One of the weirdest things about the whole Polanski affair is how this guy who'd been convicted of drugging and raping a thirteen year old girl (then ran away) got welcomed by the European glitterati like a returning prodigal. You'd think his crime would have made him untouchable, but it didn't- and for thirty years his career flourished- in all which time- so far as I'm aware- no-one famous ever said, "Ugh, I don't want to be in the same room as that creep". When he finally got overconfident and put himself in a position where the police could swoop, a huge number of his dear friends rallied round and protested his arrest- and Whoopi Goldberg- of all people- said on a talk show that it wasn't as if his crime was "rape-rape"- by which I suppose she meant he didn't use a knife. Now Robert Harris, author of the book on which Polanski based his most recent movie, has written an article rubbishing Charlotte Lewis- who recently came forward to say that Polanski assaulted her too.
Where were Harris and Goldberg and all those other dwellers above the clouds when Gary Glitter and Chris Langham came a cropper?
Clearly culpability in matters relating to the sexual abuse of children depends on how cool you are. If you're only slightly well known- like Langham- or actually a bit naff- like Glitter- you're paedo-scum. If you're wonderfully famous and powerful- like Polanski, Bill Wyman, Michael Jackson or Pete Townsend- you're an artist with a troubled soul. I was going to say that at least the entertainment industry- unlike the Catholic Church- doesn't preach at us while sheltering kiddy-fiddlers, but then I thought about it some more and realised that, of course, in it's own way, it does.