You, me, and everyone we know: whether you’re aware of it or not, you’re in a relationship with a monster.
There is surely some artist whose behavior, known to you or otherwise, is scurrilous, reprehensible, possibly worthy of life imprisonment—and yet you continue to love the work of that artist, defiantly, secretly, or in ignorant bliss. More often than not, this person—it could be a filmmaker, a writer, a painter, a musician—is a man, because more often than not, it’s brilliant men who get a pass when it comes to how they behave in everyday life. And so, when it comes to laying blame for these conflicts that roil inside us—can I still watch Woody Allen’s Annie Hall and not feel dirty? Is it wrong to feel a frisson of…
