Shattered Artists, or Just Dented? Four Writers and a Filmmaker

What happens when a valued work of art falls from its pedestal? Depending on what it’s made of, it might dent, break, or shatter. A dent can perhaps be ignored, a break repaired. But a shattered work of art is probably lost forever.

And what happens when an artist falls from her or his pedestal?

Most of us discover at some point that artists whom we have admired for years have character flaws—sometimes minor, sometimes serious. What happens then? Minor flaws we can probably ignore; after all, who among us is flawless. But serious flaws force us to reconsider everything we admired about them, including the works they produced.

When I was in my teens and early twenties, I discovered five artists—four writers and a filmmaker—whom I greatly admired. When I placed them on their pedestals, I knew next to nothing about their personal lives; most of what I knew of them was through their books and movies, i.e., what they wanted me to know [1]. It was only later, after they had died, that I learned more about them, or saw things in their works I hadn’t seen before, that made them wobble and fall off their pedestals. How did that affect the way I felt about them and their work? Were they dented, broken, or shattered? In each case, the answer is not simple, and sometimes not easy for me to admit.

Isaac Asimov (1920?1992)

I’ve read more books written by Isaac Asimov than by any other author. It began when I was around 14 years old with one of his lesser books, a novelization of the movie Fantastic Voyage. Within a few years I moved on to his science fiction masterpieces, such as I, Robot, the Foundation trilogy, The Caves of Steel, The Gods Themselves, and The End of Eternity. Then I discovered his mystery books, then his science books, then his history books, then his books on the Bible, then his books of original limericks, then . . . well, the list goes on. Asimov was one of America’s most prolific writers, and he wrote about nearly everything.

It wasn’t hard for me to admire him. He was extremely intelligent and a great storyteller, in his nonfiction as well as in his fiction. He was also a great explainer, able to talk about the most complex scientific topics in ways that nonscientists like me could understand, yet he never talked down to his readers or dumbed down the subject matter. As for writing style, he said, with pride, “I have an informal style, which means I tend to use short words and simple sentence structure”—writing advice I try to follow to this day. [2]

He was also deeply concerned about the environment and the future of the planet. Many of his lectures, books, and essays warned about greenhouse gases, climate change, and population growth long before such concerns were shared by most others.

And yet . . .

Years after his death, stories began to circulate about how he behaved at public events, such as science fiction conventions. In particular, about how he behaved with young women. His habit of pinching and groping them would certainly be considered sexual harassment today [3].

But what I find most disturbing about this is that Asimov told me (and all his other readers, of course) that he was doing it. In fact, in his later years he often wrote about this behavior, with the excuse that he was assuming the role of Dirty Old Man and it was all cute and harmless. The women didn’t find it cute and harmless, but what could they to do about it? After all, this was Isaac Asimov, science fiction royalty. So they put up with it, while I (and his other readers) accepted his version of the story. I now realize that his behavior with women was reprehensible, but why didn’t I see that years ago?

Ayn Rand (1905?1982)

Most architects know Ayn Rand only from The Fountainhead, her 700-page 1943 novel about uncompromising modernist architect Howard Roark. I, however, found her through a different path, first reading her early science fiction novel Anthem (1938). It’s not a great book [4], but it led me to Atlas Shrugged, her 1957 masterpiece, which she spent 10 years writing. It embodied the essence of her philosophy, within more than a thousand pages of great storytelling. Then I read The Fountainhead, followed by nearly all her other fiction and nonfiction.

Her origin story sounds like her fiction. In 1926, after having lived through the Russian Revolution, 21-year-old Anna Rosenberg had the good fortune to leave the Soviet Union and come to Los Angeles, where she dreamed of being a writer (and recreated herself as “Ayn Rand”). She spoke little English, yet through a chance encounter with Cecil B. DeMille, she found work in the then-silent movie industry and met her future husband, actor Frank O’Connor. She taught herself English, and in the 1930s began writing movie treatments, short stories, plays, screenplays, and, in 1936, her first novel, the 500-page, somewhat autobiographical We the Living. She worked in the office of architect Ely Kahn to research The Fountainhead, which was published after she received dozens of rejections. It became a surprise bestseller, as was Atlas Shrugged; both have never been out of print.

