The publishing world has joined the #MeToo blacklist of Oscar-winning filmmaker Woody Allen, reports the far-left New York Times.

According to the report, the 83-year-old Allen has been shopping his personal memoirs around, but not only are publishing houses refusing to buy the book, some are refusing to read the manuscript.

They are describing Allen as too “toxic,” which, by the way, is exactly how a blacklist works.

Almost 30-years-ago, Allen was not only cleared of the charge he molested his then-seven-year-old daughter Dylan Farrow (who still claims Allen molested her), two state agencies declared him innocent of the allegation and did not even charge him. No one charged him. There is no evidence this happened and plenty of evidence it did not.

Nevertheless, although all the evidence (which matters to those of us who believe in such things) is on his side — including an eyewitness account from Allen’s other child that nothing happened on the day the molestation allegedly occurred and that Dylan was coached by her mother, Mia Farrow, to lie — none of this matters in the #MeToo era, which has become its own McCarthyite Monster.

After 50 years as a filmmaker with an impeccable professional record of behavior, and with only a few exceptions (who deserve to be named — Alec Baldwin, Angelica Huston, Michael Caine) the cowards and blacklisters in Hollywood — even those whose careers were made by Allen — refuse to work with him.

What’s more, just like the blacklisting movie studios of the 1950s, Amazon has cut Allen loose and refuses to release his latest film, which has been completed: A Rainy Day in New York.

Allen is suing Amazon, which is owned by Washington Post owner Jeff Bezos, for $68 million, and deserves every penny of it.

Those interested in the details of these molestation allegations and the debunking of a whole host of myths that still plague Allen (e.g., he married his daughter) should read this.

No one can argue Allen’s memoirs would not sell. Over the past half-century, outside of a handful of interviewers and documentary filmmakers, Allen has been sphinx-like about his personal life and work. He’s so tight-lipped he doesn’t record DVD commentary tracks for his films. This is why, even without the controversy involving Dylan, Allen’s memoirs are a big deal. And for those of us who take film history seriously, they are vital.

There is just no question a seven-figure sale would turn a profit and there is just no question that in the pre-#MeToo blacklist era, they would have sold in a heartbeat after a bidding war.

But in these Scarlet Letter times, where an accusation that does not hold up to evidence or eye witness testimony, can destroy an innocent man, even one as vital as Allen, the fascists and kangaroo courts of public opinion continue to win.

The good news is that this fever will break someday and Allen’s memoirs will eventually be released.

Let’s just hope Allen’s vindication does not come posthumously.

Look at all the scandalous and shameless memoirs that have been published over the past few decades: Gangsters and murderers; on Amazon you can purchase a memoir written by serial killer Son of Sam… But not Woody Allen. These are very dark and twisted times, and history will condemn those in Hollywood who remain silent.

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