[W]hen I was seven years old, Woody Allen took me by the hand and led me into a dim, closet-like attic on the second floor of our house. He told me to lay on my stomach and play with my brother’s electric train set. Then he sexually assaulted me. … For as long as I could remember, my father had been doing things to me that I didn’t like. I didn’t like how often he would take me away from my mom, siblings and friends to be alone with him. I didn’t like it when he would stick his thumb in my mouth. I didn’t like it when I had to get in bed with him under the sheets when he was in his underwear. I didn’t like it when he would place his head in my naked lap and breathe in and breathe out. I would hide under beds or lock myself in the bathroom to avoid these encounters, but he always found me. These things happened so often, so routinely, so skillfully hidden from a mother that would have protected me had she known, that I thought it was normal.
Dylan Farrow, in a recent open letter in the New York Times
This past August, Andrew asked to question: Is Woody Allen irrelevant? Perhaps with the recent op-ed from Dylan Farrow, the question has changed.
Unfortunately, it’s not a new question. It’s just in the spotlight once again.
If you say these allegations don’t matter, if you dismiss Miss Farrow’s claims, if you say “oh, but that was so long ago,” or “his personal actions don’t affect my opinion of his film,” then I think you’re missing the point.
I don’t think that Allen should be tried in the court of public opinion. The public is notoriously uninterested in facts or, frankly, actual justice. Still, even if it makes you feel icky, even if it’s easier to just not talk about it, the discussion isn’t over. Far from it.
With this recent open letter, can we still accept the “ambiguity?”