After Atlas Shrugged, she wrote many nonfiction books (my favorite being The Romantic Manifesto [5]) that talked about Objectivism, her philosophy that prioritizes the values of individualism and capitalism. This philosophy, for better or for worse, has influenced several generations of readers. Ayn Rand had an amazing mind and is often listed, rightly, among the most influential people of the 20th century.

And yet . . .

Ayn Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism evolved, or devolved, into an “Ayn Rand personality cult” that she didn’t discourage, and which has led to a lot of bad politics and bad politicians today. But how could a person who valued reason and individualism become a cult figure? As professional skeptic Michael Shermer has noted [6], Rand encouraged behavior in her followers that can only be described as cultish, such as venerating their leader, asserting that she is infallible, and believing she is the ultimate source of truth and morality. And it wasn’t the stupid and the gullible attracted to her—she would never accept such followers—but only highly intelligent people. The Ayn Rand cult comprised the best and the brightest—in fact, just the kind of people who save the world in Atlas Shrugged. But the case against Rand goes further.

After her death, people who had formerly been among her inner circle of disciples published books revealing her dark side. While she claimed to have adored her husband, she didn’t regard him as her intellectual equal, and sought others whom she did. She had a long-lasting love affair with her much younger protégé, and didn’t keep it a secret from her husband or the protégé’s wife [7]. And although she was an outspoken opponent of racism, believing each individual should be judged based on his or her own merits, every character in her fiction is white.

Ayn Rand was intellectually brilliant, but a deeply flawed person. But I was drawn to the personality she created in her writing, and can see how people might have been pulled into her cult. I wasn’t, but I understand her cultists’ faulty arithmetic: Ayn Rand was a genius, so if I agree unquestionably with her philosophy, then I must be at least among the intellectual elite.

I’m saddened that her valid ideas got lost and distorted by her cult followers, but I still agree with her emphasis on the value of each individual life and the importance of basing our decisions on reality. And I still admire her ability to write compelling—and really long—stories.

Alfred Hitchcock (1899?1980)

Alfred Hitchcock was the first film director whose name I knew and whose face I recognized. Not from his movies, even though I’d seen a few, most memorably The Birds (1963), on TV, but from his television show Alfred Hitchcock Presents, each episode of which he personally introduced. Because of that show, America and the world became comfortable with the character he created for us: a polite, well-dressed, harmless, and somewhat anxious British gentleman with a macabre sense of humor. [8]

Later, I discovered his movies as the major works of art they are, seeing many of them in theaters [9]: The 39 Steps, Rebecca, Shadow of a Doubt, Notorious, Strangers on a Train, Dial M for Murder (in 3D!), Rear Window, Vertigo (in 70mm!), North by Northwest, Psycho, and The Birds. He made more great movies than any other filmmaker and became the one of the first filmmakers I placed on a pedestal.    

I admired Hitchcock’s skill at making movies that were not only highly entertaining and beautifully filmed but also complex works of art offering new revelations with each repeated viewing [10]. While his collaborators included some of the best performers, writers, and technical artists Hollywood could offer (most of his best movies were made after he moved to America), each of his movies has a distinct stamp of his personality, intelligence, and aesthetic sense. Using a modern-day term, he “branded” his movies as “Hitchcockian,” and that brand promised, with each new movie, something special.

And yet . . .

Several years after Hitchcock died, writers who had been his admirers began to talk about his dark side. It turns out he had a thing about blondes.

No, not a thing. An obsession.

We see it as early as his third movie (and first “Hitchcockian” thriller), The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog (1927), in which he made his dark-haired star wear a blond wig. Other blondes followed, including Madeleine Carrol, Carol Lombard, Anne Baxter [11], Grace Kelly, Vera Miles, Kim Novak, and Eva Sainte Marie. But when he discovered blonde fashion model Tippi Hedren, things turned ugly.

