“We know no spectacle so ridiculous,” wrote the essayist Thomas Babington Macaulay, “as the British public in one of its periodic fits of morality.” Indeed not, and this month the home nation of this magazine appears to be having one of those fits again. The speed and ferocity at which powerful people are moving to condemn Russell Brand, a celebrity they once lauded, is astonishing. There is little doubt that the comedian-turned-podcaster, who was jailed this month for ten and a half years for the rape of one woman and three further counts of sexual assault, did considerable wrongs. Much of Brand’s past can be written off as mere boorishness, yet he has now been found guilty of rape in a court of law – and skeptics ought to study the case more closely before publicizing their doubts.
Now another celebrity comedian called David Walliams, who is less-known in America, has been accused of sexual abuse (he denies the allegations) and there are reports of yet another predatory entertainer, who is currently protected with an anonymity injunction. A massive media campaign is underway to reveal the sordid secrets of the British entertainment business.
Few make the connection between this liberalized sexual culture and the antics of men such as Brand
But there is a political element to Brand’s downfall. In 2015, he appeared with the then-leader of the British Labour party, Ed Miliband (who is now Foreign Secretary), in a TV election broadcast. Left-wing politicians and commentators believed that he was the key to connecting with young voters. Then, during the Covid pandemic, Brand began to question those in authority and became interested in Christianity. By 2024, he was appearing at the Republican National Convention and endorsed RFK Jr. for the presidency.
Listening to those who denounce him now, one wonders whether his greater crime was a conversion from socialist politics to right-wing evangelicalism. The Christian faith is stronger in the US than it is in Britain. Americans tend not to be so quick to dismiss Brand’s conversion as a cynical ruse, and his supporters claim that he is the victim of a witch hunt. The podcaster Megyn Kelly called his trial “insane” and an “outrage.” And it is true that his ten-year sentence seems harsh when compared to the punishments meted out to some of Britain’s infamous grooming gangsters, who received lesser sentences for multiple rapes of children. Donald Trump Jr. is not wrong to question whether this is an example of British two-tier justice.
“Is Britain finally having its #MeToo moment?” asked one magazine this week, as if the United Kingdom may at last be catching up with the United States when it comes to sexual justice. But the first outbreak of “#MeToo,” which began a decade ago with the downfall of the Hollywood impresario Harvey Weinstein, showed just how dangerous a social media frenzy can be.
It is true that in the past, powerful people who were rapists and pedophiles were often able to silence those whom they had defiled. In Britain and America, those in positions of responsibility were assumed to be telling the truth, while those they had abused would be ignored, or treated as criminals themselves.
But #MeToo pushed us to the opposite extreme, where mere accusations could be sufficient to upend careers and wreck lives. In 2017, the “shitty media men” list circulated. It was a Google spreadsheet in which users could anonymously publish any gossip or rumor about instances of male impropriety – from serious allegations of assault to “creepy DMs” and leering. When the journalist Katie Roiphe bravely criticized the list in Harper’s Magazine, she and the magazine were denounced for making it difficult for accusers to come forward and thus further endangering victims. The axiom that we must “believe all women” removed any question of moral ambiguity and condemned the clumsy and awkward. Female discomfort at male attempts to flirt became prima facie evidence of wrongdoing.
It was less “moral panic” and more “post-moral panic” – as if liberal society had suddenly reentered a kind of adolescence. Almost everyone appeared to have forgotten the facts of life. People seemed genuinely confused to discover that sexuality can be complicated or that the truth is often nuanced. Part of the reason Britain is so muddled about sexual morality is that it is a highly secular country. Liberation from the sexual morality of old has, perversely, led to greater policing of sex. There has been a concerted effort to destigmatize certain proclivities and promiscuity, while at the same time students are subjected to compulsory sex education and campaigners push for new legislation to control private behavior. Few have made the connection between this liberalized sexual culture and the antics of men such as Brand.
America has, for the most part, avoided this confusion. The reaction to the recent Cornell 7 case, which concerned an orgy in a fraternity house, was telling. The public seemed reluctant to consider it a heinous crime perpetrated by vile men. There was a backlash against efforts to ruin the young male students involved, even if most people agreed the acts in question were immoral.
There are still, in America, millions of citizens whose sexual ethics are grounded in Christian teachings about right and wrong. It is those principles, combined with a spiritual understanding of justice, compassion and forgiveness, that serve as the best guide when navigating difficult questions of bodily autonomy.
The British, however, appear to be thrashing around godlessly. This magazine doesn’t have any great wish to defend Russell Brand, or any other celebrity pervert. But much of the conversation about Brand has revealed a deep confusion over sexual ethics. We don’t need another public frenzy or #MeToo movement. We need private morals.
Comments