Roman’s Baby

As you read this,  filmmaker, Roman Polanski, is probably already in Paris, being congratulated at the Elysee Palace by President Sarkozy.  The anklet is off and ten months of house arrest  is over at his chalet in Gstaad, Switzerland.  The champagne will be flowing and most of fashionable tout-Paris will be jockeying for an invitation to a party where you can demonstrate how hip and French you are by patting the old boy on his little shoulder and murmuring “pas grande chose et quelle artiste!” in his ear. 

In France you have to tirelessly demonstrate how empathetic and tolerant you are when it comes to the pecadillos committed by the rich and well-connected.   Otherwise you might not be invited to the hot soirees.  President Mitterand had a second family in a swank government apartment for many years and it was tres cool to give a Gallic shrug.  Actually, compared to Polanski, it was a private affair, and if Mme. Mitterand took it in stride so could the taxpayers.  A mistress?  C’est normal.

 Roman’s  fame turned him into a victim, especially among the political-artistic class that rules France as tightly as any Bourbon Dynasty.    While I couldn’t support him languishing in the cells, it is a big “gauling” to see there are separate standards of justice.  But hey, we knew that already from our Hollywood celebrity murder trials. 

Nevertheless this was rape and she was a child.  He should have returned and completed his incarceration.   Just the girl’s bad luck to be chosen by her predator.   She was “Polanski’s, not Rosemary’s Baby” for a shattering evening of intimidation, fear and violation.   At least he has Woody Allen in his corner.