The last thing I wanted to do was write a piece about Woody Allen.
That might seem disingenuous, since here I am, writing a piece about Woody Allen. But after reading the open letter by Dylan Farrow, published February 1 on Nicholas Kristof’s blog in The New York Times, I would have liked to avoid the subject altogether.
In the piece, Farrow (who now goes by a different name) alleges that “when 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.”
Who wants to think that a beloved filmmaker, comedian and cultural icon could well be a child molester? Who wants to struggle with what that means for our appreciation of his work?
Unfortunately, we don’t really have a choice. And because I’m a critic who writes about Allen’s films, I can’t avoid writing about it, either.