Whether it was right for Casey Affleck — who has been charged with sexual assault on multiple occasions — to win the Oscar for best actor was initially obvious to me. Regardless of his performance in “Manchester by the Sea,” his criminal allegations should have penalized him from receiving the prestigious award. Yet in articulating my opinion to a friend the next day at lunch, I was caught off guard by her valid refute: “But when did the Academy Awards become a justice league?”
Immediately, I was reminded of my paradoxical childhood obsession with Roald Dahl. On one hand, my favorite author had created the wondrous chocolate factory, given a little girl coveted mind powers and allowed giants to be kind. On the other hand, he was a raging anti-Semite. Yet I cannot help but look fondly on my time in the world of Dahl’s books, where I had some of my first experiences of feeling totally transported through literature. In conjuring some of my favorite childhood memories, I do not immediately think about his hatred for Jews. In fact, I don’t think about Dahl at all; instead, I think of Charlie Bucket, Miss Honey and the Big Friendly Giant.
Just as Dahl’s stories remain distinct in my mind from his personal convictions, an actor’s performance can remain separate from his individual integrity. When we interact with a piece of literature or film, we are primarily interacting with that work’s world and the characters who inhabit it — not with the human being behind the art. Thus, if the Oscars explicitly seeks to recognize cinematic achievements, there is nothing wrong about assessing Affleck’s portrayal of his character as worthy of such an award.
From here on out, Casey Affleck will always be identified as an “Oscar-winning” actor — in articles, on social media and when casually referenced in conversations. This is what bothers me most. Perhaps the issue on hand is not even a question of whether this label should have been earned in the first place, but where the status of “alleged assaulter” will stand in the actor’s legacy. Because, whereas the former is an esteemed modifier that Affleck will have the privilege of sporting for the rest of his life — and afterwards — the latter will most likely be camouflaged by the blinds of large professional achievement.
When we permit professional or intellectual accomplishments to supplant one’s history of alleged crimes, the message conveyed is that these transgressions are insignificant relative to one’s talent. Look at the most powerful man in the country: if the president is someone accused of sexual assault in the double digits, there is no denying that we allow alleged assailants to rise up in society. But more so, maybe if more people had considered President Trump as a multiple-trangessor of sexual assault — at least as equally as they considered him a successful businessman — he would currently be enjoying fewer prestigious titles. More generally, this is how legacy functions: We choose certain primary labels to associate with people, and they stick. The others fade in time and are ultimately forgotten by the history books.
By determining one’s legacy overwhelmingly by their professional achievements, we perpetuate the idea that sexual assault — and other obstructions to human decency — is insignificant relative to one’s list of accomplishments. In encouraging the notion that one’s legacy is not tarnished as a consequence of assault, we fail to prevent future cases. In determining what goes down in history, we shape the present. Affleck shouldn’t be barricaded from winning the prestigious Academy Award, as the Oscars intend to solely consider theatrical ability, not moral character. Yet, members of society — who hold the power of determining how we remember people — should be able to recognize this: While awards shows may not consider morality, we can and should.
Among the career achievements, net-worth rankings and high IQs of powerful figures, we must include moral character in recalling their legacy. As students, our capacity to choose what issues to spotlight in our studies allows us the power of focusing our historical lens. In doing so, we can delve into the legacy of important figures with questionable backgrounds and spotlight the points of unease, instead of disguising it with the shield of professional success. This can involve writing the essay about a leader’s lesser-known relationships with his inferiors instead of describing the more obvious success of his lucrative empire. Or maybe it’s bringing the question of someone’s ethics to the seminar table before examining the triumph of their executive style. Only in altering how we expose the past can shape how society acts in the present and future.
Rebecca Okin ’19 can be reached atrebecca_okin@brown.edu. Please send responses to this opinion to letters@browndailyherald.com and other op-eds to opinions@browndailyherald.com.
