The very existence of "Dominique Strauss-Kahn: The Movie" reveals a darker side to Hollywood

Will his alleged victim, Nafissatou Diallo, get to tell her side of the story?

Filming is set to begin for a movie about Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the French politician who stepped down as head of the IMF after he was accused of attempted rape by a New York hotel worker in May 2011. Details about the film, which has yet to be given a title, are being kept under wraps. Directed by Abel Ferrara, who made Bad Lieutenant, it will star Gerard Depardieu as DSK and Isabelle Adjani as his multimillionaire journalist wife, Anne Sinclair. In addition to the New York incident, it has been speculated that the film may include subsequent allegations of sexual assault by French journalist Tristane Banon, and charges of "aggravated pimping in an organised gang" in Lille in which sex workers were allegedly procured for orgies. The inquiry is also examining whether one sex worker was gang-raped. Strauss-Kahn denies all the charges.

Certainly, the scandal (or scandals) has captured the imagination of many writers, dramatists, and journalists. It has been only 15 months since immigrant worker Nafissatou Diallo accused DSK of sexual assault and attempted rape, but the incident has already been the subject of multiple plays, and books, as well as this new film.

Theatrical productions in Paris and at the Edinburgh fringe looked at the incident, particularly focusing on the relationship between Strauss-Kahn and Sinclair – who stood by her man throughout the scandal, leaving him only recently. A non-fictional investigation into the couple was one of the biggest bestsellers in France this summer. A thriller inspired by the case, Night Watch by Linda Farstein, was a bestseller in the US. Meanwhile, a recently published novel by French author Stéphane Zagdanski, Burning Chaos, looks at the New York story through patients in a Manhattan psychiatric centre.

Of course, the tale of power, sex, and scandal is classic material for theatre or fiction. But is it problematic that the story is being turned into a money-spinning drama (by many different people) before the case is even closed? While criminal charges were dropped because the judge said there were “substantial credibility issues” with Diallo (a sadly common story for victims of sexual assault), she is bringing a civil suit for sexual assault and gender violence which has yet to reach court. Strauss-Kahn is counter-suing for defamation and malicious prosecution.

Zagdanski told AFP why he chose the story as the subject of his novel:  

"The DSK affair is the incarnation of contemporary folly. It fascinates enormously because he was at the summit of the world and he found himself in the gutter overnight, thanks to a six minute fellatio.”

His words demonstrate exactly why there is something unpleasant about turning the case into a fictionalised drama before it is really over. “A six minute fellatio” is a callous choice of words that overlooks the fact that DSK was not proved to be innocent of attacking Diallo: rather, the case was dropped because she was seen as a weak witness. Those are two completely different things. Victims of sexual assault are frequently judged inconsistent – in this case, lies on her asylum application for the US were a major contributing factor.

And let’s not forget that this was allegedly a violent sexual assault. Although DSK claims the encounter was consensual, a leaked medical report showed that she had serious injuries including a torn shoulder ligament. Indeed, the fact that details of exactly what state her bruised and naked body was in were all over the press before the court hearing had even taken place indicates quite how little privacy Diallo was granted. It was against this backdrop – and allegations that she was a liar and a prostitute – that she chose to tell her story to the press, a decision for which she was lambasted.

Zagdanski may be correct that people are fascinated by the story because: "It shows the two faces of our world. People are fascinated by money, the rich, the stars, Hollywood... but they see that on the other side of this world of glamour there is also banal human misery which is not so unlike ordinary folks' misery.”

Yet it is disturbing that these words completely overlook the other side of the story: the ordinary person and alleged victim who is also suffering the personal and professional fallout of this scandal. Diallo’s story may be less glamorous – and as an immigrant hotel cleaner, she is about as far away from being powerful as you can get – but as the book, film, and theatre productions continue, we must only hope that they do not entirely overlook her side of the picture.

Dominique Strauss-Kahn speaks to reporters after sexual assault charges were dropped against him. Photograph: Getty Images

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

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The Bloody Mary is dead: all hail the Bloody Caesar

This Canadian version of an old standard is a good substitute for dinner.

It is not anti-Catholic bias that makes me dislike the Bloody Mary, that lumpish combination of tomato juice and vodka named after a 16th-century English queen who, despite the immense reach of her royal powers, found burning Protestants alive the most effective display of majesty.

My prejudice is against its contents: the pulverised tomatoes that look like run-off from a Tudor torture chamber. A whole tomato is a source of joy and, occasionally, wonder (I remember learning that the Farsi for tomato is gojeh farangi, which translates literally as “foreign plum”) – and I am as fond of pizza as anyone. Most accessories to the Bloody Mary are fine with me: Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, celery, black pepper, even sherry or oysters. But generally I share the curmudgeon Bernard DeVoto’s mistrust of fruit juice in my spirits: “all pestilential, all gangrenous, all vile” was the great man’s verdict. His main objection was sweetness but I will include the admittedly savoury tomato in my ban. At the cocktail hour, I have been known to crave all kinds of odd concoctions but none has included pulp.

To many, the whole point of a Bloody Mary is that you don’t wait until the cocktail hour. This seems to entail a certain shying away from unpleasant realities. I know perfectly well the reaction I would get if I were to ask for a grilled tomato and a chilled Martini at brunch: my friends would start likening me to F Scott Fitzgerald and they wouldn’t be referring to my writing talent. Despite its remarkably similar contents, a Bloody Mary is a perfectly acceptable midday, middle-class beverage. If the original Mary were here to witness such hypocrisy, she would surely tut and reach for her firelighters.

Yet, like the good Catholic I certainly am not, I must confess, for I have seen the error of my ways. In July, on Vancouver Island, I tried a Bloody Caesar – Canada’s spirited response to England’s favourite breakfast tipple (“I’ll see your Tudor queen, you bunch of retrograde royalists, and raise you a Roman emperor”). The main difference is a weird yet oddly palatable concoction called Clamato: tomato juice thinned and refined by clam juice. Replace your standard slop with this stuff, which has all the tang of tomato yet flows like a veritable Niagara, and you will have a drink far stranger yet more delicious than the traditional version.

Apparently, the Caesar was invented by an Italian restaurateur in Calgary, Alberta, who wanted a liquid version of his favourite dish from the old country: spaghetti alle vongole in rosso (clam and tomato spaghetti). He got it – and, more importantly, the rest of us got something we can drink not at breakfast but instead of dinner. Find a really interesting garnish – pickled bull kelp or spicy pickled celery, say – and you can even claim to have eaten your greens.

I’m sure that dedicated fans of the Bloody Mary will consider this entire column heretical, which seems appropriate: that’s the side I was born on, being Jewish, and I like to hope I wouldn’t switch even under extreme forms of persuasion. But this cocktail is in any case a broad church: few cocktails come in so many different incarnations.

The original was invented, according to him, by Fernand Petiot, who was a French barman in New York during Prohibition (and so must have known a thing or two about hypocrisy). It includes lemon juice and a “layer” of Worcestershire sauce and the tomato juice is strained; it may also actually have been named after a barmaid.

All of which proves only that dogma has no place at the bar. Variety is the spice of life, which makes it ironic that the world’s spiciest cocktail bestows a frivolous immortality on a woman who believed all choice to be the work of the devil.

Next week John Burnside on nature

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis