By Bill Browning

Hollywood has given us Mad Max, Max Payne, Mary and Max, Mad Max 2, Max Headroom, Max Dugan Returns and a host of other Maxes. It’s also given us films about brothers: The Godfather, A River Runs Through It, Rain Man, Boyz n the Hood and Legends of the Fall come to mind. History, too, has given us interesting sets of siblings: George and Ira Gershwin; John F., Robert F. and Ted F. Kennedy; Jesse and Frank James; Charlie Sheen and Emilio Estevez; The Jonases; William and Harry; The Marx and Allman brothers; Parker Brothers; The Ringling Brothers; HGTV’s Property Brothers; and Dr. Joyce Brothers.

Now I hope you’re holding on to your hats or grabbing on to your knickers, because my poor, often slow-on-the-uptake writing partner Paula and I (as part of our James and Jennifer Project) are bringing you word of the ultimate, mother of all Max-in-the-title-brother movies: Good Time Max!

If you are following our J&J endeavors, it’ll come as no surprise to you Paula didn’t like this movie. But something Paula don’t get (and she don’t get a lot) is Good Time Max, with the heart-stirring James Franco in the title role, is a Dustin and Cody Rhodes, Donnie and Mark Wahlberg, Cain and Abel-ish story that eerily parallels my own life.

I think the main problem with Paula is she’s never been anybody’s brother. She’s a girl, and girls, let’s face it, don’t know squat.

Good Time Max is a film about two brothers who discover blood transcends drug addiction. Oldest brother Adam (played by Matt Bell, very possibly the worst actor ever) takes life seriously, works his butt off and gets good grades, while younger brother Max smokes, fucks drug dealers’ girlfriends, shits on oriental rugs and also gets good grades.

Max is a handsome, fun, drug-addled genius. Franco really drives the genius point home by solving math problems in his head and repeatedly telling people “I’m a genius.”

Forced to bum a cross-country ride with Adam (who’s on his way to a hospital residency in L.A.) after ticking off a huge black dude by selling him a counterfeit kilo of cocaine, Max finds a cushy job writing computer code in California. He soon gets into crystal meth addiction with a co-worker named Skeet, and all I can say is he should have known friendships with Skeets never result in anything good. In fact, if you’re not on your toes, motherfuckers named Skeet will fuck your boyfriend-stealing-bitch-of-a-best-friend right under your trusting nose, resulting in you spending a goodly part of your life hoping both libidinous fuckers die! … Where was I?

There’s a lot of resentment on brother Adam’s part. It’s his rug that Max shits on. But Adam really don’t have much room to talk because he himself turns to prescription drugs to relieve life’s pressures.

The important thing is: eventually both boys learn a thing or two about the importance of brotherhood.

How the film reminded me of my own life is: I am also handsome and fun and I once pissed off a huge black dude, too — at a bus stop, just by saying, “Boy, it’s hot,” and asking, “boy, don’t you think it’s swelterin’?” and then, “boy, I sure do.” I mean, who knew the guy hated small talk so much?

I’ve never had to dog it to California or become an accessory to murder (like Max does in the movie), but I did hide out in Lexington a while once with Duke Magruder, a friend of mine, after helping him steal a copy of the electrifying novel Scruples by Judith Krantz from a library.

And my brother George never went to college, but he was smart — especially about automobiles, so you could honestly say he was a car doctor. I never soiled George’s rug that I recall or slept with his girl or did any drugs, but I frequently woke up on his porch naked and hung-over. And one time I pressed a sizzlin’ hot iron into his naked back as sort of pathetic repayment for the many times he beat the snarky, hateful little fuck outta me.

James Franco, as always, is fabulous in this movie. His trademark nervous energy works for his Max character and I can easily forgive him for constantly pointing out how smart he is in it, because I’m always having to remind people (Paula) about my own impressive geniusosity.

The camera jiggles a lot in Good Time Max, and the movie has a grainy groove that I think allowed James to satisfy a serious Indie-credit cravin’ he had.

And I showed Paula, who I know for a fact has made ka-ka on a carpet herself, how the cover of Good Time Max shows it was an official selection at the Tribeca, Hollywood, Vancouver, and Austin film festivals and pointed out to her how none of Jennifer Aniston’s movies boast impressive little emblems clearly showing you how you should take her work seriously. But making Paula see shit is never easy. Sometimes I don’t know why I even try.