Hedren had never acted in a movie before, but nonetheless he signed her to a seven-year contract and made her the star of The Birds. That alone would intimidate most performers, but she also had to contend with Hitchcock’s disturbing on-set behavior. Throughout his career, he would try to make his women stars uncomfortable by telling them dirty jokes and limericks [12] just before the cameras rolled. Experienced actresses generally accepted this with humor, but this was Hedren’s first movie, and she didn’t know how to take it.

But he went much further with her. He dictated how she dressed and what she ate and drank, in her personal life as well as on the set. Then he began making inappropriate and unwelcome sexual advances toward her. Throughout the shooting of The Birds, Hedren put up with his behavior; after all, she needed a steady paycheck, and who wouldn’t want to be Hitchcock’s star. But when his behavior got worse while shooting their next movie, Marnie, she demanded to be released from her contract. Hitchcock refused and vindictively kept her from appearing in his or anyone else’s movies for several years. [13]

Hedren eventually freed herself from her contract and continues to appear in movies and TV episodes, but she remains most famous for The Birds (as well as being Melanie Griffith’s mother and an important nature conservationist). Hitchcock, however, never had another great movie after The Birds. He seemed to have lost his touch and struggled to make his movies Hitchcockian. After several flat or outright ugly movies, he ended his career with Family Plot, a refreshing return to some of his lighter classics (and featuring two blondes, one real and one with a blonde wig).

How can I call The Birds a great movie, knowing now what happened during its shooting? Because of what’s on the screen; it’s an extraordinary work of art. But I can’t admire Alfred Hitchcock the way I used to; he, as a person, is shattered.

Agatha Christie (1890?1976)

She is the undisputed queen of mystery. From her first novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920), until her final posthumous book, Sleeping Murder (1976), she wrote 66 novels, 165 short stories, 17 stage plays, and five autobiographical or poetry books—quite an output in a 54-year career [14]. With more than two billion copies of her books sold, she was the most-read author of the 20th century [15]. I was in high school when I read my first Christie book (The A.B.C Murders) and have since read more books by her than by any author other than Asimov.

At her best, Christie exceled in her clever plots, enjoyable characters, and engaging dialogue. The stories nearly always involved one or more puzzling murders, the mystery of which is explained by a surprising but (as it turns out) obvious solution. Among her more devious plots, we find the murder(s) being committed by (1) all the suspects, (2) the narrator, (3) one of the victims, and (4) the beloved detective him- or herself.  

Some highlights of Christie's life: She spent much of WWI as a volunteer nurse (which later paid off by giving her a knowledge of poisons). She first gained fame as an author while married to Archibald Christie, who proved to be loser. Her second marriage, lasting until her death, was to the archeologist (and, in 1960, Sir) Max Mallowan; her accompanying him on his Mideast digs gave her background for many of her mystery novels. Made a Dame of the British Empire in 1971, she was, without doubt, a remarkable woman.

And yet . . .

Was Agatha Christie a racist? The magazine Entertainment Weekly recently asked that question and concluded that yes, she probably was. We see glimpses of it in her writings, where we find derogatory remarks about Egyptians, Arabs, Jews, and other “foreigners.”

The most damning evidence of her racism is the original British title of her most acclaimed novel, And Then There Were None, which is unprintable here, and which I couldn’t bring myself to type anyway. Perhaps her American publisher had asked her, “What the hell were you thinking?” because the original American edition was titled the somewhat less racist but at least printable Ten Little Indians. As late as 1965, in her autobiography, she unapologetically referred to the original British title, so she apparently thought nothing of it. (As it turned out, the book’s final title is far more evocative and not a bit offensive.)

But I'm not sure Christie was a racist, at least as we think of racism today. We are all products of the cultures we are raised in, and Christie was no exception. She spent her adolescence and early adulthood in early 20th-century Britain, during the final decades of British imperialism, when the British were still clinging to the belief in their supremacy over lesser people—i.e., everyone not British—along with their natural right to rule over them. I suspect that Christie was more xenophobic than racist. As critical as she was of non-white people, she was equally critical of white non-British people, including Spaniards, Italians, and even Americans, whom she often depicted as classless boors. In her mind, all non-British people, no matter their race, were seen as inferior. [16]  

Arthur C. Clarke (1917?2008)

Unlike the other artists we're talking about, Arthur C. Clarke is here not because of what he did, but of what he didn’t do, but could have done.

