On nights when worries of the present and problems of tomorrow are looming over me like a dark cloud, watching Woody Allen’s 1979 classic “Manhattan” is my only foolproof (and non-Rx) path to peace of mind. The black-and-white montage of images of Manhattan, George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue,” and Allen’s frenetic storytelling intertwine like a cinematic tranquilizer dart and lull me into serenity. Needless to say, Allen is one of my favorite directors.
Yes, he did infamously marry his former girlfriend Mia Farrow’s adopted daughter Soon-Yi, but who am I to judge? I stay off my high horse. My approach to Allen, and all other artists, has always been to separate the work from the person.
However, I have recently had to ask myself: Where do I draw the line? At what point does the craft become marred by the artist’s personality, questionable behavior, and unorthodox decisions?
While skimming the November issue of Vanity Fair, a piece titled “Momma Mia!” caught my eye. This article, written by Maureen Orth, is a trip down memory lane with Mia Farrow and eight of her 12 living children (two biological and 10 adopted) in which details of yesteryear are recounted: Farrow’s marriage to Frank Sinatra, her falling out with Allen at the discovery of nude photographs of Soon-Yi, and, most shockingly, Allen’s alleged sexual molestation of their adopted daughter Dylan.
Using captivating narrative skills, ominous foreshadowing, and testimony from the long-silent Dylan, Orth drew me in and revealed that Allen’s sexual attraction to forbidden fruit was not limited to 19-year-old Soon Yi. According to Dylan, Allen, among other things, “stuck his finger up her vagina and kissed her all over” in the attic of Farrow’s Connecticut home when she was only 7. Ick.
This article initially overwhelmed me with curiosity, but curiosity was quickly replaced with disgust. A knot in my stomach grew with every sentence and made me realize that my practice of disconnecting art from the artist is deluded. As Oscar Wilde once said, life imitates art. If Allen dares to depict a sexual relationship between him and a 17-year-old girl in “Manhattan”, then one should assume off-screen pedophilia is a possibility; especially considering the fact that Mariel Hemingway, the actress who played the role of the 17-year-old, was only 16 (28 years Allen’s junior) at the time the movie was being filmed. Double ick.
What is even more disturbing is the reality that Allen is only one artist among numerous others accused of engaging in pedophiliac behavior — the names J.D. Salinger and Roman Polanski probably ring a bell. Salinger based one of his short stories, “For Esmé — With Love and Squalor,” on a love affair with a 14-year-old named Jean Miller. And Polanski… Well, he outdid both Allen and Salinger by throwing in wine, a jacuzzi, and a Quaalude. In March 1977, the filmmaker responsible for “Rosemary’s Baby” (coincidentally one of the first movies Farrow ever acted in) was charged with a number of offenses against 13-year-old Samantha Gailey (now Samantha Geimer) including, but not limited to, rape by use of drugs, perversion, and sodomy. Polanski accepted a plea bargain which dismissed five of the initial crimes he was charged with in exchange for a the lesser charge of unlawful sexual intercourse. He served a little over a month of jail time but when warned that he was likely to face imprisonment, Polanski fled to France and has since avoided traveling to countries likely to extradite him.
In the end, it’s up to you whether to take into account an artist’s personal life when judging their work. Personally I find that it’s become pretty much impossible to watch/read anything made by Allen, Polanski, or Salinger without gagging. More importantly, I’ve realized it may be time to reevaluate my artistic preferences because what does my having loved and admired the work of such twisted men say about me? Good thing my therapist is only one call away.
Photo courtesy of: Thatsawrapshow
