self-possessed. They wear
dresses we can't afford and live in houses we can only dream of. Yet it
turns out that—in the most painful and personal ways—movie stars are
more like you and me than we ever knew.
of unrest. Yet it doesn't have a
leader, or a single, unifying tenet. The hashtag #MeToo (swiftly
adapted into #BalanceTonPorc, #YoTambien, #Ana_kaman and many others),
which to date has provided an umbrella of solidarity for millions of
people to come forward with their stories, is part of the picture, but
not all of it.
This reckoning
appears to have sprung up overnight. But it has actually been simmering
for years, decades, centuries. Women have had it with bosses and
co-workers who not only cross boundaries but don't even seem to know
that boundaries exist. They've had it with the fear of retaliation, of
being blackballed, of being fired from a job they can't afford to lose.
They've had it with the code of going along to get along. They've had it
with men who use their power to take what they want from women. These
silence breakers have started a revolution of refusal, gathering
strength by the day, and in the past two months alone, their collective
anger has spurred immediate and shocking results: nearly every day, CEOs
have been fired, moguls toppled, icons disgraced. In some cases,
criminal charges have been brought.
Emboldened by Judd, Rose McGowan
and a host of other prominent accusers, women everywhere have begun to
speak out about the inappropriate, abusive and in some cases illegal
behavior they've faced. When multiple harassment claims bring down a
charmer like former Today show host Matt
Lauer, women who thought they had no recourse see a new, wide-open door.
When a movie star says #MeToo, it becomes easier to believe the cook
who's been quietly enduring for years
In
1997, just before Ashley Judd's career took off, she was invited to a
meeting with Harvey Weinstein, head of the starmaking studio Miramax, at
a Beverly Hills hotel. Astounded and offended by Weinstein's attempt to
coerce her into bed, Judd managed to escape. But instead of keeping
quiet about the kind of encounter that could easily shame a woman into
silence, she began spreading the word.
"I
started talking about Harvey the minute that it happened," Judd says in
an interview with TIME. "Literally, I exited that hotel room at the
Peninsula Hotel in 1997 and came straight downstairs to the lobby, where
my dad was waiting for me, because he happened to be in Los Angeles
from Kentucky, visiting me on the set. And he could tell by my face—to
use his words—that something devastating had happened to me. I told him.
I told everyone."
TIME
She
recalls one screenwriter friend telling her that Weinstein's behavior
was an open secret passed around on the whisper network that had been
furrowing through Hollywood for years. It allowed for people to warn
others to some degree, but there was no route to stop the abuse. "Were
we supposed to call some fantasy attorney general of moviedom?" Judd
asks. "There wasn't a place for us to report these experiences."
Finally, in October—when Judd went on the record about Weinstein's behavior in the New York Times,
the first star to do so—the world listened. (Weinstein said he "never
laid a glove" on Judd and denies having had nonconsensual sex with other
accusers.)
When movie stars
don't know where to go, what hope is there for the rest of us? What hope
is there for the janitor who's being harassed by a co-worker but
remains silent out of fear she'll lose the job she needs to support her
children? For the administrative assistant who repeatedly fends off a
superior who won't take no for an answer? For the hotel housekeeper who
never knows, as she goes about replacing towels and cleaning toilets, if
a guest is going to corner her in a room she can't escape?
http://time.com/time-person-of-the-year-2017-silence-breakers/
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