From the 1940s through the 1960s, Clarke was often considered one of the “Big Three” of science fiction (along with Asimov and Robert A. Heinlein [17]), thanks to classic books such as Childhood’s End, Tales from the White Hart, and A Fall of Moondust. Like Asimov, he was a noted popularizer of science, but Clarke, in the 1940s, also contributed significantly to science by developing the concept of orbiting communications satellites.

His career jumped from established niche genre writer to international stardom in the 1960s when filmmaker Stanley Kubrick suggested they collaborate on a movie. Clarke’s 1948 short story “The Sentinel” became the basis of their screenplay for 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Every Clarke book after that, including Rendezvous with Rama, The Fountains of Paradise, 2010: Odyssey Two, 2061: Odyssey Three, and 3001: The Final Odyssey, was a bestseller and made Clarke rich (even though, with the exceptions of Rama and Fountains, none was anywhere near as good as his pre-2001 work).

My first encounter with Clarke was in eighth grade, when I was required to read his story “Rescue Party” (1946), but it wasn’t until 1969, in my mid-teens, that I read his novel based on the 2001 screenplay [18]. That sent me to the library to find his other, earlier books. While I respected Asimov for his range of interests and technical writing ability, I admired Clarke for his mind-bending ideas and writing artistry.

And yet . . .

Several years after Clark died, I read (in a book about the making of 2001) that within the small circle of science fiction writers, Clarke was well known as being gay. He had a longtime relationship with a Sri Lankan man (Clarke lived in Sri Lanka from 1956 until his death), to whom he dedicated The Fountains of Paradise. But in the late 1960s and early 1970s, in my high school and early college years, I had no hint of that. But if I had, what a difference it might have made.

In those years, positive depictions of LGBTQ people were nonexistent in movies and TV (and science fiction literature). The personalities created by celebrities such as Liberace and Paul Lynde weren’t quite the role models I was looking for. It wasn’t until I was in my early 20s that I encountered a gay character in a SF novel (Robert Silverberg’s The Book of Skulls (1972)), and things didn’t end well for him.

If I had known, when I read 2001: A Space Odyssey in 1969, that its author was openly gay, it would have let me know that being gay didn’t mean I was some kind of freak, and that I wasn’t condemned to hide an important part of my identity. Would it have changed my life? That’s impossible to say, but it would certainly have changed how I felt about myself at the time.

But I also have to sympathize with Clarke. Throughout the 1940s, 1950s, and even 1960s, homosexuality was illegal almost everywhere (it wasn’t until 1961 that Illinois became the first state to legalize it). In Sri Lanka, it’s still illegal, although the law is rarely enforced. Clarke no doubt felt the need, for his personal safety, to remain in the closet. But following the success of 2001, I find it hard to believe that his being publicly gay would have made him legally vulnerable or hurt his book sales. And it would have meant so much to his fans who were struggling with their sexual identities.

Now That I Know . . . ?

I now know things about Asimov, Rand, Hitchcock, Christie, and Clarke that I didn’t when I put them on their pedestals. What should I do about it? Are the works for which I originally admired them now tainted? For me, that’s not possible. I still admire Asimov’s intelligence and clear writing style, Christie’s ingenious plotting and memorable characters, Hitchcock’s distinctive and brilliant film style, and Rand’s philosophy (well, parts of it), even if I detest aspects of their personalities. I have to separate a book or movie from the personal flaws of the artist who created it. And as for Clarke, I can’t condemn someone for not publicly coming out of the closet; it’s hard even now, and was much harder in the 1960s.

I also know more about myself, or at least I hope I do. If someone is telling me he’s a sexual harasser, or she’s possibly racist, or she’s behaving like a cult leader, I should pay attention. With Asimov, Christie, and Rand, it was there for me to see all along; I just didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to see them fall from their pedestals. (Hitchcock was much better at concealing his dark side; I don’t think I could possibly have seen it while he was alive.)

