As soon as I see the first leaf turn orange and fall lightly onto my Dr. Martens, I know it’s time for my yearly viewing of “Coraline.”

This gothic claymation film, which premiered in 2009, is based on the acclaimed author Neil Gaiman’s novel of the same name. I first experienced it on New Year’s Eve in 2010, snuggled on my grandparents’ couch with my sister while a thunderstorm roared outside. Its unique blend of spookiness and warmth has comforted me ever since. Last year, my best friend even crafted my birthday cake to resemble the famous “Welcome Home!” cake from the film.

However, just a month later, five women came forward on the U.K. podcast “Tortoise,” accusing Gaiman of sexual assault spanning from 1986 to 2022.

On Monday, Vulture published a report detailing nine accusations against Gaiman, including those five from last summer, which enlarged the audience receiving this news, including myself.

The article was unsettling, vividly describing the alleged assaults in disturbing detail. Reading it caused me both discomfort and empathy for the victims, as I processed the shocking revelation that the creator of my beloved film faced such serious allegations.

In a statement on his website, Gaiman denied the accusations, asserting, “I have never engaged in non-consensual sexual activity with anyone. Ever.”

He is not alone in facing such accusations; many admired public figures have also been charged with sexual misconduct, leading to painful realizations for fans. After processing this information, I found myself questioning, “Can I bring myself to watch ‘Coraline’ again?”

Why was the report so disturbing?

Detailed accounts of sexual violence tend to captivate and maintain reader interest.

Nicole Bedera, author of “On the Wrong Side: How Universities Protect Perpetrators and Betray Survivors of Sexual Violence,” notes that many readers grapple with whether they should continue supporting Gaiman after learning of the allegations.

“Many journalists provide graphic details to confront readers with the severity of the situation,” she explains. “These details make it harder for fans to separate the artist from their work, which is often seen more plainly when details are not as explicit.”

According to Elizabeth L. Jeglic, a clinical psychologist and professor at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, cognitive biases like the “halo effect” often help shield a public figure’s reputation amidst allegations of sexual misconduct.

“We tend to have a perception of who celebrities are, influenced by their creations and roles. When their actions clash with that perception, it feels like a betrayal,” Jeglic states.

Often, it takes several accusations before the public reassesses their view of someone accused of abuse. However, Jeglic warns that explicit details can also trigger emotional distress in survivors of trauma.

“If survivors are still coping with their trauma, facing reminders of similar experiences can reactivate their PTSD symptoms,” she says.

Bedera adds that graphic accounts can sensationalize sexual violence, raising the threshold for what some consider serious enough to withdraw their support.

Her research on campus sexual assault found that officials often downplay less extreme instances, with statements like, “He’s no Harvey Weinstein,” becoming common.

Moreover, there is a tendency for misogynistic fans to develop a cult-like admiration for celebrities accused of serious offenses.

“When some readers react with disgust, others may respond with admiration, consequently creating a new kind of fandom,” Bedera notes.

Is it possible to separate an artist’s work from their personal actions?

In short, Bedera asserts that it’s not really possible.

Usually, allegations of sexual misconduct do not significantly harm a celebrity’s career. For instance, Chris Brown, who faced backlash after assaulting his girlfriend Rihanna, is still filling arenas for his 2024 tour.

To combat this, Bedera encourages people to “withdraw their fandom.”

“Once interested parties know about these allegations, there’s no going back,” she explains. “We must consider whether we want to empower someone who has caused harm.”

But how far can one engage with an artist’s work without supporting them directly?

This question is more complex.

Bedera suggests that if there are particular songs or films one cannot give up, it’s best to enjoy them in private. Avoid sharing them publicly, refrain from attending events featuring the artist, and do not purchase related merchandise.

“It’s strange to find a way to appreciate art while limiting support to the artist responsible,” she admits. “If I believe someone doesn’t deserve my support, it may be time to step away.”

Jeglic agrees that enjoying an artist’s work can feel problematic when they are implicated in causing harm.

“Finding pleasure in the work of someone who has hurt others can feel like a betrayal to those individuals,” she points out.

Bedera advises that exploring creators associated with the artist or their victims—who are often artists themselves—could be a way to redirect support, thus diminishing the wrongdoer’s influence and power over time.

As for me, my affection for “Coraline” has never been solely about Gaiman. When I first encountered the movie 15 years ago, I may not have even realized it was based on his novel.

So, I doubt I’ll part with my copy of “Coraline” or delete the memories of my birthday cake — the reality is that the damage is already done.

Yet, when “Coraline” is re-released in theaters, as it has been for the last two summers, I’ll hold onto my $20 and cease convincing my friends to join me.