Verhoeven has deflected any moral responsibility to Philippe Djian, the author of the book Oh… on which the film is based, in a classic don’t-shoot-the-messenger swipe. Verhoeven has also said that Michèle is by no means representative of all women; she is just one unconventional woman, so it shouldn’t cause offence. And who said film or art had any moral obligation? I know, but still. I’m trying not to be so simplistic as to say that a man can’t write a book about a woman’s rape fetish, or that the book shouldn’t be adapted for film by a man (David Birke), or that a third man shouldn’t direct the film about a woman’s rape fetish – the history of men fetishising women is too long, and I should have mentioned Vladimir Nabokov sooner. But I can’t forgive any of these artistic impressions, however rich or profound they are. And I am trying not to be so simplistic as to say that one of the reasons I’m personally offended is that a few years ago, my family friend – an attractive, successful, middle-aged woman – was raped in startlingly similar circumstances, in the early evening when she got home from work, by a young man who forced entry at her door. She fought him, and died of her injuries the following day. These are tried-and-tested objections but, I think, to suggest that a woman (this woman or any woman) who has been raped, in some way desired that rape, is too damaging. I don’t care how artistic or provocative a director thinks he has to be in order to be relevant again, it is not his artistic licence to turn sexual assault into a woman's fetish, no matter how compelling the style.