‘REBEL’ at MOCA: Deconstructing James Franco’s Dean

As a non art critic previewing MOCA’s most recently opened exhibit, Rebel - temporarily installed at 941North Highland inside an annexed space – James Franco and seven other artists have put together a tightly conceived, unabashedly irreverent, though for me, an emotionally incomplete, deconstruction of James Dean and the Hollywood culture.

Opening the pre-exhibit press conference, MOCA Director, Jeffrey Deitch told the story of how he had been involved in developing the exhibit. It began in New York. Some impetus for the project grew out of a previous installation, which involved the entire General Hospital set. As many may know, James Franco has regularly played a character on that soap and some episodes were even shot with the set in its installation home. Deitch obviously has great admiration for Franco. Ultimately, demystifying something as iconic to this town as Rebel Without a Cause was too intriguing not to explore.

Upon taking the mic, Franco began humbly by saying he shouldn’t be up there, the other artists should – then he went on for a VERY LONG time…Fortunately, he was interesting as he set up the concept for the piece. As it was explained in the program notes, it likely began ruminating from his playing James Dean in a biopic years ago. Once he’d worked through a number of issues surrounding that, he became interested in exploring it more deeply with other artists. At first, there was a plan to do a film about the making of Rebel Without a Cause, particularly surrounding legendary tales of Sal Mineo, James Dean and Natalie Wood during a weekend at a Bungalow, but it was abandoned. It was thought a project like that would still be too close to the source and, ultimately too “precious” and restrictive.

Paul McCarthy shared the process of reconstructing the Bungalow for filming video loop. That set will be going up somewhere else as an exhibit at a later time. At one point, after it had been abandoned to storage, McCarthy imagined it like a skull as its exterior, but the full two story recreation of the interior within. Given what had allegedly occurred that weekend between the Rebel actors, it was evocative to me of  a kind of surrender to death. That’s what we do when we break taboos, in large part, just to break them.

I was both delighted by and terrified for Harmony Korine, as he spoke of what led him to the project. This is a guy who, for an artistic film exercise, had planned to have a feature length documentary of himself provoking various random people into full fledged fist fights. He had been in the hospital, he had been arrested, he was thought to be mentally unstable…The fact that James Franco would ask him to revisit this frightening time in the young man’s artistic life for the sake of this project, made me question Franco as a friend; but perhaps, he only requested Korine revisit the spirit.

Korine couldn’t go back there. His healing had something to do, I think, with some female ex-gang members turned nudists. He laughed at himself. That was comforting and a relief.

Listening to each artist talk of the process, I was moved by their contributions and reasons for getting involved. They have dove into the way things are, in order to understand fully why they shouldn’t be the way they are. Yet, there is some lacking vulnerability in the work for me. The artists, especially Franco, ultimately dehumanize themselves to understand the victim.  It is almost heroic, if it were not for the fact, it is yet self destructive, or has not quite reached a state of maturity where the work moves fully through that emotional journey.

Couching this violent deconstruction of Hollywood Masculine Paradigms, was a lot of lush vegetation, clean set facingss and conspicuous Fresnels on metal stands with no effort to hide projectors. We were in Deconstruction Land, complete with both one regularly hung and one inverted Hollywood sign. Fortunately, we were only getting started.

The piece argues effectively that out of control male sexuality arises from deep insecurity. That is by no means an original revelation, but the violence and provocative way in which the theme is explored did give it a visceral urgency that the issue has lacked in awhile

James Dean’s death. The risks he took in his life. The self loathing. His confused sexuality. Trying to find a true connection with another human being was so impossible within the plastic comfort of the 1950s and the out of control world of Hollywood, the expectation of masculinity and limitations of society, that it wouldn’t occur to Dean to consciously bother. It would manifest itself in the physical.

