infiltrating The Rebel Project

Franco rolls an 8mm camera as we’re flying up the same tangled, winding hills that the real Hopper and the real Wood sped on the night of their famous accident. Franco commands the girls to take their shirts off. They giggle and strip. Dean sparks a butt in the back with his tits out. The wind slaps hard on our faces. We snake up the road, way too fucking fast.

Marc-Edouard Leon does a beautiful, sexed up review of the Rebel Project by James Dean Franco – spanning cross-dressing, dildos/strap-ons and spurious sex that ends in a bloody retro-like tragedy.

Here an extract from http://flaunt.com/features/117/james-franco

 

[*Note: All images and ‘script’ used in this post are courtesy http://flaunt.com/]

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“You guys are going to arrive at the bungalow like you just got dinner across the street at Googie’s,” James Franco instructs in the main cavity of the bungalow. “You come looking for Nick Ray, but he’s not here so you follow Natalie Wood. She used to sleep with him, so she knows the way. She takes you through the back and you break in and go crazy. Just grab drinks or whatever, and we’ll tell you what to do. Adarsha, make sure to take pictures.”

Franco then hands strap-on dildos to the girls in drag. “Get your dicks on,” he says with his famous grin.

On his cue, Natalie Wood leads everyone through the back entrance into the kitchen. Shots of tequila are downed, and beer bottles are popped open and sprayed about. There is the sense that Franco is trying to get us to free ourselves and channel our characters, but this wild and carefree routine also sets the tone for the evening.

Wood leads the conga line to the living room, where Franco hands James Dean the cymbal-crashing, wind-up monkey toy that a drunken Jim Stark is playing with in the opening salvo of Rebel Without a Cause. Franco tells Dean to pull out her strap-on and start stroking it while the monkey bangs its cymbals hysterically. Dean has a skinny dick with a big mushroom head. When she “cums,” Franco squirts hand lotion on everyone. Vampira takes over my body, and I start to go down on Dean, licking the cum-lotion off his dick and snowballing it into Dennis Hopper’s mouth. This by no means is one of Franco’s directions.

Wood takes us to the bathroom. Champagne bottles are popped and sprayed all over Wood. She, in turn, removes all her clothes and starts yelling, “My pussy hurts!” She’s apparently following a loose script.  Franco tells us to carry her back to the kitchen and help cool her off in the sink.

At this point, everyone is a sopping mess of booze and water. Franco leads us to an alley behind the Chateau where an old convertible Mustang is parked. “We’ve got to watch out, because we don’t have any permits,” he says. “We don’t want to get arrested by the cops.” I’m riding shotgun, while Franco sits in the back with Hopper, Wood, and Dean. We peel out onto the Sunset Strip, roar past Googie’s former location, then scream up Laurel Canyon with the top down.

Franco rolls an 8mm camera as we’re flying up the same tangled, winding hills that the real Hopper and the real Wood sped on the night of their famous accident. Franco commands the girls to take their shirts off. They giggle and strip. Dean sparks a butt in the back with his tits out. The wind slaps hard on our faces. We snake up the road, way too fucking fast. We are under the spell of the legend. I stand on the seat with my arms in the air while we jerk left and right. Franco shouts a nervous, “Careful!,” but we are too far gone. I close my eyes and feel myself possessed with the spirit of Dean’s reckless youth, and…

    BLANGGGG!

My heart skips a beat. A hubcap flies off and goes spinning to the shoulder. James Dean is racing to his death.

I, too, at this moment, want to die young.

    BLANGGGG!

Another hubcap frisbees off the car. This is it. I’m ready to burn out for eternity.

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Gaysi thanks http://flaunt.com for this awesome feature!

About the author

Srini

Distracted as ever - by life and its vibrant hues, Srini discovered writing recently when a bushy eye-browed Muse with luscious lips tickled his senses with her couplets. Fat man grew up to be a fitness conscious cook, a gardener by grandma's inherited green thumb and an Agnostic who used to believe in myriad rituals and gods and goddesses of the Southern landscapes, landscapes where rice paddies and Gopurams made people believe in the gifts of music, culture, art and nature's miracles. With a face that's expressive enough to throw off a couple of stubborn people off their stools, and an arse that can dance to drum and base, he's constantly trying to bridge his semi-German thoughts with his roots back in the Land of the Peppers. He writes, occasionally.