Let’s call out the wolves in sheep’s clothing

Woody Allen’s concern about the sordid Weinstein saga leading to a witch-hunt where an innocent gesture, a ‘wink’ might be misinterpreted — is mind numbingly obtuse. And just plain wrong

When news of Woody Allen sexually molesting his adopted seven-year-old daughter Dylan Farrow (he was married to Mia Farrow then) broke in 1992, there was no social media to fasttrack hashtags. But even in India back then, it gained a huge amount of traction. I’ve known, for 25 years, that Allen is a paedophile — yet, I’ve continued to watch Allen’s cinema with gusto. I try not to think of the molestation chapter when I do a re-run of his greats: Annie Hall, Hannah and her Sisters, Husbands

and Wives, Love and Death; and the later Match Point and Blue Jasmine. I have most of his films on DVD… and if I hear of a new Allen film, I tend to get frightfully excited.

So, yes, I am a hypocrite; and I know (for a fact) there are millions of others out there who continue to consider Woody Allen a genius of sorts. But I guess you’ll figure out the conundrum if you, like me, follow his narratives — right down to the match point.

When Hollywood seemingly “boycotted” Allen after the horrific episode, it was Harvey Weinstein who got him out of the woods by agreeing to produce

Bullets Over Broadway in 1994, saying, “Shunned by Hollywood means nothing to Miramax [Weinstein was heading Miramax then]. We’re talking about a comic genius.”

Maybe there was some loyalty/gratitude evident in Allen when, a few days ago, he put his foot in the mouth briefly, and mustered up the gall to opine that the Weinstein scandal could “lead to a witch hunt atmosphere… where every guy in an office who winks at a woman is suddenly having to call a lawyer to defend himself ”.

Of course, he “clarified” his stand immediately, and sang a different tune: “It’s just very, very sad and tragic for those poor women that had to go through that.”

I still am, and will be, in thraldom of Allen’s body of work, but, really, do we need the likes of Woody Allen to “reassure” us? Isn’t it a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?

Sexual harassment has been around, insidiously, in all sectors, but it’s somehow been systemic in Hollywood… and its filmmaking equivalents in others parts of the world. The casting couch is a reality. Speak to any insider. But we invariably gloss over it; hey, these are dream factories, you are only supposed to see happy technicolours, and take back home a rush of warm memories.

Which is why when Last Tango in Paris actress Maria Schneider finally opened up, in 2007, about the “deliberately” humiliating (and infamous) ‘butter scene’ during the shooting of the film — considered one of the most influential artistic endeavours of the previous century (Last Tango in Paris released in 1972) — there was only a spot of media attention before it all died down. Schneider (who was all of 19 when the incident took place) went on record to state, in an interview to The Daily Mail, “I felt humiliated and, to be honest, I felt a little raped, both by Marlon [Brando] and by [Bernardo] Bertolucci… I was so angry… I should have called my agent or had

[Woody Allen] put his foot in the mouth briefly, and mustered up the gall to opine that the Weinstein scandal could “lead to a witch hunt atmosphere…”

my lawyer come to the set because you can’t force someone to do something that isn’t in the script…”

The matter was resurrected as late as last year when a video clip of Bertolucci went viral; the Italian director, with the benefit of a non-existent prosecution — Schneider was dead by then (she succumbed to breast cancer in 2011) — dismissed the accusation as being “ridiculous”. End of story.

In the case of Dylan Farrow, it took her 22 years to concede her “torment was made worse by Hollywood” — in an open letter in The New York

Times in 2014. “That he [Woody Allen] got away with what he did to me haunted me as I grew up. I was stricken with guilt that I had allowed him to be near other little girls. I was terrified of being touched by men. I developed an eating disorder. I began cutting myself.” And, “All but a precious few (my heroes) turned a blind eye. Most found it easier to accept the ambiguity… to pretend that nothing was wrong. Actors praised him at awards shows. Networks put him on TV. Critics put him in magazines. Each time I saw my abuser’s face — on a poster, on a T-shirt, on television — I could only hide my panic until I found a place to be alone and fall apart.” That same year, Allen’s Blue Jasmine featured prominently at the Oscars; he was nominated for Best Screenplay; Cate Blanchett won the Academy Award for Best Actress, and went on to say, “I’m here accepting an award in an extraordinary screenplay by Woody Allen. Thank you so much, Woody, for casting me. I truly appreciate it.”

In all this welter, hats off to journalist Ronan Farrow, Woody Allen’s biological son and Dylan’s brother, for leading the charge in this round’s media investigation. I’m sure he’s deriving at least a little bit of vicarious satisfaction from his Weinstein exposé.

Also playing in my mind is Playboy emperor Hugh Hefner — because I, unfortunately, read a tweet by youth icon Paris Hilton on the former’s passing a few weeks ago: “So sad to hear the news about @ HughHefner. He was a #Legend, innovator, genius, one of a kind with a heart of gold. We had so many fun & incredible memories together [sic].” Yet, the “rapes, mental and physical abuse… drug addiction, attempted suicide and prostitution” (according to a report by Sun Sentinel) had been testified to in the mid-80s by former Playmates; and don’t forget Linda Lovelace’s sordid disclosures… all of which appear to have been waved away impatiently. (Vice.com was one rare news site to call a spade a spade; instead of an obituary/eulogy, it simply said: ‘The media has painted the Playboy founder as a grandfather figure with a naughty past. It needs to stop.’)

So, I think I’m now going to tune in to an allegorical Woody Allen film instead. Because I just heard Ben Affleck apologised for groping a woman. On Twitter. And, apparently, that’s supposed to be (sincerely) okay.