I’ve been watching the Kevin Spacey documentary, and it’s grotesque in a way I hadn’t imagined. He is at once abusive and sexually exploitative, with decades worth of mistreatment and grooming under his belt, and also simply a deeply traumatized young boy.
While watching Spacey Unmasked, memories of my own semi-troubling ‘fling’ with a famous gay man came rushing back, and I felt a whole assortment of good and bad and shame and confusion. And, as seems to be the case lately, my train of thought ends with connecting this all to the genocide in Gaza and our society’s violent ascension into anarchy.
The most shocking part is just how psychopathic Spacey is—my guy wasn’t a psychopath, I don’t think. Spacey isn’t just a normal guy with a compulsion. I’m saying there is barely a soul—I’m not even kidding. I’ve watched back over his media appearances, interviews, and roles, over the years and you see it clear as day that he is empty inside. It’s the eeriest thing. Think about Lester Burnham in American Beauty, or Frank Underwood in House of Cards—their defining behavior is doing whatever they want—drugs, sex, violence—to get whatever they want no matter who or what is in the way.
I want to place a fat caveat and disclaimer here about the documentary's credibility and my flippant psychological diagnoses. (1) Alarm bells went off during the documentary because multiple interviewees used very similar language about Spacey seeming “inhuman.” I got the distinct sense that the interviewer was using some psychological mind tricks to plant the language they wanted to hear in people’s minds. It seemed a bit contrived. So that makes me trust the documentary less. (2) I just finished reading the book The Psychopath Test, which is basically about how psychopathy and sociopathy are not legit diagnoses and are based on this really sketchy questionnaire created by proponents of the DSM who readily admit that it is created out of thin air and isn’t really based in science. The result has been much over-incarceration in medical institutions, over-prescription of drugs, and over-emphasis on psychiatric diagnoses in the addressing of actual and complex societal issues. So, in a nod to the bullshit of psychiatry, I’m taking it upon myself to call Spacey a psychopath based on this documentary.
More than 20 men came out saying Spacey sexually accosted them, usually on set. Many of them reported that his eyes were frightening, inhuman, dark, and empty. He’d jerk off in front of them or while driving his car. He’d invite them over for a party but would be the only one there and would expose himself or something like that. He’d grab their dicks on set or make them grab his. These are background actors and other people on set over whom he has control. Imagine his weight on set—two time Academy Award winner, Executive Producer, you want him on your good side.
Spacey’s response to the accusations was first to come out of the closet, settling decades of speculation.
And then he released a bizarre YouTube video in the character of Frank Underwood, addressing the real-life allegations against him in Underwood’s fictional southern drawl and smarmy, threatening language. If you don’t know, by the end of the show (it in got canceled) Frank Underwood is the psychopathic President of the US.
When watching this video, imagine you’re someone has been sexually assaulted by him. Really imagine how frightening and/or enraging this would be.
Spacey likes ex-military straight guys. He likes to corner them and pull his dick out. He took one guy to see Saving Private Ryan and sat in the back of the theater to watch Saving Private Ryan and started jacking off while watching scenes of maimed soldiers and gore. He locked other men in rooms. He assaulted young actors on set in between scenes. It didn’t start with fame either. He was doing it in college too, and before. As far as I know, there wasn’t outright rape, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were. But there was aggressive, unasked-for touching in public, and under various forms of threat. Always to people with less power than him, always a secret, often in public or in private, never consensual or gone about in any sort of healthy or normal way.
Most of the men rejected the label of victim, and all of them described the light in Spacey’s eyes draining out when they were alone together. They all express feelings like they had no control. To paraphrase one of the ex-marines, I know all these bros watching this will be like, ‘If that were me, I would have kicked Kevin Spacey’s ass.’ And I’m just like, No, you wouldn't have. When something like that is happening in a workplace you’re dedicating your life to, your first reaction is not to get angry, it’s to freeze.
When we talk about consent, we’re really talking about a person’s ability to control their own actions. Obviously if these men could turn back the clock, they would respond differently. But we are monkeys, and it seems most people are wired to freeze when sexual abuse is happening. Perhaps around the jungle, this is the best way to preserve your health and safety.
I have conflicting feelings about my time with this famous client from work. He exhibited a lot of the behavior that Spacey does; they both have a clear procedure they use to accost and flip young straight men. I wasn’t totally straight, though. Once, while at college in New York, I bought my best bro a bottle of wine and asked him if he wanted to make out. . . just to be fun. We did. We talked about how it felt and complimented each other’s kissing style, and then we got stoned and played Call of Duty. Just two normal guys in Williamsburg hanging out.
Anyway, my experience with this client left me feeling both ashamed and proud. Is it possible to feel both at the same time?
Kevin Spacey used to watch or hear his younger brother getting beaten and raped by their father for years. When his brother finally escaped their home, Kevin was all alone. Presumably, his dad made him the new target. Kevin’s upbringing was one of helplessness. His first and seemingly core sexual experience was watching homosexual rape. Based on the accusations of tens of men over five decades, Kevin’s sexual and intimate development didn’t mature much beyond this traumatic childhood, forever stuck in an angry loop re-enacting his father’s abuse.
Kevin’s assaults are all similar scenes: he gets men alone or locks them in rooms, psychologically manipulates them with promises of their names in lights, and then exposes himself to them. When Spacey is in these episodes, he must be wrought with sexual compulsion and deep shame, but also the self-control to not go all out assault people. He is very measured, and he doesn’t need “normal” sex. His turn on is the fear in his victims’ eyes, and in exerting control over their lives. The violation of another man’s agency and physical boundaries is what he considers intimacy.
In his book Daddy, what I think is one of the best books of the decade, psychologist Tim Lewis asks: “Do abusers have agency when they are abusing?”
We know that a victim’s agency can be taken away through threat or manipulation, but what happens if abusers are also caught in some past abuse reverie and are not able to control themselves either? We know that people who experience abuse often become abusers, so what do we call someone like Kevin, who is an abuser and also a victim at the same time? Will prison help? Will canceling them and ending their careers help? How do we engage them compassionately without excusing them? And, as is important to think about in regards to the #MeToo movement: What accountability do victims need to take for their willingness to be under the power of these people? In what way, in my interactions with my famous client, was I asking for it?
When we veer into personal responsibility in regard to sexual relations, it becomes a quiagmire. And, as usual in my Substack posts, I’m almost too gleefully excited to step into that quagmire and get all muddy.
Okay, it’s paywall time because I’m about to talk about some rather private personal experiences:
