Shia LeBeouf at the premiere of Nymphomaniac. Photo: Getty
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From Shia LaBeouf to Rolling Stone's frat house story, the trouble with "I Believe Her"

When we talk about rape victims, “I Believe Her” is powerful because it’s simple; because it’s simple, it slides into being simplistic. Both the alleged frat house gang rape described by Rolling Stone, and Shia LeBeouf's accusations against a woman who visited his art installation, reveal its strengths and weaknesses.

The first line in the feminist battle against male violence isn’t always “I believe her”. Sometimes, she is not to be believed. The BBC Two documentary Police Under Pressure: Sex Crime, broadcast last month, followed South Yorkshire Police through two investigations into missing teenage girls. They receive a tip-off that one girl has been seen at a hotel in Bradford, and we watch Detective Constable Karen Cocker watching the CCTV. What she sees is unmistakable. The girl scampers down the staircase after a man, squirming against him giddily. “She dunt look like she’s there reluctantly. She looks like she’s there because she wants to be there, dunt she?” says a male hotel employee, sounding almost hopeful that this apparent enthusiasm will prove . . . something. “I think we’ve got to bear in mind her age,” says Cocker, soft but terse. “She’s 13.”

Further footage shows that there are three men with the girl. They lead her in and out of different bedrooms. It is a record of pimping and raping in progress. But when the officers catch up with the girl, she denies that any crime has taken place: she was there willingly, she says, and none of the men had sex with her. Cocker does not believe her. Physical evidence supports what the video suggests: the girl has been raped, by so many men that it is impossible to identify any individual’s DNA from the sample. Victims tell these kinds of lies all the time. They lie because they are afraid of the police, or because they are afraid of the perpetrators, or they lie to themselves, because they are afraid of knowing they have no control. They lie by retelling the lies that they have been told by the men who abuse them: he loves me, he’s my boyfriend, he said I wanted it really.

“I believe her” is powerful because it’s simple; because it’s simple, it slides into being simplistic. This is the way of effective slogans, and I am not going to reject it for being effective. We know that “he said, she said” is not an equal equation. Habit and tradition mean that what he says is heard, while what she says must scale mountains of reflexive doubt before it even registers as a whisper. “I believe her” is a promise, simply, that we will listen – that, over the hum and throb of the misogyny that we live in and that lives in us, we will let her voice reach us. In a crude sense, this is just a matter of playing the odds. We know that male violence against women, including sexual violence, is endemic. When a woman tells us a man has harmed her, the probabilities are standing on her side, if we are willing to acknowledge them. (Not everyone is, of course.)

But “I believe her” is a beginning, and not an end. In the post-mortems of Rolling Stone’s A Rape on Campus story, a lot of scrutiny has fallen on “I believe her”: the failure of journalist Sabrina Rubin Erdely to appropriately factcheck the account of a gang rape given by her source Jackie is counted as a failure of excessive belief. The first version of Rolling Stone’s retraction (now edited) read: “our trust in [Jackie] was misplaced”. There’s something sickly about this insistence that the publication’s only vice was too much virtue. In reality, there is plenty that Erdely and her editors could – and should – have checked in the process of putting together the story, and none of these checks would have implied cynicism about Jackie as a victim. Details such as the date of the party at which she was assaulted, and whether the boy she alleges took her to the party was a member of the fraternity she named, have been shown to be uncertain after publication. Rolling Stone had a duty to its source to check those details before.

Those inaccuracies might have been of no matter to the overall narrative. Rape is traumatic, memory is uncertain, and after two years, maybe these are understandable lapses. (I got flashed once. The police came to my house immediately with mugshots of likely offenders, which I dutifully flicked through while I became gradually aware that my brain in its shock had stored nothing but a blur of hideously pink penis poking from some green cords, then completed the picture with the face of an outdoorsy TV presenter who definitely wouldn’t have been hanging around in a Sheffield underpass. Brains are strange. They often let us down.) But, understandable as they might be, they should not have appeared in the published version. If Jackie’s story proved impossible to reconcile with the facts, it shouldn’t have been published at all. Certainly, it makes no sense at all to me that Rolling Stone would agree not to present Jackie’s claims to her alleged attackers because she feared reprisals – but then use her real first name in a story which gave sufficient detail to make her exposure inevitable.

