When film stars fall, skies, such as they are, rip and rupture,
Whether it is Gene Hackman dying in Altzheimic shock at rat germs
That claimed his wife, or James Dean, still stained by his secrets,
Or now, Gerard Depardieu’s groping and two sentence
Suspended assaults, each confirm that to place our faith
In the dark which smears us all seems foolhardy. What we must
Prize is the work truth can’t alter, no matter how marred
Makers are. For if Woody Allen trips snared by a 30 year old
Accusation and Depardieu’s latest movie is the film of his fall,
Should the star become a black and cancelled hole, folding
In on themselves in our cosmos? Or should the glow and glare
And the beauty of what they have brought to the screen
Now be dulled? Gerard’s appetite filled the frame,
In latter years to the edges, but it was always his skill
And charisma that bested most. Now its culled. Film actors
Cast images, bright burns in light, photocopies, which can be
Pushed past the pixel, or stripped from celluloid to make art.
And he is an artist to last, through what he leased from his darkness.
As a socio-moral hunchback Jean De Florette will still break
Your heart. Or Green Card amuse. It is what makes Buffet Froid,
Les Valseuses, or his Cyrano so beguiling. It flows from the same
Stream in which Kevin Spacey has been allowed to rinse recently.
It cannot cleanse the sin, but it can cast reflected glow on the gargoyles,
Who while once acting badly can attempt to do so now, decently.
Arnie Hammer’s handsome face seemed obscene at the time
Of his defamations. Spacey too seemed to bridle as Guy Pearce
Spilled the beans across reputation and rip from a firmament
Now in tatters. Whereas former Popstars degrade, for film actors
Their slate will never again click while clean. I cannot equate
Depardieu to Paul Gadd, or to the ones with whom Guiffre settled.
But I have not talked to the women who had to endure Gerard’s
Clutch. Whether desperate, or declared; whether fucked by fame
Or entitled, how do we group the gropers and damn those like GD
And DLT? By how much? Some just bewilder and stun.
Harris and Hall. Gary Glitter. Jimmy Savile and Epstein are in
A league of their own, fire fed. But this isn’t that. GD’s appetites
Just grew gruesome. So how do we lessen legends in whatever
Form if not dead? There is now it seems no-one left to truly trust
And believe in. Admiration’s been archived and possibly lost
Frequency. So if we dispense with their work, from the fleshly full
To the wooden, we will also lose the last culture, if there is no chance
To claim clemency. Louis CK fucked himself, in more ways than one.
What a talent. Now Graham Linehan also is in a cell of sorts
Built by calls. So what awaits now the men who have forced
The flesh to fail and expose it as the desperate umbrella for urges
That even rain should spike as it falls? Men are an endangered species,
At last and as a consequence lash at women. These are acts
Of urgency and abandon, premeditated too, at some point.
Perhaps it is the price paid for fame, removing you from the real
All too quickly. What should he do? And us, watching; must we forget
Each film we loved an anoint someone else in his place.
Which of you now would watch Seven? Or 1492, or Manhattan,
Or 1900, or dare I say Modern Times. Chaplin favoured the young.
Who mars the lines? Who slits silence? Each and every accuser.
As the guilty are gathered they are the film stars now.
Skin as sign.
David Erdos 14/5/25
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