Forget it, Dan, it’s Chinatown

I found out Roman Polanski had been arrested via my friend’s Gchat status message. I recalled finding out Heath Ledger had died via Facebook. The narrative—or narratives—that were created in the immediate aftermath of Polanski’s arrest were like an alteration of the greatest-actor-ever story that sprung up as soon as Ledger was gone.

Ledger was a perfectly good actor, but I came to think that the constant awards-show tributes and magazine articles about him had more to do with the self-aggrandizement of Hollywood figures and fans on the Internet, all wanting to have their own piece of the tragedy. Similarly, everyone I knew who perused the internet as much as I did had an opinion about Polanski incredibly soon after his arrest, while I was still trying to navigate the pile of media coverage, all of which followed a similar line—that Polanski (whose crime was often described in graphic terms) deserved whatever punishment might be thrown at him.

I grew frustrated as I read the raging Polanski coverage. I did not necessarily believe that he ought to be able to flee forever from the heinous charges he’d admitted to, but I also didn’t believe that he ought to be cast out of reasonable people’s esteem in the sort of quick-blooming media circus that’s become so common. A court case as complex as Polanski’s—with the victim asking for a cessation to the trial, and alleged judicial misconduct—deserves something more than a hastily created story. After all, I didn’t recall coverage of Polanski taking such a vituperative tack when he won the Oscar and Palme d’Or for The Pianist: He was still a fugitive then. But it was the first half of the decade then, and celebrity media hadn’t yet grown tinged with populist rage.

Amid the creation of a narrative every bit as compelling as a speech about Heath Ledger at the Golden Globes, I felt unable to think. I tried to remove myself from the news cycle, but the office I work in subscribes to the New York Post, and, you know, the Internet exists. I was adrift. I tried to agree with both the narrative and the counter-narrative of the justice system’s wronging the director, because everything I heard made sense. Polanski was wrong to run from justice. But he’d had an astoundingly hard life before the case. The directors who signed the pro-Polanski petition were supporting a colleague and friend. But the petition was ludicrously worded at points. The problem was that the actual story didn’t fit a narrative—or that narratives were being applied all around me.

A friend who was strongly in favor of Polanski’s extradition overheard my complaints that the director was being demonized. I tried to explain days later that I wasn’t, obviously, in favor of the director’s flight from justice, and that I wasn’t an antifeminist. It wouldn’t be unfair to think that my sympathy for Polanski signified support for all his actions. I found myself stuttering as I explained that Polanski “didn’t kill anyone.” Who was I kidding? I couldn’t even speak with conviction. Forming an amorphous opinion in opposition to an established, dogmatic narrative of the moment is no better than simply accepting the narrative, and far less convenient—rejecting the popular narrative only got me entangled in another. Writing my own intellectual narrative regarding Polanski has become so cumbersome as to be impossible. I’ve started staying away from the Post at work, now that they’ve moved on to David Letterman. The last thing I need is another narrative to learn.

A digression: After my last column, I was lucky enough to attend a tea with Dean Michele Moody-Adams. Neither the quality of the petit-fours nor of the conversation can really be overstated. As I nibbled key lime tartlets and observed, schoolmates engaged the Columbia College dean in conversation about the Core, and her head tilts and tongue clucks during silent moments seemed unfamiliar to me. I remembered that was what intense listening looked like. It had become unfamiliar.

My companion at the event began speaking about what we both view as the problem of Art Hum, one that I cut in to describe ineptly: “You’re going from the cave paintings of Lascaux to Warhol with no narrative.” When I was a sophomore in Art Hum, I would have been greatly comforted by a framework on which the disparate masterpieces might have been hung. Dean Moody-Adams nodded sympathetically. Another student there, currently enrolled in Art Hum, disagreed with me, saying that the class was stronger without a narrative, that you could appreciate each work of art on its own merits better without a cumbersome framing device. I didn’t know then if I should respond, or what I would say if I did.

Daniel D’Addario is a Columbia College senior majoring in American studies and English. He is the managing editor of the Columbia Political Review. The Unbearable LOLness of Being runs alternate Mondays.

Tags: Opinion, Daniel D'Addario, Heath Ledger, Roman Polanski, The Unbearable LOLness of Being