The decision to free Roman Polanski is a wise decision. It honors the people who took it. It shows that the arguments developed by the movie director’s partisans — including those published on the French review’s website of La Règle du Jeu — have finally been fruitful. It shows that Polanski’s French lawyers, Hervé Témime and Georges Kiejman, were right to remain tenacious. At this very moment, I am thinking about Emmanuelle, his wife. I am thinking about his two kids who saw their dad’s name ignominiously dragged through the mud. I am mostly thinking about him: Roman Polanski whom I don’t know but whose fate has moved me so much. Nothing will repair the days he has spent in prison. Nothing will erase the immense, unbelievable injustice he has been subjected to. Nothing will take away the hysteria of those ones who have never stopped pouring contempt upon him, hounding him through hatred and asking for his punishment as if we were living the darkest and most ferocious hours of the McCarthysm era all over again. At least, the nightmare is about to end. At least the end of the hell is looming. And this, for the time being, is what does matter.
Do these guys understand how stupid they sound talking about the “injustice” of jailing a man who anally raped a kid after feeding her booze and quaaludes? He raped a fucking teenager, then fled the country to escape justice.
You know, I used to be of the position that it has been decades, the girl apparently has decided to let this pass, that it is no big deal. But after listening to Polanski’s defenders try to excuse the inexcusable and act like hunting down child rapists is a witchhunt, I almost want Polanski to spend the rest of his life in jail.