Who didn’t cringe at Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will, a documentary from 1935 that served the Nazi cause with impressive technical skill? Or The Birth of a Nation, often praised for its cinematic influence yet infamous for its pro-Klan glorification? Fritz Lang’s Nibelungs, a lyrical work dense with Aryan myth, also invites scrutiny. And the question persists: are many rock songs, rap, and boleros inherently misogynistic, from the Rolling Stones to contemporary artists?
Can Wagner’s operas and symphonies be enjoyed without weighing his anti-Semitic views? Hitler admired his music, yet Wagner himself cannot be held responsible for that adoration. How should a Picasso painting be approached when one recognizes abusive contexts behind it? How does one read Louis-Ferdinand Céline without confronting his anti-Semitic and collaborationist stances during the Nazi occupation? Should overt misogyny be rejected outright? What about Buñuel, Berlanga, or Hitchcock?
When listening to Michael Jackson’s Thriller or Billie Jean, is it possible to separate the art from troubling accusations, especially if the artist faced serious allegations that affected public perception? How should one respond to revelations about Woody Allen when revisiting Manhattan or other works? Does new information about the director change the way a viewer experiences the film? Should authors like TS Eliot and Virginia Woolf be dismissed entirely after their problematic views are acknowledged? And what about Nabokov’s Lolita in today’s climate? Is there a line between enjoyment of a work and the artist’s actions? Can one still watch James Bond films and their successors, given notorious sexism in those early entries? And should listening to John Lennon’s Imagine or Miles Davis’s So What be tempered by the personal lives of their creators?
Can the author leave his work?
On the spectrum of public judgment, Harvey Weinstein stands out as a distinctly harsh example. Yet his role was not that of an artist in the traditional sense, but a producer who shaped many projects. Then there is Roman Polanski, a director whose films drew critical acclaim even as his personal deeds sparked intense controversy. This tension is foregrounded in the book Monsters, discussed in its Spanish edition by Peninsula, where the core question is posed plainly: Can an author leave his work?
Dederer sought to explore Polanski’s films while grappling with the troubling actions behind the scenes. The aim was to consume his work with ethical standards in mind, to be a mindful participant in the artistic conversation, while avoiding a simplistic rejection of art itself. The preface recounts the author’s resolve to balance feminist perspectives with a citizen’s curiosity about the art world. (Citation: Claire Dederer, Monsters)
The terrible spoils the wonderful
After engaging with Polanski’s The Chimera Tenant, The Devil’s Seed, Chinatown, and other films, Dederer anticipated a transformative realization upon learning about the director’s abuse of an underage boy. Yet that transformation did not occur. What emerged was a sober reminder that good art remains compelling even when its creator’s actions are reprehensible. The essential point is that people may recognize themselves in a work they love, or they may defend it despite discomfort. When Manhattan appeared in 1979, few argued that it was a pedophile film; later revelations about Allen’s attitudes shifted the perception of his oeuvre. (Citation: Claire Dederer, Monsters)
This remains a delicate matter, addressed with measured calm. The idea is that the moral feelings stirred by a work do not erase the artistic qualities that brought it into existence. The claim is that “monstrous geniuses” provoke ethical self-reflection—readers find themselves asking whether ethical judgments should accompany aesthetic enjoyment, or if the art simply stands apart from the artist’s life. The central insight is that people often misread themselves as moral judges when they are really negotiating emotional reactions.
They rape, they abandon
The analysis turns to Woody Allen, examining scenes from Manhattan and noting the character Isaac’s provocative lines about gender and desire. Does the voice belong to the character or to the creator? Allen’s remarks about his personal life complicate the reading of his films, prompting viewers to weigh the ethics of admiration against the work’s artistic merit. (Citation: Claire Dederer, Monsters)
The author expands the discussion to include several other figures and a spectrum of ethical questions. It is not limited to male writers or famous male directors; it also touches on how women who commit personal transgressions, such as abandoning children, intersect with public perception. The central claim is that moral evaluations often outpace simple judgments about authorship, and readers are invited to hold space for ambiguity rather than neat conclusions. (Citation: Claire Dederer, Monsters)
Dederer acknowledges that there are no easy answers. Her exploration of Nabokov’s Lolita appears in the context of renewed scrutiny in the wake of #MeToo, inviting readers to confront certainty with open questions. Monsters traces how certainties give way to unknowns, urging readers to face their own reflections rather than seeking comfort in definitive labels. It does not pretend to finalize responsibility; it places readers before their own moral mirrors.