Prior to the kerfuffle after the Golden Globes, when Mia Farrow and Ronan Farrow tweeted about the allegations against Woody Allen, I had been unaware that he’d been accused of molesting Dylan Farrow. I know, I know, I spend a lot of time apparently living under a rock.
I used to really like Woody Allen’s films, Radio Days being my favourite. I quit watching his movies when his romance with Soon-Yi Previn was made public. I found it, frankly, repugnant that a man would get involved with the daughter of his significant other. It squicked me out, and it made his movies less enjoyable for me.
I read Dylan Farrow’s open letter the other day. I believe her. I think she’s telling the truth.
Does that mean that I think there’s not a whole lot of crazy messiness going on in their family? Of course not. It seems pretty obvious that there is an abundant supply of crazy messiness. That’s not my business. I don’t personally know any of these people, and the chances that I would ever meet them are nil. Family life is messy, and crazy, and sloppy, and difficult. It can have great highs and great lows. So I’m not going to sit and point fingers at them.
I do, however, have a choice in who I support with my time, attention, and limited finances. Someone can be a brilliant artist, and be a child molester. The fact that he may be a child molester doesn’t make the art any less brilliant, but it does tarnish the luster of the artist. I cannot in good conscience support his art. So I won’t be seeing any new Woody Allen movies, no matter how wonderful they may be. And I’ll never again see some of my old favourites.
And that’s okay.