Am I wimping out by admitting I still enjoy watching North by Northwest? Or that I look forward to reading more Asimov, Christie, or Clarke books (I haven’t read all of them yet)? Or that I still believe that Rand was philosophically on to something, despite her many misguided cultish followers? I don’t think so. But knowing what I now know puts them in perspective. For me, Clarke is dented and Christie is broken but fixable, but Asimov, Hitchcock, and Rand have fallen from their pedestals and are now shattered artists. I may still admire their works, but I can’t admire them.

Follow the author on Twitter @bill_schmwil.

[Footnotes]:

[1] It’s hard to remember, or even to imagine, a time before the Internet, when learning personal details about celebrities was nearly impossible. Today, with Wikipedia and any number of other websites, we probably know too much about them.

[2] He was also selected by the American Heritage Dictionary for its Usage Panel, which offered opinions about questionable or evolving English language usage. The panel had included such writers as David Foster Wallace, Joan Didion, John McWhorter, Tracy Kidder, Armistead Maupin, Margaret Atwood, Barbara Kingsolver, William Least Heat-Moon, and Sherman Alexie.

[3] If you think I’m exaggerating, do an Internet search for “Isaac Asimov sexual harassment.”

[4] To hear the musical version of Anthem, listen to “2112” by Canadian rock band Rush.

[5] The Romantic Manifesto has steered me toward more authors I’ve enjoyed, including Victor Hugo, Fredric Brown, and Mickey Spillane, than any other book. Rand also revealed a love of Fred Astaire’s tap dancing, so she gets extra points for that. On the other hand, she claimed that photography isn’t an art form, which means she had no understanding of what great photographers do.

[6] See Shermer’s The Unlikeliest Cult in History (2think.org).

[7] For more about this sordid story, read Barbara Branden’s The Passion of Ayn Rand. Or watch the movie. Yes, there's a movie!

[8] My earliest Hitchcock memory might not be from seeing his movies or his TV show, but from watching the Academy Awards on April 13, 1964. Clips from the two nominees for best special effects were shown, including the scene from The Birds where birds attack school children. I’ve never forgotten that moment. (Cleopatra won, undeservedly, but that’s not unusual for the Academy Awards.)

[9] This was a time before home video, when revival theaters and film societies showed 35mm (and sometimes even 70mm) prints of classic movies. Few such venues remain in America today.

[10] An example: I recently watched Rear Window for perhaps the twelfth time and saw in one of the opening shots something new. As the camera pans across the backs of buildings, a flash appears on the highest floor, in an apartment that has no significance in the movie. Was the flash an accident, or was it a foreshadowing of the camera flashes used in the movie’s climax? With a Hitchcock movie, I can’t rule out the latter.

[11] A bit of relevant trivia: Anne Baxter was a granddaughter of Frank Lloyd Wright, on whom Ayn Rand loosely modeled her architect-hero Howard Roark. What’s more, Baxter’s father was an executive with the Seagram Company, which, three decades after she was born, hired Ludwig Mies van der Rohe to design its Park Avenue headquarters, teamed with architect Ely Kahn, with whom Ayn Rand worked while researching The Fountainhead. I love surprising connections.

[12] About limericks: To be a true limerick, a poem must consist of five lines, with a rhyming pattern of A-A-B-B-A. To be a good limerick, it should be funny. To be a great limerick, it should be at least a little dirty.

[13] Sources: Spellbound by Beauty and The Dark Side of Genius, both by Donald Spoto.

[14] From 1920 to 1973 (the year Postern of Fate, the last book she wrote, was published). Books published later, such as Curtain (1975) and Sleeping Murder (1976), were written in the 1940s.

[15] Forty-five years after her death, all her books are still in print. Her play The Mousetrap had a record run of more than 28,000 consecutive performances, even when changing theaters during its run. The streak began in 1952 (Richard Attenborough was in the original cast) and finally ended in March 2020, a victim of COVID-19.

[16] I have read only the American editions of her books, from which, with the author's permission, some of the more objectionable slurs had been removed. Perhaps if I'd read the British editions I would feel differently.

[17] Heinlein is another artist on one of my pedestals, but so far he hasn’t fallen, and I’d like to keep it that way.

[18] My father bought me a paperback copy, somehow knowing it was something I would like. Thanks, Dad.