The Russell Brand reckoning

The early 2000s were a halcyon era — for a certain type of man. It was the age of the celebrity sex tape, the pick-up artist and ending each episode of “The Man Show” with girls jumping on trampolines. Hugh Hefner had been recast as a dopey geriatric on “The Girls Next Door,” and tabloids focused on women’s dimply thighs. 

And this was Russell Brand’s cultural moment. He thrived in the early aughts environment of “raunch culture” with performances that relied on “shocking” material like how many women he had slept with. In truth, Brand was never an outlier. He fit right in, and he was rewarded financially — and enabled — by the entertainment industry. While fans may have thought he was pushing the envelope against prudishness and sexual conservatism, he was really just performing misogyny in a socially sanctioned way. 

The recent rape and sexual assault allegations against Brand force us to examine this phenomenon — and what happens when an entertainer who builds his brand on sexual bombast is accused of sexual misconduct (Brand has denied all accusations). A lot has shifted regarding what kind of media content consumers consider to be “cheeky.” Brand’s comedy doesn’t hold up anymore. We’re more sensitive about cheap sexist digs, and we know more about sex addiction and take it seriously as a mental health issue. And yet, in the aftermath of these serious investigations a similar pattern is emerging — with a Brand-specific twist. If these allegations prove true, it seems a sexual predator was hiding behind an act based on sexual predation — and that sexual bluster could become a defense for rape, even while female victims are still referred to as “sluts.”

Brand has shifted from shock comedy in the past decade, as he moved into and then out of the Hollywood mainstream. Many critics have accurately posited that he has traded laughs for a public intellectualism that increasingly veers into conspiracy theories and “wellness” content. This pivot has solidified his countercultural popularity in some circles, many of them toxic. Indeed, after an investigation by The Sunday Times, The Times and Channel 4’s “Dispatches” detailed Brand’s alleged sexual assaults on four women, social media users decamped to their respective sides to debate and, in many cases, defend Brand’s behavior. It’s no coincidence that some of his loudest defenders have included alt-right stars like Alex Jones, Tucker Carlson and Andrew Tate. 

This is a dance we are all familiar with. Essentially every time there are credible, well-researched and evidence-supported sexual assault allegations against male celebrities, survivors are shredded in a variety of ways: Why didn’t they go to the police? Why did they wait so long? Oh, they must want fame and money. Oh, they must have axes to grind. Oh, they are bitter, scorned women. 

In the case of Brand, his admitted sexual appetite (he called himself “promiscuous” in his denial) was a new variable, especially because it was such a part of his professional act and public persona. Saying things on talk shows like “Don’t be afraid of your own sexuality — do be a bit afraid of mine, though,” was meant to be edgy and to cast Brand as a contemporary lothario. In reality, it was creepy. And it’s even creepier now. 

But while Brand is unique in some ways, the allegations against him follow very established patterns. The figure of the flamboyant lothario is also not new. The word comes from a 1703 play by Nicholas Rowe called “The Fair Penitent,” in which the character Lothario beguiles and betrays a woman named Calista. In popular culture, it has evolved to mean any man who seduces women in a destructive way — essentially, a scoundrel or a bad boy. Russell Brand is literally included in a list of “lotharios” on Wikipedia, alongside fictional character Don Juan and Romantic poet Lord Byron.

When it comes to the arts, it’s hard for people to parse the real person from the persona. It sometimes seems like we don’t even want to. Is the “bad boy” a rapist? Is the “lady killer” an actual murderer? What does this willful confusion say about our cultural fantasies and expectations about men and women and sex? 

Sexual assault survivors, on the other hand, make people uncomfortable. They expose our anxiety, puncture our sense of safety and unmoor our feelings about any logic regarding human behavior. When we shame, blame or ignore victims, we’re employing a maladaptive defense mechanism that only serves to reinforce a misogynistic status quo. 

Women who have worked with Brand in the entertainment industry, such as writer EJ Rosetta (self-described on her Twitter bio as “The Friendliest TERF”), have said Brand never bothered them sexually, as if that means all sex offenders don’t have preferences or take advantage of particular situations. Rosetta sparked a debate when she tweeted at Brand: “I have a very good ‘predator-radar’ and you’re not one. You were sweet & respectful.” She claimed she interacted with him as a 16-year-old and was “peeved” that he didn’t try to initiate a sexual relationship. Rosetta’s story illustrates a different, albeit more subtle, form of victim blaming and predator enabling; in other words, if famously libidinous Brand could control himself around me, a hot teenager, why would he assault anyone else?

It’s not just cultural “agitators” like Rosetta who are contributing to this narrative. The actor and singer Katharine McPhee, whether intending to or not, also brushed off Brand’s behavior and sanctioned it. When a clip resurfaced of Brand acting inappropriately on a 2013 episode of “The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon” by grabbing McPhee and bouncing her on his lap, McPhee sent a response to The Daily Mail saying, “This specific incident was over 10 years ago and it was harmless.” Her statement reminded me of how many women used to deal with male sexual harassment in the early 2000s — by laughing at it, implicitly defending it, remaining cool about it. 

In the case of Russell Brand, laughter may have covered a multitude of sins. By blurring the boundary between performance and reality, he largely protected himself from censure and consequences for years. This is perhaps why the allegations have been met with a lack of surprise. And yet, society accepted this lothario figure and didn’t question whether there was something darker behind the big hair and brash routines. How far are we willing to go to protect these kinds of men and excuse sexual violence as “boys will be boys” behavior? That answer, at least, should surprise us.