In this instance, “believing the victim” seems to have been nothing but a dereliction of moral duty on the part of the publication. It is right to accept every testimony of victimhood in good faith, and it is right for police and journalists to test that faith with a confirmation of the available facts. We don’t know what happened to Jackie: even if she committed outright fabrications (something far from proven), that does not not mean her testimony of rape is false. All kinds of women become victims of sexual violence, including ones who are otherwise liars. But by publishing this young woman’s story without checks or anonymity, Rolling Stone has left her open to an incredible volume of abuse – a young woman who, even according to her most sceptical friends, showed every sign of having experienced some kind of profound trauma in September 2012. (You may notice that I am not particularly concerned about the effects of this flawed reporting on the alleged perpetrators. That is because there haven’t really been any: feminists didn’t dox any fraternity members. Only the alleged victim has had her name and address broadcast, along with public calls for her to be punished. Unpleasant as this is for the young men who appear to have been wrongly implicated, they will recover, and Jackie may not.)

The belief we extend to victims is not unconditional. We believe because of what we know: about violence in general, and about the specifics of the case. So what about when the person we are asked to believe is not a her? Shia LaBeouf claimed to have been “raped” by a woman while he took part in an art installation, and several feminist writers have suggested that there is a “feminist imperative” to believe him, as we should believe all victims. But there is a serious problem here: it is very hard to know what LaBeouf is asking us to believe. Rape, generally understood as forcible penetration with a penis or other object (not least under English law), could not have taken place in this instance, and LaBeouf does not specify what did happen. There is no form of sexual violence committed by women as a class against men as a class, and there is no extended cultural history of disbelieving men in any case: “believing him” simply means granting the default authority to male words, in a situation where it is impossible to know what they signify. If “I believe her” has become totally detached from the analysis of male violence and female oppression, then it has also become meaningless.

In Police Under Pressure, several of the abusers of the girl at the hotel are convicted – largely thanks to physical evidence. The second girl is found at the home of a man in Bradford. Again, she initially denies that any sexual activity has taken place, but after careful interviewing, she is willing to testify. A case is put together and brought to court. But the girl is found to have made a false statement under oath about a matter not related to the substance of the case. She is not believed. The man in whose home she was found goes free. It is a wrenching thing to watch this injustice take place, and all the more so because it is normal: just a little over 1% of all rapes will result in a conviction. Most rapists walk, and often they walk simply because women’s words are not considered strong enough to stand in court. This is why “I believe her” matters. It is not the cheat answer to difficult questions of fact. It does not exonerate institutions from their other duties to victims. It is not a shortcut to justice. It is just the start when we look for the truth about male violence. We still have the rest of the work to do. 

Sarah Ditum is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman and others. Her website is here.

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Love a good box set? Then you should watch the Snooker World Championships

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. 

People are lazy and people are impatient. This has always been so – just ask Moses or his rock – but as illustrated by kindly old Yahweh, in those days they could not simply answer those impulses and stroll on.

Nowadays, that is no longer so. Twitter, YouTube and listicles reflect a desire for complex and involved issues, expansive and nuanced sports – what we might term quality – to be condensed into easily digestible morsels for effort-free enjoyment.

There is, though, one notable exception to this trend: the box set. Pursuing a novelistic, literary sensibility, it credits its audience with the power of sentience and tells riveting stories slowly, unfolding things in whichever manner that it is best for them to unfold.

In the first episode of the first series of The Sopranos, we hear Tony demean his wife Carmela's irritation with him via the phrase “always with the drama”; in the seventh episode of the first series we see his mother do likewise to his father; and in the 21st and final episode of the sixth and final series, his son uses it on Carmela. It is precisely this richness and this care that makes The Sopranos not only the finest TV show ever made, but the finest artefact that contemporary society has to offer. It forces us to think, try and feel.

We have two principal methods of consuming art of this ilk - weekly episode, or week-long binge. The former allows for anticipation and contemplation, worthy pursuits both, but of an entirely different order to the immersion and obsession offered by the latter. Who, when watching the Wire, didn’t find themselves agreeing that trudat, it's time to reup the dishwasher salt, but we’ve run out, ain’t no thing. Losing yourself in another world is rare, likewise excitement at where your mind is going next.

In a sporting context, this can only be achieved via World Championship snooker. Because snooker is a simple, repetitive game, it is absorbing very quickly, its run of play faithfully reflected by the score.

But the Worlds are special. The first round is played over ten frames – as many as the final in the next most prestigious competition – and rather than the usual week, it lasts for 17 magical days, from morning until night. This bestows upon us the opportunity to, figuratively at least, put away our lives and concentrate. Of course, work and family still exist, but only in the context of the snooker and without anything like the same intensity. There is no joy on earth like watching the BBC’s shot of the championship compilation to discover that not only did you see most of them live, but that you have successfully predicted the shortlist.

It is true that people competing at anything provides compelling drama, emotion, pathos and bathos - the Olympics proves this every four years. But there is something uniquely nourishing about longform snooker, which is why it has sustained for decades without significant alteration.

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. Most frequently, snooker is grouped with darts as a non-athletic sport, instead testing fine motor skills and the ability to calculate angles, velocity and forthcoming shots. However, its tempo and depth is more similar to Test cricket – except snooker trusts so much in its magnificence that it refuses to compromise the values which underpin it.

