SEXUAL assault has been acted out for centuries. When British women were first allowed to take to the stage—in 1660, upon the restoration of the English monarchy—rape in particular became peculiarly prevalent. These assaults never took place in front of the audience, but female characters would re-emerge with visible signs of a struggle: exposed breasts, ruffled hair, torn stockings. Elizabeth Howe, an academic specialising in this period, has argued that playwrights aimed for titillation, “to exploit sexually the new female presence in the theatre”.
Women are no longer a dramatic novelty. But rape and sexual assault are still common on our screens—perhaps it should be, when, according to the National Sexual Violence Resource Centre, one in five women and one in 71 men in America will be raped at some point during their life. Sexual assault deserves a prominent place in the popular consciousness, and television is a powerful medium through which to explore it. In recent years many popular shows, “Shameless”, “House of Cards”, “Game of Thrones”, “The Sopranos”, “Veronica Mars”, have incorporated sexual violence into their storylines.

Shows that decide to explore this sensitive, important issue ought to do so with nuance and compassion. Though certainly an improvement from Restoration drama, many television programmes offer only gratuitous depictions of the violence itself, with little interest in the ensuing distress. “Downton Abbey” is a notable example. The scene in which housemaid Anna is attacked by Mr Green, a guest valet, was drawn out to the point of superfluity. Viewers were made to endure several minutes of Anna, a beloved character, variously being punched, thrown over tables, and dragged by the hair. The trauma of this event is not given the appropriate attention in subsequent episodes. Anna “shuts down completely”. The emotions of her husband, Mr Bates, are lingered on instead.
The rape of First Lady Mellie Grant by her father-in-law Jerry in “Scandal”, an American political drama, was also depicted in a facile manner. Presented as a flashback, Mellie is attacked by the lascivious, drunken Jerry in his home. No details—Jerry groping her under her dress, a gasp of horror—however unnecessary, are spared for the viewer. The camera lingers over Mellie’s shocked face throughout. Sexual assault should be troubling to watch—it is a deeply troubling issue—and relevant scenes should remain in the mind long after the programme has finished. But here, the assault is mapped out in nauseating detail; Jerry gyrating on Mellie and kissing her neck is unwarranted, even voyeuristic.
The assault is deployed as a simple plot device, used to explain away Mellie’s cold and calculating nature. We see her husband, the President, complaining of her changed behaviour, her hostility, and refusal to be touched by him, but not nearly enough space is devoted to the longevity of her suffering. A husband’s sexual desires should not take narrative precedence over a victim’s distress.
But sexual assault doesn’t have to be used for an extra sub-plot or for lazy characterisation. A recent episode of BBC drama “Call the Midwife” dealt with the topic skilfully. After a string of attacks on women in East London—none of which are depicted on screen—Sister Mary Cynthia, a nun (pictured above), is assaulted when travelling back to the convent after delivering a baby late at night. The violence is not depicted, nor is it discussed it any detail (she simply says “I wasn’t raped, I know that much”); the screen simply goes black. Sister Mary Cynthia returns home fragile, beaten and bitten, and is immediately tended to by her colleagues and friends. Bryony Hannah, the actress playing the assaulted nun, is astounding. She refuses to be touched, or to be comforted—she had stopped to pray when she was preyed upon—and questions how a benevolent God to which she has devoted her life could let this happen. She cannot face answering intrusive police questions in the immediate aftermath, like so many victims of crimes of this nature, (63% of sexual assaults are not reported to police) but eventually does so for the good of the community and to help bring the perpetrator to justice.
What sets the treatment of Sister Mary Cynthia apart from that of Mellie or Anna is this sustained and careful attention to the victim. The details of what happened are in some ways irrelevant; we are asked to devote our attention to the character’s healing process, and how she can come to terms with the violation of her independence and personhood. Like so many victims who undergo such a brutal and unpleasant experience, Sister Mary Cynthia feels vulnerable on her own. The beautiful scene in the bath, where Sister Monica Joan cleans her wounds and reminds her of her own strength, both physical and personal, hints at the lasting, indelible effects of sexual assault, but reminds us too that rehabilitation and peace is achievable. This is paramount, given the regularity with which such attacks take place.
“Call the Midwife” concludes the episode with Sister Mary Cynthia’s attacker being arrested—a sense of narrative closure that many, in reality, are denied (only 5.7% of rape cases in Britain, for example, end in a conviction). Neither Anna nor Mellie report their rapes. Many can, but find giving testimony distressing, or fear being discredited by the police. Prospero is loath to prescribe a manner in which sexual assault should be handled on our screens. But the most important dimension of such an attack is the lasting impact that it has on an individual’s sense of personal safety, emotional wellbeing, and outlook, not the event itself. It is the stories of survivors—not rapists or attackers—that television can do justice to.