Paying the Monster For His Monstrosity

Jon Finch (left) and Francesca Annis in Roman Polanski's Macbeth

Roman Polanski’s adaptation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth is among my favorite movies. I owned it on VHS, and now I own the DVD. The way Polanski preserves Shakespeare’s poetic language while abolishing academic theatre’s false decorum makes it a classic, and his seamless integration of bloody tableaux reminiscent of the Manson Murders that took his wife, Sharon Tate, make it intensely personal. I’ve shown it to friends with the same pride as Casablanca and Butch Cassidy.

In the 1990s and early 2000s, I could overlook Polanski’s history as a confessed, convicted child rapist, basically because everyone else did. Polanski continued winning Oscars even after admitting kiddie diddling in court, because his movies remain among the best cinema ever made. But our standards shifted in the 2010s. Critics and film scholars have become less willing to separate art from artist. Older audiences, like me, become, to an extent, accessories after the fact.

I recalled this while reading Caitlin Flanagan’s The Art of a Monster, examining whether audiences can still enjoy Michael Jackson’s music, knowing he was a sexual predator. Flanagan says yes. Even with the increased scrutiny following HBO’s Leaving Neverland documentary, Flanagan writes: “Art isn’t something mere; it doesn’t exist as the moral bona fides of the person who made it. That person is a supernumerary.” To Flanagan, art, including Jackson’s, provides its own moral justification.

Yet I cannot overcome nuance, for one reason: as long as Jackson’s work remains under copyright, his estate continues drawing royalties from its distribution. When he was still alive, this payment subsidized his bizarre kid-centric love nest; now, it probably goes toward the out-of-court settlements he doled out like autographs. Which means, if I download his albums, I’m probably paying the longstanding cost of his known predilections. Doesn’t that make me part of the problem?

Nor, anecdotes suggest, are Polanski and Jackson alone in this. Charlie Chaplin, Errol Flynn, and David Bowie all had known taste in underage women. Bill Cosby and R. Kelly have been charged and/or convicted of rape; Woody Allen, Kevin Spacey, and Ben and Casey Affleck remain uncharged but publicly accused. Until recently, the “casting couch horror story” was one of Hollywood’s acknowledged career speed bumps. We simply used to take that shit for granted.

Left to right: Roman Polanski, Bill Cosby, and David Bowie

I dare not create an itemized list of these legitimated accusations; not only is it too long, it’s morally degrading. It’s natural for America’s culture industry to take stock as we approach the ten-year anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death this summer. Yet the longer the self-scrutiny continues, it becomes increasingly difficult to avoid the conclusion: creative men (and I do mean men) are damaged people who, as damaged people do, inflict their damage on others.

And, as long as their work remains under copyright, any transaction on some level subsidizes their damage. It’s too late to avoid giving Roman Polanski money; I already bought my DVD, and he already received his royalty (which, for my purchase, probably totalled about a dime). But what if I want to watch The Pianist? Chinatown? Rosemary’s Baby? Caitlin Flanagan can reassure herself that Michael Jackson is dead, and therefore not profiting. Polanski soldiers on.

That doesn’t even account for artists who, themselves, did nothing wrong, yet became collateral damage. As I wrote nearly a year ago, Harvey Weinstein’s public implosion took several striving young artists with him; I singled out actress Paige McKenzie simply because I know her work. (McKenzie later tweeted me that her experience was “more of development hell, less #metoo, Thankfully.” That’s reassuring, but still means she had dreams within her grasp, then ripped away again.)

Michael Jackson, Bill Cosby, David Bowie, and Roman Polanski created art that changed the world, arguably making life somewhat better for their having been in it. Caitlin Flanagan assumes art justifies itself, separate from the artist. After some initial resistance, I must concede she’s right. These awful human beings created transcendent art distinct from themselves. But even if the art doesn’t justify the artist, it does subsidize the artist, which carries its own moral weight.

For economic reasons, I cannot reconcile great art with the flawed people who create it. Or, more accurately, with the people who perpetrate their flaws upon others. The issue, fundamentally, isn’t moral, it’s economic: every dime given to Polanski is another dime keeping him unaccountable for his crimes. Because art, ultimately, is also a commodity, and our appreciation is their paycheck. We can enjoy a monster’s art, but can we, rightly, subsidize a monster’s monstrosity?