Alfred Hitchcock once explained that if two people are talking and a bomb explodes without warning, it constitutes surprise; but if two people are talking and all the while a ticking bomb is visible under the table, it constitutes suspense. “In these conditions,” he said, “The same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: ‘You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!’”

Such is snooker. In more or less every break, there will at some point be at least one difficult shot, loss of position or bad contact – and there will always be pressure. Add to that the broken flow of things – time spent waiting for the balls to stop, time spent prowling around the table, time spent sizing up the table, time spent cleaning the white, time spent waiting for a turn – and the ability for things to go wrong is constantly in contemplation.

All the more so in Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre. This venue, in its 40th year of hosting the competition, is elemental to its success. Place is crucial to storytelling, and even the word “Crucible” – whether “a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures,” “a situation of severe trial”, or Arthur Miller’s searing play – conjures images of destruction, injustice and nakedness. And the actual Crucible is perhaps the most atmospheric arena in sport - intimate, quiet, and home to a legendarily knowledgeable audience, able to calculate when a player has secured a frame simply by listening to commentary through an earpiece and applauding as soon as the information is communicated to them.

To temper the stress, snooker is also something incredibly comforting. This is partly rooted in its scheduling. Working day and late-night sport is illicit and conspiratorial, while its presence in revision season has entire cohorts committing to “just one more quick frame”, and “just one more quick spliff”. But most powerfully of all, world championship snooker triggers memory and nostalgia, a rare example of something that hasn’t changed, as captivating now as it was in childhood.

This wistfulness is complemented by sensory pleasure of the lushest order. The colours of both baize and balls are the brightest, most engaging iterations imaginable, while the click of cue on ball, the clunk of ball on ball and the clack of ball on pocket is deep and musical; omnipresent and predictable, they combine for a soundtrack that one might play to a baby in the womb, instead of whale music or Megadeth.

Repeating rhythms are also set by the commentators, former players of many years standing. As is natural with extended coverage of repetitive-action games, there are numerous phrases that recur:

“We all love these tactical frames, but the players are so good nowadays that one mistake and your opponent’s in, so here he is, looking to win the frame at one visit ... and it’s there, right in the heart of the pocket for frame and match! But where’s the cue ball going! it really is amazing what can happen in the game of snooker, especially when we’re down to this one-table situation.”

But as omniscient narrators, the same men also provide actual insight, alerting us to options and eventualities of which we would otherwise be ignorant. Snooker is a simple game but geometry and physics are complicated, so an expert eye is required to explain them intelligibly; it is done with a winning combination of levity and sincerity.

The only essential way in which snooker is different is the standard of play. The first round of this year’s draw featured eight past winners, only two of whom have made it to the last four, and there were three second-round games that were plausible finals.

And just as literary fiction is as much about character as plot, so too is snooker. Nothing makes you feel you know someone like studying them over years at moments of elation and desolation, pressure and release, punctuated by TV confessions of guilty pleasures, such as foot massages, and bucket list contents, such as naked bungee jumping.

It is probably true that there are not as many “characters” in the game as once there were, but there are just as many characters, all of whom are part of that tradition. And because players play throughout their adult life, able to establish their personalities, in unforgiving close-up, over a number of years, they need not be bombastic to tell compelling stories, growing and undergoing change in the same way as Dorothea Brooke or Paulie Gualtieri.

Of no one is this more evident that Ding Junhui, runner-up last year and current semi-finalist this; though he is only 30, we have been watching him almost half his life. In 2007, he reached the final of the Masters tournament, in which he faced Ronnie O’Sullivan, the most naturally talented player ever to pick up a cue – TMNTPETPUAC for short. The crowd were, to be charitable, being boisterous, and to be honest, being pricks, and at the same time, O’Sullivan was playing monumentally well. So at the mid-session interval, Ding left the arena in tears and O’Sullivan took his arm in consolation; then when Ding beat O’Sullivan in this year’s quarter-final, he rested his head on O’Sullivan’s shoulder and exchanged words of encouragement for words of respect. It was beautiful, it was particular, and it was snooker.

Currently, Ding trails Mark Selby, the “Jester from Leicester” – a lucky escape, considering other rhyming nouns - in their best of 33 encounter. Given a champion poised to move from defending to dominant, the likelihood is that Ding will remain the best player never to win the game’s biggest prize for another year.

Meanwhile, the other semi-final pits Barry Hawkins, a finalist in 2013, against John Higgins, an undisputed great and three-time champion. Higgins looks likely to progress, and though whoever wins through will be an outsider, both are eminently capable of taking the title. Which is to say that, this weekend, Planet Earth has no entertainment more thrilling, challenging and enriching than events at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield.

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