There was no more obnoxious screen presence in 2013 than James Franco. It was the year when it all finally spilled over for the star, though it had surely been threatening to for some time. There were the dour attempts at directing, including adapting two William Faulkner novels which people had claimed could not be filmed (or, in Franco's case, should not) and the risible Interior. Leather Bar. There were the winking performances in mediocre projects like Homefront, Lovelace and Oz the Great and Powerful for ironic purpose. And there was the continuing obsession with homosexuality, all a piece of provocation by an actor whose every word and action is designed to enhance his reputation.
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