As a blogger and a memoirist, I’ve been thinking a lot about memory recently in light of the renewed allegations of molestation by Dylan Farrow against her adoptive father. Woody Allen and his team of apologists have successfully planted enough doubt in the public’s mind that people either don’t want to look any more or are chiming like some numbed Greek chorus, “Nobody will ever know the truth but Woody and Dylan.”
The notion that Mia Farrow is this preternaturally nefarious, super-accomplished mesmerist who so effectively implanted false memories in her seven-year-old daughter
Editor’s Note: This marks the 100th post on the PFC blog, which wouldn’t mean much if this were TMZ with a dozen fluffy gossip posts an hour, but a PFC piece requires a lot of TLC to create. It’s only appropriate that Eric Baker take this honor because it is he who kicked us over the 4,000-views-a-day mark on Friday with his Duran Duran story. — James Killough
We were talking movie directors here the other day (actually, I was talking movie directors and Killough was like, “Yeah whatever, Baker—shut the fuck up—I know”) and Roman Polanski came up, not for his movies but for his marriage to Sharon Tate. The Polanski-Tate union suffered from the dreaded Billy Joel-Christie Brinkley syndrome years before medical science had even identified the disease, which occurs when an ugly, talented man marries a beautiful, possibly talented, but who cares, she’s a goddess, woman. And Sharon Tate was a goddess.
But, Sharon, why Frodo? WHY?
You may know that Tate was murdered in 1969 by Charles Manson’s gang and that Polanski went on to perpetrate a sexual act against a 13-year-old girl in the mid 1970s.