Images of Dean’s classic motorcycle were featured, of course. Bicycles were strewn throughout – perhaps the mountain bike is the modern version of the motorcycle – the rugged terrain, adventure athlete. Instead of a high performance engine, man must power the vehicle with his own sweat and muscle. And we have our first adventures as children on bicycles. I was reminded, briefly, of Elliott and the boys saving ET. Bikes are an early right of freedom. Then imagination, losing its innocence, turned ego driven, turned fantasy driven…

There was A LOT of looped video. Several were long, up to 188 minutes. They are each described in the program and I found a couple of them pretty compelling i.e. the cattle being roped next to the poster of Giant.

Catching an image here and there, as sudden jolt of mood thrust into the room, was more satisfactory as far as taking in the material. I generally find the viewing of looped video tedious, so it may be that the medium itself is unappealing to my sensibilities.

Speaking of violated sensibilities…

The cartoon El Gato featured Jim Stark (Dean’s Rebel character) with a duck’s bill and Judy (Wood) as the obvious title character. Fast driving while masturbating culminated in sexualities so confused, Judy grows a penis that is sucked by Plato (Mineo), while Jim fucks him in the ass. Afterwards, they clung together in a post coital intimacy that was touching.

The commentary on our societies’ sexual imbalance was riveting. The male cock (or ego) thrust into our faces, the catering to the cock in its explicit and dehumanizing treatment of women until – the entitlement men feel, particularly attractive and successful men – to have their cocks worshipped. It is a horrible distortion of male humanity that dehumanizes the feminine, as well as the masculine – especially as a sexual beings. But it is not as though women lack complicite…

With modern notions of sexuality much more relaxed (we’re not enlightened or even healthy by any stretch of the imagination, but much more accepting of homosexuality than in 1950s) – a man in drag may not be quite as evocative as it once was. James Franco still makes a beautiful woman. There is a more modern freedom to explore opposing gender roles, at the same time, the images mine sexual confusion.

The piece, overall, didn’t really delve into the complexities of feminine sexuality. It is fucked up how men perceive female sexuality and we got that. Still, it is heartening to witness such self examination and questioning of accepted Hollywood Paradigms, that seem to endure no matter how much else of the business changes.

The way Wood is dehumanized by Franco’s commentary in the program notes and the casualness of Dennis Hopper’s statements about her, is almost offensive. But, since I know I am supposed to be offended, I don’t mind. She is this thing that Hopper and Nick Ray (Rebel director) both stuck their cocks into and it cost Hopper screen time. The sexual experience with her is lost. She is lost. I didn’t catch much of the Death of Natalie Wood, which was one of the loops running, so I am not sure where Franco went with it, but those were my initial feelings moving through the work as I did.

Surrounded by typical Tinsel Town comfort, inside a Jacuzzi lay a rusted motorcycle. Endless anger from the confused, ego driven male thrust into the sanitized womb of the passive, unreleased femine and left to rot, ultimately memorializing this negative aspect of modern male existence, all the while making the womb non functional, yet because of the chemicals in the treated water, remains beautiful on a purely superficial, aesthetic level. Wow! Did I just shove my head up my ass or what?!?

Strangely, all this irreverence Franco wanted and all this not being “precious” gives Rebel a kind of reverence, because it infuses the source material with modern relevance. Though I think it may be a spiritually and emotionally incomplete journey, it is well threaded to the constructs of Rebel Without a Cause and fucked up, though long enduring, constructs of masculinity. I feel privy to a portion of an ongoing quest that will eventually hold more wisdom and peace for its pilgrims. In the meantime, I hope our anti-heroes do not destroy themselves.

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Carried Away…

My imagination got carried away over this whole Silicon Beach thing. I have drifted in and out of other people’s dreams (or my obsessions with being a part of other people’s dreams), for quite some time. Not yet confident as a writer, I was unable to get a real bead on who I was. My own dreams have alluded me – not just in their pursuit, but in the actual formulation. I don’t think I planted any of my own seeds in Jamie’s Secret Venetian Silicon Garden.

I know Venice intimately, but from a distance, like a diligent and highly discreet stalker. (Though I have learned the hard way, not to make stalker jokes.) There was a time, back when I was unemployed and had only been a Venetian for a short while, that I was very happy in a state of blissful ignorance. I loved when the Canals were nothing but a big gorgeous house park, instead of a monument to gentrification. I loved when the Boardwalk was a carnival that held little interest, instead of a place that I consciously avoided.

