Livia Firth’s affair with the Italian journalist Marco Brancaccia took place back in 2015, but a taste for romantic men is not without its dangers. It seems that when she returned to her film-star husband, Brancaccia couldn’t bear to be parted from Livia and contacted the Firths in England. Attempting to allay suspicion of her infidelity, Livia told her husband that Brancaccia was in fact stalking her. Firth then did exactly what he should—charging Brancaccia down in the Italian courts. Under that legal scrutiny, however, Livia was finally forced to admit her adultery.
Poor Colin, the creaking quixotic who stood up for his lady’s nonexistent honour, has been jousted from his horse in full public view. Oh, Les Infortunes de la Vertu! But there is a lesson which, in its selective tact, our society will do its utmost to avoid taking from this.
Life Imitates Art
Some of you may remember the Bridget Jones cult films wherein the slatternly alcoholic heroine rides the credit-boom funded cock carousel of 1990s London until she hits the wall. Firth and Hugh Grant—the stock Alphas of the British film industry—then have a fist fight over her.
The latest iteration of this perverse franchise involves our heroine accidentally getting knocked up aged about fifty and being unable to decide which of two men is the father.
The appeal of these and other Sex-and-the-City-type movies lies in their promotion of the Gothic courtly lover so as to accommodate the slutty hedonism of postmodern women, assuaging an urbanette’s natural malaise about the connection between her lifestyle choices and her worthiness of a ‘decent man.’
Firth now has little option but to live up to the soft standards of ‘manliness’ that he helped to create. Apparently he has already expressed his sympathies to Brancaccia who, after all, has lost the woman he loves—Firth’s own wife.
Although I admire Firth for saving his marriage, I see no evidence that he has broken from his approval-seeking cinematic ideal which assumes a woman’s sexual strategy is virtually beyond reproach. Now that social and legal enforcement is lent to this dangerous theory in real life an urgent need has arisen to call to account the lie of lust-driven, chivalry.
From Pretty Lies To Tyranny
In Shakespeare’s King Lear, it is remarked:
…the policeman who lashes the whore has a hot need to use her for the very offense for which he plies the lash.
#Metoo evokes this dynamic as a whore’s means of shaming those who may judge her by inferring that they do so out of repressed carnal self-interest. However, society’s cooperation with this sleight of hand is causing the mask to slip as each phoney case that collapses reveals the victim’s repressed desire for these ‘unwanted approaches.’
People like Livia Firth are the reason that real victims of abuse steer clear of such tides of fashion which inevitably ebb from their service.
If feminists had a shred of integrity, they would demand that Livia make a public apology to the sexually abused, whose plight she brazenly co-opted to cover up her own sexual opportunism. Of course, they won’t.
If Colin cares enough about victims to publicly shun Woody Allen, he should publicly shun #metoo as well—and do so before the movement has run its own credibility into the ground.
None of this can possibly end well for the popular Romantic industry. A society where women are not held accountable for acting on their impulses is a society where men must illustrate what those impulses are by manipulating them. The UK’s true impetus for banning Roosh from its shores was not to suppress pickup artistry per se but rather to extinguish those lights of sexual realism that pickup artists carry through our darkest hour of self-imposed romantic bafflement.
Sites such as these are a true bastion against the unspoken axiom of our carnal tyranny: Libido vincit omnia.
Read More: What Society Values