The Woody-Allen-Mia-Farrow-Dylan-Farrow-Soon-Yi-Previn saga. I am like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, with my head spinning wildly trying to untangle this sordid mess. Did Woody Allen, once my favorite writer and director, who’s movies have felt personal and made me howl with laughter for 25 years, abuse his adopted daughter at the age of 7? I DON’T KNOW. But what I wonder, is if it’s my business to know, or care, for that matter. I mean, I care in the way that I as a human being care about anybody being hurt, but should I even be privvy to such a personal story? Is this what you are subject to if you’re a public figure, to have all your dirty laundry (whether it’s actually dirty or not) hanging out in the blog-o-sphere for people who know nothing about your actual life to discuss as if they did, to be subjected to a 140 character trial on twitter, to be fodder for Facebook?
This is a frightening tale with serious accusations, game changing allegations, and so much pain it could fill a couple thousand stadiums. As if that’s not enough to have to deal with, this whole clan is doing it in public. Double the thousand stadiums, this thing is out of control and completely inappropriate to be be played out in public. I don’t feel a voyeuristic thrill reading these stories, like I might about one of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I feel a serious bout of nausea, and like I am eavesdropping on a family that’s truly in the middle of a colossal crisis. While I generally enjoy a good famous person disaster, this one is just too sad. I don’t want to be part of it. Gratitude goes to whoever it is who can create a dialogue that’s between the family in this case, and not the public.