My life in Venice Beach has been about birds, really.

Cranes, hawks, egrets, mockingbirds (an evil attack one lives on Amoroso), wild parrots (a whole freaking flock nesting in our palm tree), ducks (cheeky little bastards in the spring), swallows, geese, seagulls, pigeons, doves, crows, bluebirds, kestrels, pelicans (catching them in flight in the Canals with that wing span, still blows me away), hummingbirds…

My life is early morning fiction writing after yoga followed up with toast and strong, sweet coffee. My life is about insomniac nights, candles burning, Robert Johnson warbling Stones In My Passway, barely audible through my computer speakers, but fused with a haunting serenity nonetheless. My life is a little too lonely. That is mostly my fault. Sometimes I like it too much that way.

My life is about dogs. I lost one a few weeks ago. A beautiful lady black lab who was nine years old. She had a tumor on her heart and went so fast. When I go to the house to walk her surviving buddy, Ranger, I cry every single time. I’m crying now as I type this because I still cannot accept that I am never going to see her again. She was a good dog. I named my guitar after her. I still can’t play for shit, but the new Ms. Burton has an acknowledged spirit. That counts for something. As it turns out, that counts for everything.

My life is about bees and flowers. My life is about riding my bike to the ocean and watching the sun go down. My life is about singing when all the doors and windows are closed. My life is about walking to the Albertsons and saying hello to three or four folks along the way. Sometimes homeless guys manage to sleep in the brush surrounding the “Costco Compound.” Sometimes they even manage to set up a little camp. They never last long. Not only is it private property, it is technically Culver City where they don’t put up with that shit.

My life is about long phone conversations with friends, meeting for a drink, seeing a play or heading to a museum. My life is about my neighbors and a yard sale, a bag of mellow leaf and a fridge of Tecate that brings us all closer together. My life is about my family. My father so badly wants me to visit home.

I go to Starbucks for morning coffee when I don’t brew it myself. I would have preferred a local Mom and Pop for my regular joint, but none are within walking distance. Also, when a gal is up at 4am, there is something mighty nice about a place that unlocks its doors at 5:30am on the dot. Plus, the staff all knows me. They ask about my life. They were really excited about my cover story in the Beachhead.

I haven’t found much joy in many places, though the music and poetry are usually fabulous. People are not quite as alive as I had expected. There is a lot of sadness of which is spoken in the work, but not to each other.

Poetry nights at Beyond Baroque, a great band at the Talking Stick, something rare, but magical along the Boardwalk, walking around seeing all different kinds of folks…amazing stuff…But then there’s the old surfers and hippies who are always wanting a hug, which lasts way too long and/or involves a penis press and/or an ass grab. They bandy the phrase “Free Love” around like it is 1969 and that’s what they still mean.

In Venice Beach, it ain’t often about Free Love. Not anymore. It’s Free Fuck. Getting in, getting out and getting off – that’s howdy do Hollywood style. But, what do I care?!? It’s a free country. We all have to live in a body. Most of the time, people just want a fantasy.

What I do care about; however, is the lie that covers it all up, the pretty graffiti we slap all over that hard, exposed, entitled cock and say it’s art and, therefore, love. Those lies are something we don’t talk about in Venice Beach. Just like the rest of America, we don’t really call things what they are. We are no less hypocrites here than folks are anywhere else, we just have a good soundtrack.

There are a lot of things in Venice I would like to see change, but who the hell am I? I was proud to stand up for Free Venice in the Beachhead after that loaded Town Hall. Free Venice has a voice that needs to be heard and it was unfairly ambushed. But, I am certainly not that voice. I have not been here long enough and am not embedded in its history. I am in love, but not attached.

I am a bird watcher. I pray and meditate and lose myself in God on my best days. I lose my temper and yell at sanitation workers, who are blocking the one-way street with their truck on my bad days…

I am a happy woman who could be much braver in sharing her happiness, face to face, instead from behind a word processor. I could do much better living my life and I plan to do just that.

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.