Anghus Houvouras on Woody Allen, Philip Seymour Hoffman and the concept of letting go…
The concept of separating the art from the artist is one I’ve wrestled with for a long time. I can recall conversations on this very topic dating back to the days before the internet. Back when collections of film fans gathered at the local tavern after a screening at the art house cinema to discuss movies and the cinematic culture. I can remember heated debates about Roman Polanski and whether or not the ticket I had bought was passively supporting an accused rapist.
This is hardly a new topic. This isn’t even a new topic for a column. Last year I wrote about this subject in regards to Orson Scott Card and the backlash forming against his borderline militant stance against same sex marriage. At the time I waxed philosophically about my inability to see past the personal failings of the artist to appreciate the art, citing Polanski as a prime example. No matter good a filmmaker, I struggle with the idea of supporting someone who committed cruel, inhumane acts and then fled the country to live a live of privileged exile.
We find ourselves in a similar situation with Woody Allen. A beloved filmmaker who has exhibited some questionable behavior in the past, having married his stepdaughter in a scandal that hardly ruined his career but certainly did a fair amount of scuffing (correction – Allen and Farrow never married, so technically he didn’t marry his stepdaughter). Allen’s career resurgence has run into another sticky widget after his former stepdaughter Farrow accused him of sexual molestation when she was seven. As a film writer, I was curious. I’ve read enough to form opinions and make an uneducated snap judgement or two. While the accused behavior is the most troubling aspect of this story, the second most has to be the number of people jumping to Allen’s defense.
And I’m not talking about friends and family, but film fans. The ones who don’t know anything about Allen other than his movies. Their knee jerk reaction to defend a filmmaker that they love of some rather heinous accusations is baffling. When something terrible like this happens, there is an immediate need for people to declare their opinion. There are those who instantly crucify Allen based on accusation alone. Then there are those who will defend Allen for no other reason than they like his films. Doesn’t that trouble you?
I can understand the condemnation. Someone accuses a celebrity with questionable judgement of some horrible acts. Sanctimony kicks in, and the comments begin to fly. I have a harder time understanding those who immediately defend Allen as if it’s some kind of righteous act. No matter how many times I hear people say “Innocent until proven guilty.”, what I hear is “Innocent until proven guilty because Annie Hall is one of my favorite movies.”
The idea that there are fans who will defend a celebrity because of how much they love their work is kind of grotesque. In a passive way, it’s enabling. You are basically declaring that you are willing to defend a potential child molester because you have a hard time with the concept that a filmmaker you respect would do such a thing. It’s a child-like reflex. Circling the wagons to protect one of your own. But the thing is, you don’t even know him…
Philip Seymour Hoffman tragically passed over the weekend. A sad, truly terrible loss. A man with a seemingly infinite well of talent which was only matched by a gnawing absence that pushed him into a powerful addiction that ended his life. There are few words to express how truly awful it is. Like many of you I launched into discussions about Hoffman’s work. Favorite films. Epic performances. His effortlessness.
Comments started to creep in. Film bloggers like Dave Poland who sought to inform us that the tragedy wasn’t that we lost this great actor, but that Hoffman left behind a wife and children. The ‘real’ tragedy was a family losing a loved one. It’s such a lazy thought and a sanctimonious thought: feeling as though you need to instruct people WHY it’s a tragedy. To quantify our loss.
The first thought that crossed my mind was that I didn’t know Philip Seymour Hoffman as a father or husband. I knew him as a performer. A talented soul who delivered as consistently as any actor I remember. How could I mourn the loss of someone I only knew from what I saw of them on stage and screen?
Then it hit me. The separation of art and artist. I finally understood.
I can’t mourn Hoffman as a family man. I can empathize. I can attempt to relate in that way. But the Hoffman that I’m mourning is the one I saw in Boogie Nights and The Master. The thespian capable of creating such humanity. The actor who was so engrossing. To me, the real tragedy wasn’t just losing a talent or the prospect of the films he would never be able to make, but that a person who brought so much joy and stirred so many emotions wasn’t able to achieve a livable level of happiness. That the person who gave so much didn’t live long enough to get it all back.
If nothing else, I think I finally understand those who can appreciate the art without considering the artist. I’m not sure if I have the strength of will to be one of those people. If I could let go of judgemental tendencies and knee jerk reactions to appreciate a movie by someone accused of such terrible acts. But after this weekend I think I have a better understanding of those who are.
Anghus Houvouras is a North Carolina based writer and filmmaker. His latest work, the novel My Career Suicide Note, is available from Amazon.
Originally published February 4, 2014. Updated April 11, 2018.
