Movie Review by Sergio Martinez
The subject of this
documentary recently released in Montreal should stir up some old quarrels and
reopen the discussion on a case that many would prefer to keep closed. Most
likely, however, this will not be the case: Fog of February (Onze jours en février)
is showing in only a few theatres in Montreal.
Claude Jutra
(1930-1986) was, until 2016, one of the most revered personalities in the cultural
milieu of the province of Quebec. Like many intellectuals of that time, he was
also a fervent separatist, to the point of having refused to accept the Order of Canada,
which had been conferred on him by the federal government. Considered one of
the fathers of modern Quebec cinema, Jutra first became known for his film À
tout prendre (1963) and especially Mon oncle Antoine (1971). By the 1980s Jutra
began to succumb to Alzheimer's and in 1986 he committed suicide by throwing
himself into the St. Lawrence River from the Jacques Cartier Bridge. Thirty
years later, however, he would fall into disgrace and become practically a
missing person in the province's modern history.
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| Once a revered Quebec celebrity, Jutra became a non-person in a record time |
In his film, Coulbois
makes a detailed presentation of the facts, beginning by situating Jutra's
impact on Quebec cinema for an audience that has probably never heard of Jutra,
except in a negative context, and then reconstructing, based on archival material
and several interviews with people who knew the case, what this process of prosecution
and condemnation, carried out in record time, was like.
Strictly speaking, it
must be admitted that overall, the film takes a very critical look at the
process by which Jutra went from being a key figure in Quebec culture and
identity to a disgusting villain. Jutra was known to be homosexual but there
had never been any indication that he engaged in acts of pederasty. Moreover,
the revelations in Lever's book were more like hearsay or rumours as the people
alluded to remained anonymous.
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| A monument to Jutra, now removed |
It is precisely this
speed of action that the film highlights: the then Minister of Culture, Helene
David, appears giving instructions to remove the filmmaker's name from the
annual Québec Cinéma awards, and the same orders are given to municipalities to
change the name of streets or parks that honoured Jutra, the then federal
Minister of Canadian Heritage, Mélanie Joly, moves with equal speed. This is especially highlighted in interviews
with lawyer Jean-Claude Hébert, filmmaker Denys Arcand, and producer Rock
Demers.
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| Quebec filmmaker Denys Arcand was surprised by the speed of the process |
This is the central
point of the film, which does not attempt to rehabilitate the filmmaker or to
reopen a case that has never been heard in court. In this sense, Fog of
February (Onze jours en Février) should make us reflect on the scope that an
accusation as serious as pederasty can have.
Undoubtedly, the #MeToo
movement that arose precisely in the film industry to denounce sexual abuse
committed by powerful men in Hollywood has contributed to denouncing and -we
hope- discouraging and criminalizing this type of conduct that occurs in many
other spheres of public life. However, this is an important warning call that
this film makes, in a democracy, there must always be due process. Before
condemning and especially before erasing the artistic work of a person, it must
be clear that his or her work should not suffer the consequences of the
reprehensible actions which its creator may have incurred in his or her private
life.
A COMPLEX SITUATION,
BUT CAN PEOPLE AND THEIR WORK BE ERASED?
The issue of sexual
abuse, especially in the artistic-cultural milieu, but also in politics and the
business world, has been in the headlines for some time now. The #MeToo
movement contributed in an important way to reveal these abuses, and it is certainly good that it has been so. But beware, this
should not mean overlooking the fact that there are other dimensions to
consider as well. In Montreal, there was the case of Charles Dutoit,
controversial conductor of the Montreal Symphony Orchestra (OSM) who, on the
one hand, made a remarkable contribution to the development of that musical
ensemble. Dutoit, however, was also accused of sexual abuse and now when the
radio plays a song recorded by the OSM when he conducted, his name is omitted.
Woody Allen, a
celebrated director whose contribution to the art of filmmaking cannot be
denied, was also the target of accusations that were nevertheless dismissed by
the courts and the child protection agency. It was then determined in those legal instances that his
ex-wife, Mia Farrow, had influenced the children to make those accusations. Despite
that, Allen's films have been the target of hostility, and more than
once exhibitions of his works have been cancelled.
Spanish tenor Plácido
Domingo, meanwhile, has been accused of sexual harassment by some of the female
singers with whom he has performed throughout his long career. In 2019 when
those allegations came to public light he was forced to resign as artistic director
of the Los Angeles Opera. The following year he issued a public apology for
making some of his colleagues uncomfortable, however, he reiterated that he had
done nothing to cause harm. The tenor no longer performs in the United States,
but in Spain, he is still considered one of its iconic artists.
The problem is that
while sexual abuse duly proven or recognized before judicial institutions should
undoubtedly affect the personal reputation of the artist who engages in such
conduct, on the other hand, it should not affect the access and study of his or
her work, nor should it erase his or her artistic contribution.
