I have always rooted for you. There is no-one more capable than you of commanding a franchise and/or inheriting it. Indiana’s son, Michael Douglas’ Wall Street successor, friend to robots. When Die Hard 5 was announced, I basically petitioned for you to play Bruce Willis’ offspring. With you, that film might’ve worked (especially as it would’ve involved you taking your shirt off a bunch).
Your evolution’s surprising like Radiohead. You stopped making obvious choices and, I won’t lie, there was a time I worried you were slip-sliding into James Franco’s footsteps. I know he’s all about the ‘comedy’ but his art’s self-aggrandising, and when you announced art shows and foreign cinema, I wondered if you were suddenly precious, desperate to shed your Hollywood polish.
But I’m the opposite of disappointed. Your accent in Nymphomaniac was pretty shit, but you went for it, and I respect that. Plus, you got your dick out, didn’t shy away from a sexually gratuitous, emotional shitstorm of a role.
It’s your non-movie, IRL output that imprisons my adoration, which is hard to win, you have no idea. This story you told of a drunken night getting out of hand grabbing Alan Cumming’s ass. The paper bag on your head on a red carpet. The hashtag styled art shows, featuring actual apologies (#IAMSORRY). You at the end of that Rob Cantor video, proving you’re in love with the joke of you in the best way. Completely at ease with everything right and wrong with you.
And now, that Sia video. I could write poems about your torso and that teeny underwear, and your arms gripping the cage as you climb across it. I digress. But seriously, there will be POEMZ. As there should be.
You read a poem at the Grammys (PUNCH ME IF I STOP CRYING). There’s nothing better than you. I’m excited for what you do next. And I don’t say that about anybody with such genuineness.
Forever best, A x